The Goddess Abides: A Novel

by Pearl S. Buck

  “When did you come?” she asked.

  “Ten minutes ago. I wouldn’t let Weston announce me. I haven’t heard you play for a long time—months. You play better than ever, Edith. I’m furious with my parents that they didn’t make me keep practicing.”

  “As I remember it,” she said, smiling, “you hated them for making you practice for two years.”

  “They shouldn’t have listened to my complaining,” Amelia insisted. “They should have beaten me. As it is, I blame them for my not having the ability now to comfort myself with music. They should have had more backbone.”

  “They wanted their only daughter to love them.”

  “A stupid way to win love! They should have known that the only way to be loved is to be stronger than the one you love.”

  “I never before heard you talk about love, Amelia.”

  “That’s not to say I have no ideas on the subject!”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of Edmond Hartley. He had changed his suit to a tan surah silk, and he wore jade cuff links and tie pin. Amelia put out her hand.

  “Well, Edmond!” she said, surveying him. “You’re handsomer than ever.”

  He returned her gaze and she released his hand.

  “Now I remember you,” he said. “You’re the girl who always beat me at tennis!”

  He turned. “This young woman, Mrs. Chardman, had the most evil backhand. And she was quicksilver on her feet. I was agile, or so I thought, but she was fleet as—as a—young gazelle, and I simply could not win. I could never make up my mind whether to love her or hate her!”

  Amelia laughed in delight. “You never did make up your mind,” she declared.

  “I never did,” he agreed.

  They looked at each other, comparing themselves as to age. How had the years dealt with them, and with which the more kindly? An old attraction stirred. As nearly as he had ever come to marriage he had once nearly married Amelia Darwent. Each of them now remembered.

  …That night when Jared called she told him, half in amusement, “Your uncle, Jared, is reviving an old attraction. Love is too strong a word. But he and Amelia once knew each other. They forgot and now remember again. He went away after dinner, but I heard him ask Amelia if he might call upon her tomorrow.”

  Jared shouted laughter. “It’s as far as he will go, bless him!”

  To her own surprise, she was suddenly annoyed with him. “Don’t laugh, Jared! He’s a tragic man—and a good man.”

  “Of course he’s good, but—”

  “No but! He’s come to terms with himself, and knowing himself, he’s refused the best life can give.”

  “That being—”

  “Love, of course. How young you are,” she said almost contemptuously and her heart began suddenly to ache.

  “I don’t understand you,” he said, very blunt.

  “There’s no need to,” she replied.

  …Deliberately during the next few days she devoted herself to Edmond Hartley and Amelia. Seeming to see nothing, she saw everything. She understood Amelia so well and so affectionately. Amelia had always been direct and never was she more direct than now. She walked across the lawns and appeared at odd hours, always beautifully dressed for the time of day, looking handsome in her somewhat severe fashion, her stubborn gray hair fashionably cut, her skirts short enough to reveal her shapely legs. Black and white suited her, and she wore white for the warm summer days and long diaphanous black gowns in the evening. Her abrupt ways, her clipped speech, combined with her almost ostentatious deference to Edmond, obviously touched and pleased him. It had been a long time since a woman had paid him attention. He ceased to shrink from being alone with her and began to suggest a stroll through the trees. Amelia accepted each invitation immediately and it became almost usual that before the cocktail hour Edith saw the two tall figures, Edmond an inch or two the taller, strolling aim in arm about the grounds. She was prepared, therefore, for Amelia's forthright announcement one evening in July.

  “Edith, I’ve just asked Edmond Hartley to marry me.”

  “Amelia, have you really?” she exclaimed. “And what did he say?”

  Amelia gave her short bark of laughter. “He couldn’t very well refuse, could he, without being impolite, so he said he considered it an honor and accepted.”

  They were in her upstairs room, whither Amelia had followed her. She was lying on the chaise longue, resting for half an hour before dressing for dinner.

  “Amelia, I suppose you know—”

  Amelia finished the sentence impatiently. “That he’s not interested in sex with a woman? Yes, I know—I’ve always known. Why do you suppose I’ve never married? I was mad about him when we were young. He was the handsomest man in the world. Then he told me, yes, Edith, he told me! I’ve always admired him for that. He’s so—decent. He understood himself, he had himself in hand. He was never going to let himself—well, you know! He was simply going to live without sex. It was so brave of him. Wasn’t it brave? Yes, and so I have, too. You’ll think it silly and old-fashioned of me. But there simply hasn’t been another love for me, either, and sex without love just doesn’t—well, appeal to me. Of course for a while I was shocked, even repelled, healthy beast that I was. We didn’t see each other for a long time. But gradually during the years I’ve come to see that sex isn’t all that matters between people and gradually sex has been drained away. What’s left now is love. That’s what I said to him. ‘Edmond, I love you. You, yourself. I want to live in the same house with you, be near you, that’s all.’ He said, as I told you, that ‘it would be an honor.’”

  She thought she had known Amelia from earliest memory and now perceived that she had not known her. So many years she had been wrong, but now she understood her friend and with understanding she felt a real love for a sister woman.

  “I respect you both,” she said quietly. “When will you be married?”

  “As soon as we can arrange the legalities,” Amelia told her. “Then Edmond will move into my house. We’ve discussed everything. He can have the east wing for himself. There will be plenty of room to hang all his paintings. Edith, I can’t tell you how happy I am. I’m glad I had the courage to face the truth we’ve always known, that we ought to spend our lives together. He’s so—honorable. He would never have asked me. So I put aside false modesty and all that, and I asked him.”

  “Then I am glad, too,” she said.

  Amelia had opened a door and revealed a secret chamber.

  …“I want you to marry,” she told Jared. She had pondered constantly upon Amelia’s courage and from it had drawn strength.

  Unconsciously he drove more quickly. It was a Sunday afternoon in midsummer and he had appeared suddenly unannounced to take her to a country inn to dinner. She had been alone and a trifle at loose ends, for Amelia three days ago had announced that she and Edmond were going to Europe, after a brief and inconspicuous wedding ceremony. No, she would not tell even her dear friend Edith Chardman where they were going, nor exactly when, but they would be in touch with her upon their return. The next day Amelia’s big house was closed, except for a caretaker. She missed Amelia more than she had thought possible, for the last link with her childhood was gone and no other took her place. Even the thought of her son and daughter did not relieve her loneliness. They had their own lives and she had hers apart by generation and sophistication. Their stage was the procreation of children and the establishment of their own family structures, whereas she—at what stage was she? Time and space surrounded her as a solitary traveler upon a desert is surrounded by sand and sky. She felt so weakened indeed by inner loneliness that she had almost wept when Jared telephoned her to propose this evening journey.

  “I want you to marry,” she repeated when he did not reply.

  Instead of speaking, he pulled up abruptly in the overhanging shade of a huge ash tree. It was that moment in summer when growth is ended, and nature contemplates the annual death of winter. The air was languid and b
irds were silent.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s have this out. I shall never love anyone as I love you.”

  “I accept that,” she said, “and still I say I want you to marry.”

  “Will you marry me, Edith?”

  “No,” she said gently.

  “Why not?”

  Easy enough to say simply that she was too old, that when he was in his prime she would be an aged woman, but she did not reply simply. There was between them the communication of a love that had nothing to do with the accident of birth. They were two human beings who recognized their complete congeniality, their total trust, which were the components of love. Nevertheless, she had a responsibility of which she was becoming aware, at first dimly but now, day by day, more clearly. Nothing must impede the fulfillment of Jared’s whole development as a man, rich in talents and capable of rich growth, mental and spiritual. Yet he was a man, a human creature, with human needs. These needs she could not totally fulfill, and were they not so fulfilled, could the final development take place? She believed not. She could not live with him as an everyday wife. She could not give him children. Indeed she had no wish so to do. And yet, had she been able, could she also have given what she now gave him so joyously in companionship? She doubted that she could. He was no simple creature. The spectrum of his being was radiantly total and she comprehended the totality.

  “I know I cannot marry you, Jared,” she said now.

  “Are you afraid of what people will say?”

  “I am not afraid,” she told him.

  “Then why?”

  “I know I must not.”

  “Why, why?”

  “I don’t know, but I must not, for your own sake.”

  He was silent after this, and she was silent, waiting. Then he put the car into gear and drove on, until they reached the country inn, once an old mill. The great dark waterwheel still turned slowly, dripping the clear brook water as it had done for a century and more. The wood was covered with wet green moss, and under the shade of a huge overhanging sycamore tree, the water slipped smoothly over the stones and on its way to the river.

  They stood side by side for moments, she and Jared, watching the turning wheel. Suddenly he seized her hand resolutely and drew it into the crook of his arm.

  “Come along,” he said. “I’m starved.”

  They entered the dining room together and in his imperious fashion he declined the table to which the waitress led them.

  “That table by the window,” he ordered.

  They sat down, he decided upon cocktails and entrée, while she waited in acquiescence, not caring what she ate and drank so long as she was with him. Of course she loved him. Yes, she was in love with him. No, she would never separate herself from him. One after the other these facts announced themselves in her being, but did not in the least or in total change her decision.

  He leaned on his elbows and faced her, his eyes bleakly dark. “Now, then,” he said, “let’s have it out. Why do you insist upon my marrying someone?”

  “Not someone,” she amended. “Just June Blaine. I like her. She’s honest. She wants to marry you.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “No buts! Of course the final decision is yours, but I want you to know that I—approve.”

  He stared at her, puzzled. “I don’t understand you.”

  She smiled and was silent.

  He continued. “You know—you and I—”

  She broke in. “I know.”

  His eyes, so direct in their gaze, held her prisoner. She could not look away.

  “Will I ever understand you?” he demanded.

  “Perhaps it’s not—necessary.” Her voice faltered.

  “Nevertheless, I’d like to,” he persisted.

  “Not—necessary,” she repeated, her voice a whisper.

  “Now you’re hiding somewhere,” he declared.

  She shook her head. “Just being—myself.”

  “I don’t like mysteries!”

  “No mystery, Jared, perhaps intuition. I know you so well—better than I know myself, I think! I see so clearly what you are and what you will be. You will be one of the few great men of your generation—even of all generations, I think! Nothing must go wrong. You must have—everything. And June will be part of that everything. And I tell you, I like her! One doesn’t find honesty in women too often these days. It’s like finding a diamond among pebbles. You can’t pass it by. You must not. You must take it in your hand, examine it, test it, and if it’s true, keep it. That’s all I’m asking—no, I don’t ask, I suggest.”

  “I won’t even talk about it,” he said bluntly. “Here are our cocktails. I drink to you!”

  And he lifted his glass.

  …Hours later, lying awake in her bed, she turned to the telephone on the table beside her and lifting the receiver, she dialed June, guessing that she, too, was sleepless, and heard her voice, instant and alert.

  “Yes?”

  “June, it is I, Edith Chardman.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Chardman?”

  “I want to tell you I am going away for a few weeks—maybe months.”

  “Is there something you want me to do?” June’s voice spoke puzzlement.

  “Only what your heart tells you, while I am gone.”

  She waited. Was June perceptive enough, quick enough, understanding enough, to know what she was saying?

  A moment of silence and the girl’s answer came, quiet and controlled.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Chardman.”

  “Good night, my dear,” she said and put the receiver back in its place.

  …In the morning she rose late, rested after deep sleep. She had been able to sleep at once after the telephone call to June, as though she had fulfilled a duty, a purpose, and having fulfilled, had relaxed into peace. Now, the sun already nearing zenith, she got up and went to the window, as she always did in the morning, to judge the day, in this case a perfectly clear August day, the cloudless sky blue above the trees. It was a day to strengthen her soul with its beauty and she was strengthened. She had told June she was going away, but where would she go? Until the moment she had spoken the words she had had no intention of going away. Yet those very words had risen to her lips with conviction, as though they were the fruit of meditation and resolution. Where could she go? Standing irresolute before the open window, the morning breeze stirring the filmy folds of her long nightgown, and lifting her loosened hair, she suddenly thought of Edwin’s house in the mountains, two hundred miles away.

  Perhaps it stood empty, perhaps his children were there, perhaps anything, but at least she would go and see. No one could find her there, and she had never told Jared of that love, nor indeed anyone. Then she would go and in the presence of Edwin’s memory, she would find herself again, not as she had been, for love had changed her, love for Jared, but as she was now to be until the end of her life. For there would never be another love. She had known them all, each love different from the other, each meaningful; each illuminating and valuable and to be cherished. Nor was it ended. Her love for Jared would continue for she had no wish to stop it. Let it grow, a source of comfort and inspiration to her, as hers had been for Edwin, but with even greater responsibility. She must assume that responsibility—it was now to make love a source of comfort and inspiration to Jared. The torch of love must be handed on from one heart to another, from one generation to the next, for without love life was meaningless and the spirit died. Yes, that was her duty and her delight, to pour her love into Jared’s life and see him grow. It was not a love affair. It was love.

  …The great house stood silent in the golden light of late afternoon. The heavy door was locked. There, where Edwin had always stood to welcome her, his arms outstretched to enfold her, no one stood. The flower beds were neglected, early chrysanthemums and late roses blooming in bright confusion. A bird called, its lonely cry piercing the stillness. She lifted the huge brass knocker and let it fall and heard the echo inside the hall.
She waited. Surely someone must be here, a watchman, a caretaker, a housekeeper? The house stood alone, five miles from the nearest village, a solitary road leading to the gate. With its treasures of books and paintings, the furniture of a lifetime rich in possessions, it could not stand untended here on this hill, surrounded by forests and beyond the forests, mountains. Five peaks were clear against the evening sky, two of them already tipped with early frost.

  Now from a distance within the house she heard footsteps, now the grating scrape of a metal bar, or perhaps of a large key—she could not remember. The door opened a few inches, and she saw the gnarly face of Henry Haynes, Edwin’s manservant.

  “Why, Mrs. Chardman!” His grainy voice had not changed. “Whatever—”

  “Can you put me up for a week—or two—or three?”

  “Well, now—”

  He opened the door wide. “Come in. There’s nobody here but my wife and me. I married the cook. I don’t know as you remember her. Dr. Steadley put her in his will and it seemed easy just to—come in, Mrs. Chardman. The family was here for the summer but they’ve all gone and we was settling ourselves in for the winter.”

  He led the way as he talked. She stood in the wide hall and looked about her. Everything was the same, the furniture polished, the floors dustless! There was even a bowl of golden chrysanthemums on the hall table, a great Satsuma bowl, which she remembered well, for Edwin had found it in Japan. Yet how empty the house was!

  She stood hesitating. Could she bear his absence here in this house? The loneliness was too intense. She felt solitary as she had never felt before, not even when Arnold died and left her alone in her own house. Edwin had meant more to her than she had realized. Would the loneliness of his absence now overwhelm her, make her afraid?

  “Everything is like when he was here,” Henry was saying. “Beds made, fires laid—everything. I even took out his winter things yesterday and aired them. My wife says, ‘Henry, he don’t know,’ but I know, I tell her, I know. Shall you have the same room, Mrs. Chardman?”

  “Yes, the same.”

  She followed him up the stairs and down the hall to the remembered door. He opened it and she went in.