Chapter IV: The Happy Ending

_“He who bred me up sold a certain young maid of Rome; whom when I
saw many years after, I remembered her, and began to love her as a
sister. It happened some time afterwards that I saw her washing in
the river Tyber; and I reached out my hand unto her, and brought her
out of the river: and when I saw her, I thought with myself, saying,
How happy should I be if I had such a wife, both for beauty and
manners. This I thought with myself; nor did I think any thing more.
But not long after, as I was walking, and musing on these thoughts, I
began to honour this creature of God, thinking with myself how noble
and beautiful she was. And when I had walked a little I fell asleep.
And ... the heaven was opened, and I saw the woman I had coveted,
saluting me from heaven, and saying, Hermas, hail! and I looking upon
her, answered, Lady, what dost thou do here?”_

_“The Shepherd of Hermas”_ (_Trans. Archbishop Wake_)

1

Les thought he loved Cicely because she was comfortable. He was grateful to those who relieved him of self-expression. I adore people who draw no emotion. But he had seen Em. Em had never gone away. She was. He did not sleep. Thinking at night, Cicely relaxed and quiet beside him. Slow years ... I hear the shadows ... hours unfolding like petals ... cliffs of white mist ... road flying on like a bird....

Cicely was not to blame. His dissatisfaction was with her sweetness. He leaned over and looked at her in the dim gathering light. She gave too much. He was ashamed that he found any burden in her giving. Her mouth drooped a little. She knew in her dreams.

Dawn! Crimson banners of dawn ... slaying the stars ... tears of dew ... gold arms of the sun ... Cicely sat up and stretched her young body. Her gold-brown eyes were soft. Cicely had formerly worked downtown in an office. Living with Les had frightened her of life a little, but it made her feel superior to her undistinguished existence.

“Are you awake, Les?”

“Yes.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.”

She seized him in her arms and kissed him.

2

Em rose early. She bathed and dressed carefully. There was decision in her. I can’t paint and I won’t make my living in bed. She persuaded herself that she had no intention of going to Les. Em felt that she could do without Howard, there were enough other things to hurt her. She was her own.

Breakfast. Waiting for Howard. That she could not kill herself had clarified things to her. Her trunks were packed, her easel tied up. It was after ten o’clock when he came to the apartment. Cold good-mornings. He moved about the rooms collecting some etchings.

“Howard, we must talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he replied shortly. Howard had misjudged Em. What he had thought was patience with him had been an approaching indifference. It’s beginning over again, I don’t love the woman, he kept telling himself. Sexual mystifications, I’m through with it. Em had either to come through as an artist or die. I’m through with her unless she conforms to _me_. If she isn’t an artist, she’s nothing. None of us are. He felt cursed by his own banality, viciously anxious to achieve something in his work. If I were self-deceived like the others, things would be easy for me, he thought.

“It shall be our last talk,” said Em.

Howard halted and looked at her keenly. She imagined there was gladness in his eyes. She was humiliated. He hasn’t the courage, she thought to comfort herself. He pulled forward a chair, seated himself wearily and lighted a cigarette, his hand playing nervously with the chair arm.

“What do you want, Em?”

“I’m going.” She resented his lack of surprise.

“Why should we have to talk about it?” He could repress himself strongly. Let her go. Algeria. She’ll come back. His air was almost insolent.

Em wanted to break self-respectingly with Howard. She wanted to force him to prove to her that he was worthy of the moment. He must salve her vanity. He must show himself big enough to justify her for having allowed him to mean so much to her.

“I want us to be friends, Howard.”

“I hate friendship. Most people haven’t the guts to recognize death when they see it. Why dress up a corpse?” Howard was bearding danger. He was determined to compel her to cease stipulating.

Em did not want a discussion. She needed an event.

“Howard, _must_ we end like this?”

“Why did we ever begin?” His mouth was ugly. Algeria had deliberately overdone her suggestion to Howard. Algeria wanted to be rid of Em. So she had shrewdly led him to believe that Em could not be driven away. Far more cunningly had Algeria dropped into his mind seeds of the idea that _he_ was finished with Em.

Em’s patience was ever short-lived, even when she wanted something.

“I began because I thought we could be honest and live together decently for a while.”

“We began honestly enough, why can’t we end so? Why the conventional lie? We’re through with each other. Your idea of honesty is telling disagreeable truths to someone for your own pleasure.”

It was out now! He felt ill with despair which he would not attribute to Em. He loathed the memory of his etchings. He was through with them--through with everything. There was a stealthy undercurrent to this explanation of his emotions. He would not admit it. Em thought again of her desired scene. I can’t part with a quarrel. Howard looks ill. She was excited--sorry for him. She wished for the dignity of Les.

“You’re not very gentle with people yourself, Howard.”

“Gentleness is habitual timidity.” He threw his cigarette into the grate and rose. His eyes were implacable.

Em’s head was up, her eyes antagonistic. She had forgotten her worthy parting scene.

“Then why do you blame me? You’re very virtuous all at once!”

“I admit to a few virtues. I may despise them as springing from cowardice, but the trouble with you is you can’t see they’re as necessary as if they didn’t.” I _don’t_ believe in virtue, he said to himself. Virtue isn’t necessary. What is necessary is to recognize dry rot of the emotions, but anything to get rid of her--His mind was clear at last!

Em remembered. A gesture--She strove desperately to keep the upper hand, but she felt the occasion too much. She had something to lose.

“I want you to know that I don’t see myself as you see me, Howard.” She was incapable of taking dialectical advantage, always a hostage to her own frankness.

Howard observed her increased agitation.

“You don’t see yourself at all. What you’ve always resented is that I do see you. The result has been a series of vulgar squabbles. You’ve convinced me of the value of good breeding.” Algeria echoing in him.

“I don’t care for good breeding!” returned Em hotly. “I respect only something real--” Why breeding? They were eternally talking about breeding!

“Breeding never does affect women. The most they ever learn is to appraise breeding in men, and you’ve never learned that. You disgust me with your idea that crudity is synonymous with reality. Damn reality!”

Em began to feel the old-time thrill of his cruelty.

“You’ve never learned to be human,” she accused bitterly. “All you care for is a shallow artistic creed.” They were both regardless. There’s no more hope for us now, she thought.

“I care for what has never come into our relation, a little beauty,” he retorted with equal bitterness. Algeria again.

Em sprang to her feet.

“I’ve had enough of beauty without any pity!” she cried with passionate emphasis. “To me beauty means something--something true.”

“Blah!” exclaimed Howard. “And I’ve had enough of your predilection for hurting people and then wanting them to ‘understand’ it. There must be manners between lovers.”

They stood facing each other angrily. They were drunk with pain. He had caused her so much pain that for a moment she could not bear the thought of losing him. Then pride rushed over her, she was drunk with disdain. She spoke very distinctly.

“I’m glad I’ve hurt you.” Power was more than love.

His face was contorted with defeat. Everything else was forgotten. He spoke for himself now.

“You’ve got the blood-lust of a well-fed criminal,” he said brutally.

Em, her face pale, her eyes luminous with wrath and suffering, seized a hat and coat and ran from the room. When she returned, late in the afternoon, it was to deliver her trunks and her easel to an expressman. Howard was not there. As she went out she laid her key on a table and pulled the self-locking door shut behind her.

3

Howard had given so little time to Em that days passed before any of his friends, except Algeria, knew she had left him. But Algeria gloated publicly. She had a cool brain, an accurate feeling for distant prevention. The retinue was assembling after dinner at Algeria’s studio.

“That girl has _lost_ dear Howard,” she announced confidentially.

“Elephants!” pondered Mitra, voice almost hidden.

Celia only smiled. Gouvain rose and stared agitatedly at a statuette he loathed.

“Poor Howard was _never_ happy with her. She belongs to that unfortunate type of being who has _ideals_,” Algeria confided to each comer. “Emily had a horrible idea of _reforming_ the poor boy. _We_ like to hear him sing. But then we’re not _serious_. Howard is a little the _faun_, but Emily, alas, is _not_ a fauness.”

It was impossible for Howard to avoid meeting Em. Fate was mischievous. On the street, Esther’s at dinner, twice in the Square. Em would not slink away from her haunts. Howard exerted his best skill. The only solace was that Algeria was with him each time. Algeria embarrassed him. Em had made him secretly ashamed of Algeria. But now he was glad he had Algeria to scout Em. Algeria did hurt Em. They had common acquaintances. Algeria continually implied that she had taken Howard from Em. Les’s clear-eyed girl friend met Algeria on the street: she was interested in what might affect Les.

“I hear that Howard Story--” she began hesitatingly.

In the harshness of street clothes Algeria’s vague heaviness of line was emphasized--what was subtly soft in shimmering draperies became merely undistinguished. Her body appeared stolid and commonplace, in the coldness of sunlight her winsome grimaces were ineffective. She looked handsome, capable, cold, and almost matronly. In a measure she herself realized this. Her dramatic sense of fitness made her instinctively adapt herself to the limitations of her appearance, and her daytime manner was factual and subdued.

“Yes, we have the dear boy back,” she said soberly. “He’s _so_ much more like himself now. The _trouble_ with the girl was that she was trying to make Howard over. We don’t _care_ about his faults. Emily is one of those terribly _deadly earnest_ people, you know. She would consider Arcady an _immoral_ place!”

Em did not talk. One night at the old neighborhood restaurant. Em dining alone. Algeria, respectfully followed by one of the male satellites, sailed to the next table. Em tried not to see them.

“Did Mr. Story--” The voice of Algeria’s companion was fuzzy and carried badly.

“Yes, dear Howard was _almost_ ill after my last party. I kept him _all_ night and put ice on his poor head. We had been reading some of that new man’s stuff--the _Macauleyflowers_ of prose, you know.” Algeria laughed sweetly.

The satellite humbly mumbled something inaudible.

Em suddenly found herself angry and desponding, unable to keep her poise. She rose and went out. Her pride could not bear that Algeria should be her successor. The night street was still thronged. Em walked along it, through the welter of lights, the noise, the flashings of motor lamps. Reflections on the steel rails of car-tracks made them like thin lines of snail slime up the black avenue. There was no end to anything. Em longed to make herself insensible with noise and light in the crowd to which she was unknown.

4

Em alone. Only Gouvain tried to see her--secretly from Algeria. She had not told Les or Genevieve of her break with Howard. Her tiny room was a cell. Straggly back-yards she could see through her window! Airless walls opposite. One tree, swelling with tight buds, leaned up and scraped her glass. The days were yet cold. She did not even set up her easel. Something in me is going. I must have--I’m too weak! I can’t live in myself.

She went to see Les. She had lost her pride. His smile was good. She was glad she was away from Howard’s rooms.

“Les, I’m living in a hall bedroom on Charles Street.”

He wrote the number in a book.

“Have you---?”

“Yes, Les.”

Cicely was not there, but her clothes hanging in the room still burned and revolted Em. Looking at them she felt physically degraded, yet unable to protest--caught in her own act.

Les sat thinking. The hand of God....

His solid homeliness comforted her. The narrow mouth, set in a stern line of repression, dominating his face. The deep-set eyes and well-lobed ears. Suddenly her heart melted to him. She forgot everything else. His downcast gentleness wrenched at her. He was her mournful child. How Howard would despise such a feeling! Les will let me. I must love something. She felt apologetic of her need to love. Howard had proved it all false. But she couldn’t help it. No use trying to be clear and conscious about life. She wanted something to keep her warm.

“Oh, Les--” She sank to her knees beside his chair and sobbed against him.

He trembled but could not speak. Can I live again? Alone on a sea of glass ... ship-lights at night ... gulls crying in the dark ... screaming spirits ... sunlight on a dead man’s face.... He knew Em was all he cared for, more than his life. But had he strength?

“Remember I’m much older than you, Em.” I can’t go through it again. She raised her face and knew by his eyes that he would have her. Les, Les--“I’m coming to see you, Em, but first I must--”

Cicely!

Em struggled to her feet. She tried to speak to him, but could not. He pressed her hand. She turned and rushed blindly out.

5

Les wished for Carl.

Carl had shared with him. There had been no asking. A golden thread between them. Women. Radiant fiends. Pale as dreams.... Carl was in London but he could touch Carl.

Cicely returned. She threw off her coat happily, dark cheeks glowing, gold-brown eyes smiling.

“Now I’ll get my boy some dinner.”

“Wait, Cicely--”

He told her. The crime of manhood. Cicely lay crumpled on the bed. She tried to blame someone, but was too hurt. Les’s heart ached. I had to--No living thing is merciful. Hands cold as snow.... The garden of death.... Mouth red for kisses, twisted in pain. Divine pity--Tears from a harlot’s eyes! There are no stars to see her die....

When Les had gone Cicely got up and packed her things neatly.

Les went several places before he rang the bell at Em’s number. A scrawny woman with thick spectacles opened the door. There was a rubber plant in the red-carpeted hall. The stairway smelled of stale food. He walked heavily upstairs. Les was tired. He felt the suspicious gaze of the spectacled woman fixed on his back. At Em’s door he knocked. She threw it back and halted breathless, looking at him through blind tears of surprise and relief.

“Les!” Em could only weep convulsively.

“Can your things go? A man is coming for them.”

“Oh, Les, Les--”

“We can have our place at Jane Street back. I’ve been there.”

She huddled to him. How peaceful his voice is! She would come back the next day and settle her account with the landlady. Arm in arm they passed down the stairs and through the ill-smelling house again. Going home together! In the street a tremulous sigh.

“Les, I adore you!”

The Polish janitress was in the hall as they entered the Jane Street house. Em loved the cold clean floors, the shabby familiarity of the place.

“Good evening, Mr. Drane, good evening, Mrs. Drane.” The stout janitress smiled and stood aside for them as in the old days. But she looked at Em cautiously.

“Good evening,” they called back, Em’s voice sweet with happiness.

The fat woman’s eyes followed Les affectionately as he ascended the stairs after Em. All the strange doors on the landings. I never knew who lived here, thought Em. It seemed wonderful to have Les in the horrible cold city world. I’m happy! Oh, I’m so happy!