A Prologue to Love

by Taylor Caldwell

  “You must think I’m an idiot!” he said violently, walking far away from her and looking back over his shoulder at her. The old and awful terror was on him again, the old dry sickness in the throat. “I can’t afford such things, Cynthia. It’s outrageous; it isn’t in the contract.”

  “Contract?” she repeated.

  “Yes, contract!” he shouted. “The trust is one thing. But this is outrageous. I won’t stand for it, do you hear me? You’ll buy what you need thriftily, out of income. And not a penny more!”

  She lifted her arm and looked at the bracelet. “It’s really beautiful,” she said. “I always wanted it.” Then she stood up.

  John said with more violence, “Are you accustomed to accepting such things — from men? Do you know there is a name for a woman like that?”

  “I don’t accept ‘things — from men’,” said Cynthia quietly. “I’ve never accepted anything, John, except flowers, or a pair of gloves, or some bibelot, as a gift from any of the gentlemen I know. A woman doesn’t accept jewelry or money from men she doesn’t love.”

  “And I suppose the men you — you — ” He could not finish; he felt as if he were choking.

  But the maid came in then to light the candles and the lamps and Cynthia watched her, as if every movement were important. The maid kept her head down but smirked under her nose; she could smell the violence and anger in the room. She lingered as long as possible. She wanted to hear more, but neither spoke until she had gone and softly closed the door behind her. Then Cynthia removed the bracelet from her arm and put it on the nearest table. “It doesn’t belong to me any longer,” she said in a low voice. “You didn’t give it to me.”

  Then she added brightly, “Oh, I see some of our guests are coming. A carriage is drawing up outside.” She touched the petit-point bell panel that hung near the fire. She rustled to the door, her face gleaming with smiles, and John hastily walked to the table and took the bracelet and put it in his pocket. He would return it tomorrow to the jeweler.

  Cynthia’s parties were noted for gaiety and charm and glitter. All who came were connoisseurs of fine food and wines, of art, of music, of sophisticated conversation. They bored John Ames to death; he endured them sullenly because at Cynthia’s parties he frequently found men who could be profitable to him. It never occurred to him that Cynthia deftly arranged this. On the contrary, he often wondered why men of great affairs should be attracted to such frivolous gatherings.

  He looked about him tonight. The room was alive with gems of many colors, Paris gowns of every hue, and a dozen pretty feminine faces. The men moved among these lovely creatures like sleek black seals in shining water. And everyone laughed and talked rapidly. It was very unlike most Boston parties John had attended. It reminded him of Paris, for no one talked of business, no group of men huddled together in the American manner, smoking and drinking privately and unaware of the women, impatient if one intruded. Cynthia’s parties were distinguished for a Continental air, where women were cherished, their new gowns admired, and compliments made to them gallantly; where men discussed the newest additions to the Museum or talked easily of friends in London and Budapest and San Francisco and Berlin, and women chatted of Worth, the British royal family whose members were known to them, and also of the things which John Ames contemptuously labeled as ‘culture’.

  They had all met John Ames several times before, not only in Cynthia’s house, but in their own offices and in his. Many of them disliked, feared, or hated him. They often wondered among themselves why Cynthia could stand him. He was no asset to any conversation; his handsome but gloomy face rarely smiled. He showed no appreciation for a special dish at the table. He never complimented a lady. He did not talk easily to anyone. Outside of his potency and his power to make or break a man, he was a clod, in the opinion of the gentlemen.

  Gracious efforts at the table were made to draw him into the conversation for Cynthia’s sake. They failed. He ate the splendid meal, so marvelously prepared and served, as if it were bread and cheese. He barely touched the wine. He stared straight ahead of him, in somber silence, opposite Cynthia. Yet it seemed that he did not even see her, and she had never looked so beautiful. She was pale, sometimes a little abstracted. Yet someone had only to speak to her to bring a flash of joy and affection and pleasure to her eyes; she replied always with wit and lightness. Mr. Clark Brittingham, a very eligible bachelor in his late thirties, was more than ever entranced with her. He turned his intelligent eyes on John and bit the corner of his groomed mustache. It was a nuisance, but this fellow stood as a sort of brother to Cynthia, and he must be approached. Tonight.

  John, always so acutely perceptive, became aware of Mr. Brittingham’s distasteful glances thrown at him along the table. He turned his head abruptly and looked at the other man with his hard blue eyes. Mr. Brittingham smiled at him pleasantly, and John forced himself to smile. Brittingham, he reflected, was the richest man present, with the exception of himself. He had given a vast gift to the Louvre in Paris, and in consequence he wore the red, blue, and white ribbon of the Legion of Honor. A Rembrandt? Yes. It has cost Mr. Brittingham some seventy-six thousand dollars, John remembered. Something tightened in John’s throat, and for a moment the great and exquisite dining room was too hot for him, too airless. It reminded him of a fire; the fire hung before his eyes like a conflagration. He moved restlessly in his chair. He made himself think of the business he had done with Mr. Brittingham, one of the most prosperous pieces of business in his life.

  Now all at the table rose; the gentlemen were bowing, with the exception of John, for the ladies were preparing to ‘retire’ and leave the gentlemen alone with their brandy for a little while. The room rustled with silk; there was a fairy tinkling of bracelets, earrings, and necklaces. Then the ladies moved from the room like tall and sparkling birds of many colors, and the door closed after them. The gentlemen sat down. John sat among them like a statue. He hated this period. No one would talk business. It was not proper, according to these idiots. They would only eye him out of the corners of their eyes. Be sure they were thinking of business, though they would not mention it! John seethed with contempt. He would be visited by at least three tomorrow; he already had made appointments.

  It was very ridiculous. When these men sat in his office the elegance disappeared, the extreme courtesy, the oblique and graceful phrase. Then they were as blunt as stone and as avaricious as tigers, and even their faces were entirely different. It was as if their very flesh became heavier, their expressions grosser. There was no talk of art and ‘culture’ then! It was gold, and gold only, and be damned to know how it was to be acquired. Prentice, there, sitting down with a cultivated smile: he and his father had made most of their money ‘blackbirding’. Cynthia would call him a murderer, and it was quite true. And there was Vaughn: he had made several fortunes smuggling arms to the South in his fleet of fast clippers in the late war. Vaughn was an abolitionist: he had been a colonel in the Union Army and had many decorations, including one from Lincoln himself.

  The conversation flowed about and around him, and it was as if he were surrounded by ghosts who did not know he was even there. But he knew very acutely that they were aware of him, and weighing him, and wondering how they could use him, and hating and fearing and furtively admiring him. He was not a ‘gentleman’ to them. He had no proper background; he was a nobody; no one knew from where he came; he had no family. He had sprung from nowhere, powerful, ruthless, even terrible, and they preferred not to think of him when they were not doing business.

  The Franco-Prussian War was remarked upon at the table with serious expressions and head-shakings, then dismissed. But tomorrow it would be talked of exclusively — in his office. God damn them, thought John Ames, seeing in his mind now the avid eyes he would see tomorrow, the tight lips, the moisture on foreheads.

  The gentlemen prepared to join the ladies. John had not said twenty words. And he had spoken these only to Harper Bothwell, who was content with t
he family fortune as it was. He had many stories to relate about courtroom episodes, and they had been much enjoyed. Harper and the other gentlemen moved toward the door, and John followed them. Then he felt a discreet plucking at his arm and turned to see Clark Brittingham smiling at him. “A moment, John,” he murmured.

  John pulled his sleeve away rudely. “I can spare you half an hour at two tomorrow,” he said with curtness.

  “I’m sorry. But this isn’t business, John. It’s a private affair.”

  Mr. Brittingham waited until they were alone. “Dash it,” he added with a rueful smile, and repeating a British phrase which he had acquired, “it’ll only take a moment. These formalities! They aren’t even necessary, but one has to think of Cynthia.”

  “What has Cynthia got to do with it?”

  “Everything. Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t be bothering you. These proprieties! But I think Cynthia would prefer it this way, as you are her brother-in-law and she has no other mature relatives.”

  “Well?” John stood away from him stiffly.

  “I’ve always wanted Cynthia,” said Clark Brittingham. “I wanted to marry her before she married that simpering fool of a George Winslow. How a girl of Cynthia’s intelligence and discrimination could have married him is one of those mysteries we’re always encountering, isn’t it? Thankfully, he removed himself in a blaze of glory, if one can use a cliché. I see you’re impatient. I’ll come to the point. I want to marry Cynthia; I’ve wanted to marry her since we were children in dancing school. Do you know?”

  He smiled reminiscently.

  John could only glare at him in absolute astonishment.

  “My father,” went on Mr. Brittingham, “wanted to arrange the marriage with old Esmond. The Esmonds were just a cut above the Brittinghams, though they did not have as much money. It was a social privilege to be invited to their exclusive affairs. And the girls! What beauties! They could have married anybody — ”

  Then Mr. Brittingham flushed deeply. He had just remembered that Ann Esmond had married this blackguard, this nobody, this man without family or schools or background. He went on hastily, cursing himself, “When they came out it wasn’t only a Boston affair; it concerned a dozen cities, and even Paris and London. They were presented at Court, you know. All fuss and feathers.”

  Mr. Brittingham drew a deep breath and stood up straighter. Let the bounder say what he willed. Cynthia was no longer a girl; she was a widow and had a son. She could make her own decision. “In short,” he said coolly, “I want your permission to marry Cynthia. Oh, I understand your permission isn’t necessary. But I think Cynthia would like it.”

  John averted his face. It was impossible. Brittingham was fabulously rich; he was a close friend of the Belmonts and the Vanderbilts. His fortune was respected even in Europe, where his name was well known. He, John, must enlighten this pretentious imbecile.

  “I think you ought to know,” he said in a harsh voice, “that Cynthia has no money beyond a mere twenty-six thousand dollars or so. She spent it all,” he went on, throwing the words at Mr. Brittingham. “She’s very extravagant; she hasn’t the slightest idea about money and what it means.”

  “I know,” said Mr. Brittingham with a smile that John considered idiotic. “That’s part of her charm. And who’s more charming than Cynthia? The Esmonds had a great distaste for money; it was never mentioned in their house. Old Esmond was a gentleman of the old school.” In saying this he deliberately excluded John from the company of those who could have understood Cynthia’s father.

  “I want to give Cynthia everything I have,” said Mr. Brittingham. “I can even reconcile myself to Timothy, who is not exactly the most ingratiating boy in the world. I want Cynthia for my wife. I want her to have everything she wishes. She adorns everything she does.”

  John spoke with an effort. “Have you asked her yourself?”

  “Yes. And she always eluded me in that graceful way of hers. She’s like sunlight — you know. I see I am getting fatuous. I don’t know what I’ll do if she won’t marry me.”

  He spoke with quiet intensity, and looking into his small brown eyes, John knew that he spoke the truth. He said, “Don’t worry about Cynthia’s financial state, which you seem to know. I just settled twenty-five thousand dollars a year on her for life. After all, she is my wife’s sister.”

  Mr. Brittingham raised his eyebrows. “Really. How generous of you. But Cynthia won’t need that when she marries me. Very generous. But completely unnecessary when Cynthia marries me. May we consider it concluded, then?”

  John was silent.

  “I’ll speak to Cynthia tomorrow,” said Mr. Brittingham with determination. “I don’t mean to be offensive, but whether you give your formal consent or not tonight doesn’t matter. There are a dozen men like myself who want to marry Cynthia, and I must hurry and be there first, with emphasis. That is why I asked you for your permission.”

  “And if I don’t consent?”

  “Then be damned to you,” said Mr. Brittingham with cool simplicity. “I’ll just keep after Cynthia until she marries me.”

  He looked John up and down as if he were observing a very low fellow. Then he turned and walked out of the room, leaving John alone near the cluttered table of silver, flowers, damask, and glass, all shining under the enormous crystal chandelier.

  Cynthia had not lied after all. She could marry Brittingham; she could marry others. She could be the social leader of leaders, not only in Boston, but in other cities. Yet she had chosen to give herself to him, John Ames, without marriage. She would put herself in a very scandalous position. John shook his head dazedly. All at once he was aware of the weight of the bracelet in his pocket, a single bracelet. Brittingham would be happy to buy her a dozen of these, and more, and give her his name.

  Chapter 4

  The ladies were grouped about Cynthia in the drawing room, standing in postures of ecstasy, hands clasped, heads bent, and Cynthia, all triumph, was bending over a large chair on which she had placed a framed canvas. Now the gentlemen merged with the ladies and there were exclamations. Cynthia looked about her, peering over Mr. Brittingham’s shoulder. “Oh, John!” she cried. “You must come and see! I’ve been keeping this a surprise for you, but I could not — I could not hold it hidden until Christmas. I just had to show everyone.”

  John had been standing in the doorway. Every head turned to him and every face smiled. “Lucky dog,” said Harper Bothwell. “Not everybody gets such a gift.”

  “Oh, I’m keeping it for myself, in a way,” said Cynthia, laughing. “Of course it will be John’s, but I have just the spot for it, right over there near the south window. You see how greedy I am?”

  John approached slowly, seeing no one but Cynthia. Her face was illuminated with pleasure and excitement. Cynthia seized his hand and pulled him playfully to the chair. “Look, isn’t it magnificent, and yet isn’t it terribly sad and just a little frightful? I was so lucky to get it. There are only twenty unsold, and I’m ashamed to say what I paid for it. It will be worth a fortune in a few years; in fact, it’s a fortune even now!”

  What did a damned picture matter? Every wall was crowded with pictures. Then he looked down at the picture, and he was sick. He remembered it very well; he thought it had been destroyed with all the others; he had believed that not a single one had remained.

  It was not an exceptionally large painting; it could not have been more than three feet square. It was of a new style called ‘impressionistic’, and when a few paintings in this style had first been on display in the Boston Museum there had been some well-bred rioting and many indignant epithets. There had been angry cries of ‘degenerate art, caricature, unrealistic, mad, crude, illiterate drawing and painting, thick-colored porridge thrown on with a palette knife, barbaric, an insult to nature and all true artists!’ Newspapers had written stern editorials; art critics had ridiculed; there was not a tea or dinner where this ‘outrage’ was not discussed in firm voices and denounced.

>   Cynthia’s acquisition was of this impressionistic style. The artist had painted a scene that consisted only of a dark range of chaotic purple hills, blurred as if glimpsed through a curtain of rain. The sky above them loomed with strange cloud-shapes, apocalyptic and threatening, touched with sharp fire in the gray hollows, prophetic with vague and enormous faces. The foreground undulated in a dim yet savage green, a boundless wilderness without trees or flowers, and scattered only with grotesque boulders thrown by a giant. A man walked on it, a small figure against all that palpable and frightening color, all that pressing silence, all that majestic and menacing sky, all those broken purple hills. It was hard to tell if the figure was a man or a boy; the artist had managed to suggest both age and youth in the uncertain body in its dull clothes. The face could not be clearly seen; it was partly turned away, the eyes blindfolded, the strong arms outstretched, groping.

  When John Ames had first seen this thing — which had horrified him — the artist had smiled at him pleadingly and his hazel eyes had been sad. “Don’t be like this, Jack,” he had said. “Before God, don’t be blind like this. Look. See. For your soul’s sake.”