“There are some new voices rising just now, especially among the philosopher-scientists, who are rediscovering ‘Nature’ and who shout that man is merely a beast and that he can live happily only when conducting himself in accordance with his bestial instincts which, the modern scientist solemnly assures us, are really moral impulses. Let us consider the bestial nature and its instincts. The natural instincts of the beast are murder, destructiveness, cruelty, promiscuity, and even cannibalism. Man’s social, civilized, and acquired virtues, not instincts, are respect for life, constructiveness, kindness, religion, morality, and a regard for his fellow-creatures. These are the virtues which our exponents of ‘instinct’ would have us believe are not only unnatural, but that, because they are unnatural, they frustrate the instinctual beast and pervert him. But I say that men progress not by following the instincts of their true natures but by suppressing them, and that civilized man rises in direct ratio to his successful self-repression. Civilization is the determined frustration of instinct, from within and without, and the more frustration, the more peace, art, science, poetry and literature, the more ethics, brotherly love, wisdom and charity. The history of man, painful and bloody, is the history of his triumph over his instinctual nature, and the decline of civilizations is the history of the resurgent conquest of man by his instincts.”
Is it possible that Charles, who hated all men, really wrote this? Geoffrey thought. It is not like him. It is not the sustained cry of the man who lusted for power over those he despised. Had he, towards the last, changed? If so, what had changed him? Geoffrey read and reread this paragraph, and his doubt grew, and his excitement. He looked up quickly at Melissa, and said:
“This paragraph”—and he read it aloud—“I like it very much. But it does not sound like Charles. You took it direct from his notes, Melissa?”
She was still staring at him, and then, not looking away from him, her pale lips moved, and she said: “It is not exactly as Papa wrote it. But it is what he meant. He had written something else, hastily and incompletely, and so I gave it the meaning he had intended.”
Her voice was dry and harsh, as if something were wound ing her intolerably. But Geoffrey hardly heard the tone. He thought: “Ah!” He said: “Can you remember just what it was that he said, Melissa?”
She half whispered: “ The perversion of modern man lies in the frustration of those impulses which in the past have made him the conqueror of the weak and the healthful destroyer of the unfit.’”
Geoffrey leaned back in his chair, his big brown hands on the manuscript. He gazed at Melissa as intensely as she gazed at him. He thought: “I see. Charles was a devil and a swine to the last.” How could Melissa have misunderstood this final malignant cry of a hating man who knew, in the end, that he had been defeated and that not even his victory over the two who loved him was enough? Melissa had never misunderstood her father before, either deliberately or unconsciously. But she had misunderstood him now, unconsciously and completely. Something had changed her. Something loud and protesting in her had disputed Charles’ malevolence, had changed poison into bread. At the last, her own innocent and passionate instinct for truth and nobility had obliterated the evil falseness which had been her father. Geoffrey smiled inwardly, with grimness. If Charles possibly were still living, his ghost must be impotently cursing his daughter.
Geoffrey returned to the book. He read swiftly, phrase by phrase. And then he began to see that a new and brilliant style had been superimposed here and there on Charles’ dull and pedestrian notes. It was possible to pick out what Charles had intended and what Melissa had interpreted. The book was a duet in which dry viciousness and clear high challenge took part—a song of affirmation, a protest against ugliness.
Again, Geoffrey put aside the manuscript. Melissa was searching his face with painful earnestness. “Papa’s notes were not quite complete,” she faltered, thinking that he found the manuscript disappointing. “It is not his fault. Perhaps I coordinated them poorly, and expanded them carelessly. Papa always edited the completed manuscript and often obliterated what I had written. Sometimes I was very stupid. I hope you will take that into consideration—Geoffrey.”
Her voice had become urgent and frightened.
“I am taking it all into consideration, Melissa,” he said, very gently. “You misinterpret what I am thinking. I consider this Charles’ best book. I hope you have notes for another.”
A startling thought occurred to him. He leaned towards Melissa, and his eyes narrowed incredulously. Was it possible that this girl herself had the powerful gift of expressive writ ing? Yes, it was possible! It was more than possible: it was obvious! Once or twice, when reading Charles’ former books, Geoffrey had come upon paragraphs and phrases which had rung like golden bells in a murky darkness, which had been like a flash of sunlight bursting into a jungle—a perfection of simile and expression, new and fresh and pure, which certainly could not have originated in Charles. These had given his books a certain fascinating quality. The reader floundered through page after page of pedantry, acid cynicism and stagnation, for the unexpected reward of what, Geoffrey now realized, could only have been Melissa’s work. Perhaps even Charles had recognized this shining and unconscious majesty, and had instinctively understood that it alone made his own work acceptable. This, possibly, had increased his malignance towards his daughter, and, out of his unconfessed envy and resentment, he had been goaded to treat her with increasing, but always subtle, venom.
Because Charles’ notes had not been entirely completed, and because he was not alive to edit them mercilessly, Melissa’s gift had been unhampered. What could she not do working alone? It was incredible. It opened up possibilities which the editor in Geoffrey sensed with amazement and excitement.
He wanted to say to Melissa: “Whatever merit lay in your father’s books was because of your own writing, your own noble simplicity, your capacity for choosing the freshest and most acute words. You strung together many facts which he had given you, dull and often erroneous, and made them into a string of pearls. Your father was nothing but a poor and malevolent fraud who victimized you. You are free of him now, to do what you wish and to go where you wish.”
But, though he had half planned, while he had lain sleepless, to say something like this to Melissa, he now knew that he could not say it. She was still her father’s victim. He tested his depressed conviction by saying: “When you work on your father’s next book, Melissa, I hope to see more of your own writing and interpretation in it. You do as well, if not better, alone.”
He was sure he was right when Melissa’s stark face flushed and her mouth settled into rigid lines. She said: “No, you are wrong. This book, and the others I shall compile from Papa’s notes, will all be very inferior to his own work when he was alive.”
Now she looked at him without fear, her head lifted proudly. But he saw her emaciation, the piteous and meager angle of her cheeks and chin, the thinness of her neck. He glanced at the manuscript and leaned back in his chair, forgetting everything else but this poor girl he had married. He had been enraged with her last night, and had prepared to attack her with brutal words today. But he had no anger now, only compassion and love. Had he actually thought, last night, that he would have it out with her today and then, if necessary, put her aside, and forget her? He could never forget Melissa. A dozen of her younger faces flashed over this one of hers as she sat opposite him, so stiffly, her hands clenched in her lap, and each was more touching and desirable than the other. He could no more put her aside and forget her than he could put aside and forget his own arm, or his eyes, or stop the beating of his heart.
He had known, from the very beginning, that she could never really be his wife unless she were freed from her father. But there was little indication that she had been freed; there was every evidence that her enslavement had grown stronger. Charles dead was Charles more formidable than ever. Geoffrey slowly found and lit a cheroot. His polite request for permission was answered
by Melissa with only an absent lift of a hand, as if she had not fully heard him.
He did not know what to say to her! He had no words at all. He rubbed his chin and stared at her in complete and wretched bafflement. And she looked back at him, with the nameless anguish in her eyes, like a suffering animal that has no voice.
Finally he said lamely: “Do you find it lonely here, Melisaa?”
She answered abstractedly: “No. I have my work, and Arabella—teaches—me. It is very hard for Arabella. I try, but I do not learn what Arabella calls the ‘social graces’ very well. There are times when I am very stupid.”
“Nonsense,” said Geoffrey. “What do those ‘manners’ matter?” But he knew even while he said this that neither he nor Melissa was paying attention to what he was saying. There was something else in the room, pent and tragic, which could not be explained. He had the formless but urgent conviction that the answer lay in the pale and exhausted eyes that never left his face.
Melissa spoke again, and he had to concentrate to hear what she said, for her voice was faint. “I often think of how kind you have been to me, to all of us. I know that you did this because of your attachment to my father and your friendship for him. There isn’t any way we—I—can repay you. If there were, I would do—anything. Instead, I have received so much, and have given nothing in return. I am a burden to you, and a stranger in this house—” She could not go on. Her voice broke, as though tears would follow. But her eyes only became more feverishly bright.
Geoffrey was dumfounded. All at once he felt a sudden flood of joy and incredulity. He exclaimed: “Melissa!” and got to his feet.
But she was speaking: “There is just one thing I’d like to ask you, Geoffrey, please.”
He stood there, wanting to rush around the desk and take her in his arms, but something in the quality of her voice stopped him. He leaned his knuckles on the desk and bent towards her. “Yes, my dear?” he said gently.
Her pinched nostrils moved as she drew in a quick breath. “Geoffrey, did Papa ever write you about any suggestion of yours to send Phoebe away to school?”
Astonished, Geoffrey could only regard her in silence. Then he sat down. After a moment or two, he said slowly: “Phoebe? No. Not Phoebe, Melissa.”
He was frightened at the way her face seemed to shrink and become smaller. But she did not look away from him. “Not Phoebe?” She paused. Then she stood up. “Was it I, Geoffrey?”
Still unable to understand why she should have changed so ominously and why there was about her such a tragic stillness, Geoffrey said: “Your mother and I, Melissa, once discussed the possibility of your going away to some good school. Then I wrote your father.” He remembered Charles’ letter, very suddenly, and his mouth tightened.
Melissa saw this. She stood there and gazed at him steadfastly. She had become very quiet.
“And Papa did not think it—advisable?” She spoke very calmly.
Geoffrey answered: “No, he did not think it advisable.” He hesitated. “It seems that he considered your presence, and services to him, indispensable.” He spoke the lie deliberately.
“I thought it was I. I knew it all the time,” said Melissa, with that strange quietness. “I was not really deceived.”
“What do you mean, Melissa?”, asked Geoffrey quickly. He stood up again. They were almost eye to eye now. Melissa said: “Somewhere—I do not remember—I heard that you wanted to send either Phoebe or me to school. Perhaps Mama told me. I do not remember. It—it just occurred to me. It was very kind of you.”
Geoffrey said nothing. He was too engrossed with Melissa’s appearance. She was so calm, so very quiet, and her face was a blank whiteness under her hair.
Then Geoffrey said, uncertainly: “Well, it is unimportant, isn’t it.” He paused. “Melissa, I wanted to talk to you about something really important.”
“Yes.” She appeared attentive enough, yet Geoffrey had the curious and alarming idea that she was not really aware of what he was saying. He thought: She is terribly ill. Something has happened to her. He went on swiftly: “Melissa, I believe that everything that has happened to you this year has been too much for you. I think you need a change. I am going to Europe, to find a promising American author. I want you to come with me.”
Then there was utter silence in the library. Melissa did not turn aside, or drop her eyes. She still faced him, without moving, as if blind or unconscious.
“Italy, France, England, Austria, Germany, Holland,” said Geoffrey, in a stumbling voice. “You’ve never seen them, Melissa. I want you to come with me.”
She did not speak. But now her hands began to move aimlessly as she held her arm stiffly at her sides. Geoffrey’s attention was suddenly caught by their movements: each finger flexed and sprang out from the palm with a mechanical precision which was like the motions of a marionette. Fascinated, he watched the bloodless and machine-like flexing and unbending of these fingers, for nothing else about Melissa moved. Her motionlessness was like that of a stone.
He thought: Can she be so agitated at the thought of going away with me? If so, then it is all useless.
Still watching her hands, he said: “I know you must have time to consider. But I want you to think it over very carefully, Melissa. I’ll be away a long time. I want you with me. You promise that you’ll consider it?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, very softly, speaking the first lie of her life. “Oh, yes, Geoffrey.”
She must get away. She must get away very fast. There was such a thick and sickening darkness before her eyes, a mist in which Geoffrey’s face floated like a disembodied mask and through which his voice came from a far distance. She must leave before she dropped before him, and died. She must leave before she began to scream with intolerable agony. She backed away from the desk, a little at a time.
Puzzled, and overwhelmingly alarmed, Geoffrey made a motion to follow her, then stopped. Was that terror, in her eyes, again? He could not decide, but he knew it was something frightful. If he should touch her, come near her, God only knew what she would do. He stood still, and could only watch her with grim pain.
She had almost reached the threshold of the library now, moving backwards. Once there, she smiled at him, the wildest smile he had ever seen. She said, quite clearly: “Thank you, Geoffrey. Thank you.”
Geoffrey did not answer. She stood there in the arch of the doorway, like some tormented ghost, all eyes and whiteness and terrible smile. Then she was gone. But Geoffrey continued to stand there, looking at the empty doorway.
CHAPTER 47
It was a long time after Melissa had left him before Geoffrey could resume his work. A dozen times or more he stood up, with an impulse to go to her. But then he would sit down. He could not forget her white smile, strange and distraught, as she had stood on the threshold and thanked him. Thanked him for what? Yet there had been a kind of strong passion in her voice, a wildness. He thought about this, drumming his fingers on the desk. There was something here which was escaping him but which it was most necessary for him to remember and to understand. He had spoken to her of Europe, and she had promised to consider it. She had not refused, hastily and completely, as he had expected her to do. This had surprised and delighted him. Yet he was not delighted now. There was something wrong. Something was out of key, and its import was ominous.
He shook his head. There was no fathoming Melissa. But he could not rid himself of the vague and disturbing suspicion that something was being held before him which he ought to be able to see. Over and over, he forced himself to remember that she had not refused him, that she had given him her promise. But why did she fear him so? For the first time it came to him that perhaps it was not fear he had seen in her eyes, but something else.
“Nonsense,” he said aloud. “The girl has always been afraid of practically everything. Yet she said she would think about going to Europe, and she knew I must have her decision soon.”
He became impatient with himself and picked up the
bundle of newspapers he had been reviewing. His eye touched Charles’ manuscript. He looked at it with somber bitterness. Then he pushed it aside with a gesture of loathing and contempt. You haven’t won yet, you old devil, he thought. There was a look about Melissa today which makes me think you have lost.
He worked for at least two hours, making notes and comments, and writing out a memorandum for his editor. The latter, especially when he was suffering an acute attack of “art,” held Mr. Dickens in high disfavor and disdain. Geoffrey found it easier not to argue but to write out memoranda and his decision.
James tiptoed into the library with a message, a telegram from the station. It was from Philadelphia, from Geoffrey’s editor, and it informed him that the editor had knowledge that Mr. Dickens himself would be in the city for a few hours early the next day, for a speaking engagement, on the way to New York. If Geoffrey was serious about publishing Mr. Dickens’ next book, despite the contemptible things the author had said about America after his last visit, then it might be well for Geoffrey to see the gentleman personally.
“James, I have to leave on the six o’clock train,” said Geoffrey, folding up the newspapers. “What time is it? Five? Order the carriage for me and get my bag ready. Mrs. Shaw and Mrs. Dunham are in the house, I presume.”
“Mrs. Shaw is on the terrace, I believe,” said James uneasily. “But I thought I saw Mrs. Dunham leave the house about half an hour ago.”
“Oh, one of her walks!” said Geoffrey with annoyance. “Well, when does she usually return?”
“Sometimes it is seven o’clock or later,” replied James, dubiously. He stared at Geoffrey, and hesitated. “Mrs. Dunham is a great walker, sir.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Geoffrey. “I’ve got to leave, and it’s damnable if I must go without seeing her. She wouldn’t have gone to church, eh?”
James tried to smile humorously. “Oh no, sir, definitely not. Mrs. Dunham has expressed herself frequently to Rachel on the subject of church. Rachel gathered Mrs. Dunham does not approve of it.”
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