“Walter, I cannot stand this much longer,” Ruth said without warning preliminaries. He looked up in surprise from his paper and frowned.
“Can’t stand what?” he asked.
“This sort of thing. Your staying away for nights.”
“I have to leave town and there’s no use talking about it. Business is impossible.”
“But night after night?”
“Yes, night after night,” he snapped. “I can’t help it. You don’t want me to ruin myself because you must have an excessive amount of attention, do you?”
He looked at her with an angry, cold expression.
—God, what a woman! Now I suppose there will be scenes. What in heaven has happened to her? Her skin is yellow and there are dark rings under her eyes. She was beautiful once. I’m tired of this professional wifeliness. I’ve done my duty, taken care of them, made provisions for my son, what more can a man do?
Ruth looked at him feeling that she must not allow this conversation to end in vague generalities and a perfunctory kiss.
—What have I done that he should look at me so. I am not as young as I was when we first met. I am a little older than he, I wonder if that is the reason. Perhaps he has found another woman, someone younger than I. But he must tell me, I must hear it from his lips, not in degrading innuendo. I would sooner know the truth than sit here night after night waiting for him. I am tired, too, and I must look dreadful. I see it in his eyes.
She leaned forward across the table and rested her hand on his, but he made no answering response and folded up his paper with a gesture of annoyance.
“I want you to be honest with me, Walter. Don’t you love me any longer?”
He made a grimace of bored impatience. “Why, of course, I love you. I’m here, am I not?”
“Yes, you are here, but that is all—just here.”
“Now, listen, Ruth, I don’t know what you’re driving at, and, to tell you the truth, I haven’t very much time. Things are in bad shape at the office, I’m being driven frantic by things.”
“If it’s only money that’s worrying you, keeping you away from home, you know you needn’t be alarmed. My money is practically untouched and you can have as much of it as you need.”
“I don’t need any, thank you. I can support the mother of my son without assistance.”
—The mother of his son! He said it as if he were frightened to call me his wife, as though the word were something distasteful. But I am his wife, no matter what the world says, no matter what he thinks. I have lived with him for nearly seven years. I have been faithful to him, far more loyal to him than he has been to me.
“I know you’ve been a good father and—may I say husband? I hope the word doesn’t offend you.”
Walter threw his paper to the table and walked to the window and stared down into the street for a moment and then came back to the table.
“Why in God’s name do you bring that up? I consider you my wife and have acknowledged you to the whole world.”
“I noticed that you referred to me as the mother of your son.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but am I not more than that?”
“Of course, I haven’t denied it, have I?”
“No—but you seem to be evading it.”
“Why this sudden questioning, may I ask?”
“I want to know things—for certain.”
“What things?”
“I want to know, Walter, whether you still love me and whether you are being loyal to me.”
“Loyal,” he repeated, “of course I’m loyal. I carry the responsibilities of this home, do I not? I have the best interests of my family at heart, isn’t that true? Of course, I’m loyal.”
“I don’t mean that.”
“Well, for God’s sake, what do you mean?”
“I mean about other women. Are you being faithful to me, that’s what I mean.”
He did not answer at the moment and she pursued the question relentlessly.
“Tell me, Walter, are you being unfaithful to me?”
“Yes.”
A terrible silence fell between them. The color left Ruth’s face. Walter walked to a table, nervously took a cigarette from a humidor and lighted it.
When she spoke again her voice had lost its modulations. The words issued from her mouth listlessly, flatly.
“Who is she?”
“You don’t know her.”
“And is she the only one—since we have been living together?”
“No.”
“Then there have been others?”
“Yes, but please don’t look so tragic.”
“What do you think I should do—laugh?”
“Do? Why there’s nothing to do. I still love you, Ruth, these other things don’t matter. Really they don’t. You shouldn’t have asked, but having asked, I had to tell you the truth. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t believe you love me. If you did, you couldn’t leave me here night after night for other women.”
“But I do love you. It is different with them.”
“Different? How?”
“I don’t love them, I tell you. I consider you my wife—you are my wife—this is my home. The other thing is something else; love doesn’t enter into it. I want you to believe me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true, nevertheless.”
“Well, I can’t have it.”
He went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink of whisky and drank it hastily, then he poured another and took it to the table and faced Ruth.
“Listen, Ruth. I want to have a complete and final understanding with you on this question. We’ve been living together now for nearly seven years. That’s longer than most people who are churched live together. It’s a good record—and I don’t want it to end just because you are suddenly developing a streak of unreasonable conservatism. We were liberal-minded about these matters when we set up house together and I expect the same attitude now.”
“Liberal-minded? Do I understand that you want me to sanction your running around with other women? And that if I am meek and blind you will consider me a liberal-minded woman, too? Is that it? Do you consider me conservative because I expect fidelity from you?”
“Intelligent, modern people don’t use the word in that sense any longer. Most progressive women are ashamed to use the word as you do. You know as well as I do that the idea of fidelity between the sexes is a stupid religious concept. It’s a convention which dates from the time when married women were regarded as chattels and now you ask me to consider myself bound by such a shabby, outworn conception of morality. I have lived with you for nearly seven years. That, apparently counts for nothing with you. I have cared for you, nursed you when you were ill, have acknowledged you as my wife and the mother of my son; that, too, I suppose counts for nothing. I am jealous of your honor, I plan for Bruce’s future. All this doesn’t matter. But if I so much as spend an idle hour with another woman, you—.”
“Not to mention the idle nights,” Ruth interrupted.
“Very well, then, idle nights. But if I spend an evening with a woman who doesn’t mean anything to me, then I am unfaithful. Unfaithful to what?”
“To me.”
“How?”
“Because it’s indecent. If we love each other such a thing should be impossible.”
“Nonsense. What’s indecent about it? Are you indecent because you are still legally married to Edgar and at the same time live with me? I don’t say that you are. I simply mean that love, sex, passion—call it what you will—is not indecent.”
“It is a horrible thing to come to the woman you love soiled and reeking of another woman; moreover, it’s hypocritical.”
“I’m not a hypocrite. Do you hear? I’ll not allow you to sit there and say things like that.”
/> “Am I to suppose that you wouldn’t mind if I did the same thing-spent a night with another man?”
“No, I wouldn’t mind.”
“You mean that it wouldn’t cause you any pain if I were unfaithful to you?”
“No—it wouldn’t cause me any pain. It wouldn’t and it shouldn’t.”
“Then you don’t love me any longer and there’s nothing more to be said.”
“But I do, perhaps not as much as in the beginning, but surely you don’t expect that. You must try and be a modern, intelligent woman. You are not in the convent, you yourself have admitted the absurdities of religious concepts about morality. Your living with me all these years is proof of that. Why don’t you realize that all this nonsense about fidelity isn’t valid any longer?”
“You don’t love me any longer,” Ruth repeated dully.
“Please don’t keep repeating the same thing over and over again. Are the things which I have been saying true or not? Answer me that.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe they are—but I still think that it’s disgusting of you to go to other women and then come to me and expect me to applaud you for it. It’s vile and filthy and nothing you can say, no matter how glibly you say it, will ever convince me.”
“See here, Ruth, I’ll not allow you to call me vile and filthy. Do you hear? I’ll not allow it.” He was shouting now and he came close to her and shook his finger in her face.
“Please, Walter, don’t threaten me. I do not condone your infidelity and nothing you say or do will make me alter my attitude. If I can’t have you clean and undefiled, then I don’t want you.”
“Very well. Do as you please. I’m tired of all this old-fashioned professional wife business. Good-by.”
He walked from the room without another word, leaving her sitting at the table. She remained there confused and bewildered, trying to determine the extent of her misfortune.
—And now what? I can’t go on like this, living in the knowledge that he comes to me from the beds of other women. It was this way with Edgar. I don’t want what any other decent woman would refuse under the circumstances. But then, maybe I’m not a decent woman.
Her head began to ache, it seemed that her eyes were being drawn upward in agony. She went to her room and sat at her dressing table, dabbing her head with eau de Cologne. She had not slept well for weeks now, and in exhaustion she threw herself on the bed and tried to sleep but sleep would not come. She felt as though she were without skin, as though her nerves were exposed and raw, sensitive to every passing influence.
At noon Marie brought her a tray of food but she could not eat. Instead she drank some black coffee in the vain effort to calm herself and ease the pain which racked her head and which, in cruel sympathy, had now communicated itself to her whole body.
LXXVI
Shortly before six Ruth began to prepare for dinner. She looked worn and haggard, her skin was flabby and lifeless. She looked at herself in the mirror in astonishment and began, painstakingly, to apply cosmetics. After half an hour with rouge, mascara, creams and lotions she had improved her appearance but little. The color on her cheeks refused to spread and stood out like two unrelated spots of pink and merely accentuated the ghastliness of her complexion. She sat before her glass and surveyed her work with a sinking heart.
—Whatever has happened to me? Six months worry and I have begun to look like an old woman. It must be that I was hollow underneath and cracked under the first strain. Of course, he is younger than I am. He has suffered less and feels more youthful. And now if I go down to dinner looking like this, he will think that I am an old harridan; I will see it in his eyes. Why should I look like this? I have lived well, have taken care of myself and still I look older than I am. Thirty-seven years old! Most women are just beginning to live at my age. The dangerous age, they call it. Dangerous because they want to live, have affairs, have one last fling at life, and here am I fighting desperately to hang on to the little I have. What is it that I lack? Perhaps if I had not forsaken my faith it would stand me in good stead now. But how is that possible? I simply do not believe any longer. Or my music! Perhaps I should have made it my life work, so that I would not feel so dependent upon Walter. But he is all I have. Nothing else. How can I go to mother? Darling Bruce, she would call him a bastard, and I would have to spend the rest of my days listening to her cant and reproaches. I couldn’t leave him behind and I couldn’t take him. God, what skin! Dry and stubborn, refusing to take the rouge, two red spots like a consumptive. He will hate me more than ever if he sees me like this. But I must go downstairs. I must face him, I must ask him questions. I cannot go on living like this. Let him get out and leave me alone. Alone? And then how will you live? The old loneliness? All over again? Yes, I could live with Bruce—then I wouldn’t know, it is better that way, not to know. We will live together and I will see that he grows up to be a fine man. And Walter will come and see him but I know I shall not be able to face him—he will be gay and civil and perhaps very pitying. Oh, anything but pity! He will think: that is the woman I used to live with, she was young when it first happened. She had fine, firm skin then, hard breasts and her hair was bright auburn, it’s hennaed now and the day before she goes to the hairdresser it’s gray at the roots and unless she takes very great care of herself she looks like an old harridan. Of course, I was young then, he will say, didn’t know what I was doing. She was older than I was. Poor thing! I should be very modern, I know. I should walk down to the living room and calmly tell him to go his way, that I am self-sufficient. I wonder what these heroic modern young women feel and think at night. Good fellows! Thank you very much and the man goes his way, while she smiles a brave little smile. But you can’t fool me, miss, I know; it hurts. If you wear panties and long trailing evening gowns, you can’t fool me. I know it hurts. It’s because it’s cheaper that way, that’s why men want freedom. But when Bruce was being born there was no freedom then; he came in the old conservative way, tearing my flesh and draining my blood. But then, perhaps modern intelligent women don’t have babies like that any more. Maybe childbirth is an old shabby convention like fidelity and not beating one’s wife. I must remember to tell him that. He’s brave because he’s younger than I am and because he’s pinned his faith on life and I’m weak because I have only wanted love. And now it is ending. The days we spent together were the happiest in my life. And soon there will be dreary days and the taste of our happiness will grow foul and bitter and he will come to hate me more and more. Perhaps he would have felt differently if we were married. It would be idiotic to go through with the divorce now. My marriage with Edgar, which was ugly and intolerable, the Church and society insisted on calling my real marriage, but it was not. It was sanctified adultery. And if I went to confession now the priest would tell me that Walter’s infidelity is God’s way of showing me the path to redemption. Mother would say crawl to the foot of the Cross and pray for forgiveness. But I cannot, I do not believe any longer and to go through the empty gestures would be stupid and hypocritical. I should have been freed from my first marriage and the Church and the world should have recognized that Walter is my husband and that Bruce is not a bastard. Yes, if things had been otherwise, it would be different now. But I must go down. It is better so.
≠
When Walter returned home that evening he was distant and sullen and sat in silence throughout dinner. An air of suspended hostility hung over the apartment and stilled Bruce’s customary little-boy chatter and froze Marie’s good humor into stiff civility. When the meal was finished Walter rose abruptly and announced that he had to go out. Ruth followed him into the hall.
“Walter, please don’t leave me alone tonight.”
He looked at her coldly and continued to get into his coat. “I’m sorry, I have an engagement.”
“Please, I’ve had a terrible day—there are things I want to speak to you about.”
“I’ll try and
be back early, before midnight perhaps. I’ll see you later.” He turned and made for the door.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me before you go?” She knew that her voice sounded weak and pathetic, that she shouldn’t have asked to be kissed, but the words were out before she could restrain herself. He bent down and kissed her lightly.
“Now, go to bed. Don’t wait up for me. We’ll talk another time.”
He turned sharply, opened the door and walked out into the corridor. When Ruth returned, Marie had taken Bruce upstairs to put him to bed. For a while she sat reading the evening paper, then, unable to endure the loneliness, went upstairs to bed.
LXXVII
The morning mail brought a letter from England. Her correspondence with her mother and Guy gave her little pleasure; there had been evasions and during the last seven years she could not mention her life with Walter nor the birth of Bruce. When it was necessary to write to England, which she did on the rarest occasions, she was compelled to keep track of the threads of the fiction which ran through all her letters. In one letter she had not written because she had taken a sea trip to Central America, in another it was because she had been ill. She wrote of the fictitious persons whom she had met, how she spent her time and once she wrote that she was preparing for the concert stage and was immersed in her work. But always there was a reason for her not visiting England. But of late the demands of her mother and son that she visit them increased with each letter.
She looked at the squarish envelope and hesitated before opening it.
—But how can I go to England? I can see mother’s face as I present Bruce as her grandson! And even Guy will not understand. I wanted him to be brought up by cold, hard English masters and, no doubt, they have done their job well. I see it in his letters. He will be polite and hurt. Oh, God!
There Are Victories Page 21