In the morning the servants and Dorothea dutifully descended to the valley for services. This was impossible for Mr. Lindsey. It was incredible for Jerome, so no one suggested it. Jerome had heard the sleigh bells retreating and had eventually heard them return. Then dinner had decorously been announced, had been eaten. Mr. Lindsey had then retired to his room for a rest, and Dorothea had followed suit, and the servants. Everything had died. Jerome sat before the library fire, with an unread book on his knees and stared at the silently glowing coals.
Jim was apparently in the stables, as usual, with Charlie and Philip. Jerome listened to the loud ticking of the clock in the hall. The white silence deepened. He tried to drowse, but all his muscles began to twitch, his flesh to ache. This was the pattern of all the Sundays of his youth, and he wondered, for the hundredth time, how he had ever endured it, would ever endure it in the long future. He knew that in the valley people paid calls, but last night’s storm had quelled the enthusiasm of even the hardiest who might wish to visit Hilltop. He listened to the clock striking three. Still, some callers might come and relieve this appalling tedium, this motionless silence.
He contemplated tea, at six. But that was three hours away. He closed his eyes, and immediately he was assailed by his terrible and chronic illness of mind, his insupportable misery.
Amalie and Alfred had been on their honeymoon for the past four days. Every evidence of the intimate wedding had been removed from the house: the flowers, the ferns, the festoons of white ribbon, the litter, the loaded tables. There was nothing left of it all for Jerome but the increasingly poignant memory of Amalie’s face under her veil and wreath of fresh orange blossoms. He could see it now, in the center of the fire: pale, quiet, utterly without expression, only her lips moving in the responses. He saw the marble flash of her hand as it emerged from under the veil, extended for the gold wedding ring. It had been the movement of a statue, briefly coming to life. Then he had seen Alfred bend his head and kiss Amalie on the lips. When Jerome could see her face again, it was unchanged. The kiss had touched snow.
He stirred in his chair, as if struck violently with a sudden pain. He sat up, pressed his hand over his eyes, his face, dropped them upon his knee. Finally he lit a cheroot and knew that one of his abhorred moods was coming over him again and that there was no way to escape it. For now suffering was part of it, suffering for which there was no hope at all.
He told himself: She will return. In two or three weeks, she will be back in this house. This is not the end. For me it will, in a way, be only a beginning. I shall be here. It is not the end.
And then he thought of Alfred and Amalie in their own apartments, and he was ill again, even more ill than he had been before. I ought to have stopped it; I ought to have found a way, he said to himself, in the most urgent despair of his life. What had happened to her, that she was so realistic, so appallingly open-eyed and grim? What had the years of her life done to her that she was without sentimentality, without softness, without gentle femininity? Another woman would have preferred passion to security. But not Amalie Maxwell, who knew so much of life and its murderous fury against those who had no strong city of money in which to dwell.
She had bought money and security, openly, without dissimulation. Alfred had not been deceived that she loved him. She had been honest. Yet, when Jerome thought of this, he hated her, hated her with such savagery that his face became wet and his throat thick with wild misery.
He stood up, paced up and down the room. If only he had something to do! Something to distract him, or interest him! Something to help him forget. He went into the dusky cave of the dining-room, where the silver on the sideboards winked at him’ faintly, and the wan rectangles which were the windows stood in the gloom like pale paintings of snow and twisted bough and glimmering white slope. He found a decanter of whiskey and a glass and returned with them to the library. He poured himself a generous portion of the amber fluid and began to sip it, standing as he was near the fire. Long bars of flickering and rosy light darted from the coals. A flutter of sparks beat against the fire-screen like vehement fireflies, hissing. Flames burst up, shone upon the glass, upon the rings which sparkled on Jerome’s fingers. He thought of Aristotle’s wry comment: “Anaxagoras says that man is the wisest of animals because he has hands.” He burst out laughing and sat down.
The wisest of animals! Whoever would have thought that the old boy had such a sense of humor? Jerome could see Aristotle very plainly, seated in his ivory chair, a white monolith of a man with his majestic white beard. He could see his strange and twinkling smile, and hear his voice. “—because he has hands.” How the solemn sentimentalists, and now the humorless scientists, had indulged in learned discussions over that comment! But none had ever seen Aristotle’s smile; they had only the fleshless bones of his words to gnash their noisy teeth upon.
Jerome turned the glass slowly in his hands. He did not like to think. He had always evaded the hard and bitter discipline of thought. It was so tedious. It was unsettling. It gave a man no real pleasure, unless he confined himself to the abstract, and that was like playing the childish game of battledore and shuttlecock, keeping a bird of feathers in the air, uselessly, with light battings of a stringed oval of wood. Even then, the silly bird of feathers inevitably must strike ground. It must come back to the fundamentals, and the fundamentals had always sedulously been avoided by Jerome. He had the well-founded idea that not only would they be unpleasant, but that they would be futile, as well as painful. It was wearying to think of all the wise men who had struggled with thought, like pigmies struggling with Titans who always became stronger the moment they hit the earth. Abstracts, inexorably, became pertinent thoughts, with a disagreeable tendency to revert to the particular.
He thought banally: What have I done with my life? I am not young. I have done nothing. He smiled to himself ironically. I have had a fine time. I have enjoyed myself. I have always preferred the hedonists, who seem to me very wise old fellows, indeed. What more can a man ask than that he enjoy good food, hear the best music, look on the finest paintings, love the prettiest women, sleep in the softest beds—and all without much exertion on his own part? What devil is it in a man that urges him to “accomplish something”? God knows, I have never been such an egotist, such a colossal bore. I never desired to accomplish anything, for what can any man accomplish which will not eventually overcome him with tedium? Does he desire accomplishment for the satisfaction of his own ego? Or does he believe that he is changing the face of the world, which would much prefer not to be changed? In either event, he is affirming his belief in a personal immortality, and that is a shameful impudence.
He thought, suddenly, of his years in the war. Why had he enlisted? He could easily have bought an alternate. The streets of New York had seethed with men anxious to risk their lives for a few dollars. But he had not bought an alternate. He had waited for no draft. He had become a commissioned officer.
He yawned. It was very tiresome, this thinking. What had he believed he might “accomplish”? He had not particularly desired to “save the Union.” If the South wished to secede, that was their privilege, their right, he had thought. He had thought it very silly for white men to die to give Negroes their freedom. Eventually, and quite bloodlessly, the Negroes would have been freed, anyway. A few years longer, perhaps, and it would have been done, leaving no residue of hatred and terror and rage such as now afflicted the nation, and would continue to afflict it for generations to come. After all, even the South had been coming to the conclusion that slavery was ridiculous.
Had he wanted adventure, then? It was a strange adventure, if that had been the motive. He was definitely not the sort of which soldiers are made. He had no propensity for blood and mud, for death and suffering, for murder. He frowned. Why, then, had he gone, when he might just as well have stayed cosily in New York, and jeered at the battle?
Restless, he got up and went to the windows, and looked out at the white and motionless lands
cape beyond them. He thought: I was not patriotic. In a way, I was never an American. I do not love Americans; but then, I do not love anyone, really.
He drummed on the windowpane with one hand, while he held his glass to his lips with the other. This thinking was a very dreary matter, and he had been wise to avoid it in the past. Why could he not avoid it now?
It seemed that a man must “do something,” however absurd. It was not enough for him merely to earn enough to shelter himself and to provide bread for his belly. He must “do something,” whether that doing meant the forcible conversion of the obstinate to his particular brand of theology, or piling up a useless fortune, or writing books that would be crumbling dust in a few years, or painting pictures which would hang in empty galleries, or inventing a new philosophy. And always, he must talk. Endlessly, he must talk, about what he had done or what he intended to do. He could not help it, poor devil. He was caught up in some impotent and dreadful inertia, and he could not prevent himself from spinning like a top, and humming constantly as he did so. “Vanity, vanity.” But man could not stop himself from loving this vanity and serving it until he dropped dead of sheer exhaustion.
But there was an immutable law behind the phenomenon of inertia. The most callow of mathematicians understood that. What the hell was the immutable law about? What was its design, its object? And could it produce nothing of greater grandeur than the futile whirling of a human top, which was the ultimate degradation of what was amusingly called “human dignity”?
Perhaps it had an inscrutable purpose. But that field was best left to the metaphysicians. He, Jerome, was no mystic. He rubbed away a fern of frost on the window. Beautiful and exact creation! Minutely and lovingly established by another immutable law, destined only to be obliterated by one hot and idle finger! What magnificent purpose had been behind that destiny? To give one man a few moments of most uncomfortable soul-searching and misery? It seems, he thought, we can bring anthropomorphic theories to bear even on the subject of the destruction of an ice crystal. A little more, and I could be a thumping egotist myself.
He was amused by the foolish drift of his thoughts, but he clung to the folly as a man clamors for drugs to ease his pain, which he dare not face. He saw the valley below, snowbound and silent and very still. The drift of his thoughts changed. The population of the valley was not increasing, and those who remained were miserable and stagnant. Why? Because a few men, such as Alfred, preferred the status quo, even if it meant dull wretchedness forever for the many. No, no, we must not have the nasty factories here; it would ruin dear old, nice old, Riversend. Besides, it would give men too much money to spend unwisely, on drink and carousing, or, even worse, on better homes and better food. That would make them arrogant, and life, accordingly, would be much less comfortable for their betters. No, we must not bring commerce here, and liveliness, nor expand our darling little town. We are satisfied, are we not? If a carper might complain that the people were daily sinking deeper into the mud of despair, or that other cities were expanding all about the village, or that the youth and brightness of the new generation were leaving the vicinity in droves, and the farmers struggled hopelessly to keep their little land and their homes—why, that was all the troublesome imagination of a man who liked to stir up mischief.
It was useless to point out to such fools that expansion meant the very life of America. They had a stock and smug reply: America had stopped growing; it was now in the process of conserving, maturing. What of the wild territories to the West? Oh, they would forever remain the playground of Indians, and the pioneers were merely restless men who had failed at home. The dream of America? It had become a reality, and it was the duty of the responsible to preserve that reality in the form of banks and mortgages and pleasant interest.
The finger which had slowly been rubbing away the ice crystals was still now. The immutable purpose behind the inertia. Was that purpose the growing, and the expanding, and the passionate life of America? If so, why? The immutable purpose was silent. But Jerome, strangely enough, could feel it expanding and swelling behind him like an approaching power, like a terrible and sonorous insistence.
No, he thought, I am a fool. What does it matter to-me, anyway?
But the power swelled behind him, and he felt it in spite of his amusement at himself.
He wandered away from the window restlessly and sat down again. But he still felt the vibrancy of the power. Besides, he thought, assisting such power would be an attack on Alfred, and Alfred was a dangerous man. He could not see, at this moment, just how it could be done, but surely it could be done.
Well, it seemed that if a man was not to die of sheer boredom, he must “accomplish something.” And that was reason enough in itself. He had only not to think too much. He recalled a conversation he had once had with Mr. Jay Regan. He had expatiated quite fully on Mr. Regan’s vast financial empire and had said: “But why? What is the use of it? Why do you want it?” And Mr. Regan had replied: “Because I wish it.” The answer did not seem so silly now, though Jerome had laughed at that time. If a man wished a thing, and did not waste any time on speculating why, he could accomplish wonders. The only snag was the “why?” But that could easily be avoided. The greater part of wisdom was in not being too wise. A man could think himself into petrifaction, a most undesirable state of affairs. Be a trifle more primitive, Jerome urged himself, sardonically. Not only fools live on the surface.
To his amused astonishment he found himself wishing that it were Monday morning and that he were on his way to the Bank. The Bank was a potential, in spite of the barnacles that were fast growing over it and obliterating it. Something could be done with it, something vital and exciting, rough and exuberant. The secret was locked in its barren safes and tight little drawers. I’d like to talk it over with Jay, he thought.
The clock struck a deep and fateful four. Jerome was surprised. For an hour, now, he had not thought of Amalie at all, and the pain and hate and rage had subsided to a quite endurable ache. It was then that he heard the musical chiming of sleigh bells, the sound of voices. The knocker was struck briskly, and Jerome sensed the sleepy descent of a maid on the backstairs, the opening of a number of doors, and the increased nearness of the voices. He stood up, quite pleased. If he was not mistaken, that was the General and his pretty daughters.
He went into the hall to greet them. “Ho!” cried the General, in the process of being relieved of his coat. “There you are! I thought you had all been buried in the snow, and we came up in Christian charity to rescue you. Didn’t we, loves?” he asked of Josephine and Sally, who were smoothing their ringlets and shaking out their ruffles and discreetly plumping their bustles.
“I’m mighty glad to see you, sir,” said Jerome, with genuine pleasure, and he and the General clasped hands together firmly and smiled at each other. Jerome bowed to the ladies. Sally tossed her ringlets, rolled her big black eyes at him, blushed, cast her eyes demurely in the direction of her toes. Josephine smiled at him only faintly, and his automatically observant glance told him that the smile was an effort. The girl, as usual, was silent, grave and reserved, but her gentle and classical face was very pale and lifeless.
The General noted Jerome’s look and said: “Thought it would cheer the girls to bring them into your sprightly company, you rascal. Josephine, especially. She has the vapors, haven’t you, my love?” And he put his one arm about the girl. But as he looked down at her, there was anxiety in his face.
She withdrew from the circle of his arm, but with a swift glance of affection at him. “The winter, Papa,” she murmured. “I do not like the winter.”
“Ho, it always was a hothouse flower!” exclaimed the General, drawing the girls with him into the library. “But my little Sally, here, is a robust little baggage. She flies about on ice skates. She flounders on snowshoes. She glides about most indecorously on sleds. Why don’t you marry her, eh, Jerome?” asked the General, standing with his darlings on the hearth. “One hundred thousand dollars
goes with the filly, ‘paid on delivery.’”
Sally blushed furiously; her eyes sparkled beneath her lowered lashes. Jerome laughed. He regarded Sally with interest. She was a most engaging vision, in her crimson wool and velvet, and braided bodice. He saw her bright rosy cheek, firm as an apple, and as shining.
“Miss Sally may have plans of her own,” he said lightly. “After all, she is very young, and I am an old man.”
“Nonsense,” said the General vigorously. “Thirteen—fourteen—years. What is that? I was eighteen years older than my Jerusha. And she was much older than I, really. Ho! Ho!”
He seated his daughters with old-fashioned courtesy. Josephine, sighing slightly, relaxed in her chair and gazed at the fire. But the rosy light could not brighten her cheek nor bring a sparkle to her sad and heavy eyes, though it made her light-brown hair to shine like burnished gold.
The General stood with Jerome on the hearth, his long soldier’s legs spread firmly. He added, beaming on Sally: “Yes, one hundred thousand, on delivery. And half my estate, when I kick the bucket. What a morsel for any man, not to speak of her—”
Jerome interrupted swiftly, in order to spare Sally’s blushes, though, to tell the truth, the young lady did not apparently find the conversation distasteful: “Miss Sally and I have much in common, and I look forward to making our acquaintance much stronger in the future. If I have her consent?” and he bowed to the girl again. She looked up from the depths of her chair, like a sleek little kitten, blushed again, simpered. It was an intelligent face, he observed, and a damned pretty one, and one hundred thousand immediate dollars were not to be despised. Moreover, if he understood women at all, there was promise of excitement in that dainty little body. No prude, Sally. She had life and gaiety and verve. A man could do much worse.
This Side of Innocence Page 20