Chapter I: Image

_“‘That is not said right,’ said the Caterpillar._

_‘Not quite right, I’m afraid,’ said Alice timidly; ‘some of the
words have got altered.’_

_‘It’s wrong from beginning to end,’ said the Caterpillar decidedly,
and there was silence for some minutes.”_

LEWIS CARROLL--_“Alice in Wonderland”_

1

Em and Les were pathetically glad to be together again. Their first night together they had both wept, Les silently and Em hysterically. The remembered rooms, the familiar things about them, well-known and dear surroundings. Les was timid. Em waived sex. I don’t care about our bodies. I’m at home with him. They feel that all is well at last.

They had so much in common! Les was a congenital artist who by the atmosphere of a commercial land had been railroaded into concrete activity. She was a congenital artist who was a rebel. Why should they not comfort each other? Their friends gathered closer around them. Genevieve and Stuart. Dinners together again. Toby and Tit Miller dropped in. Em forgave Tit at first sight.

“Very much good say!” He whirled her about the studio until she was breathless.

“Don’t, Tit!” she begged, dizzy and laughing. His nonsense made her feel all the world simple--no need for defense. What she called reality. He described a sweeping arc with his hat and bowed low to Les, the hat clutched theatrically to his heart. Em loved his boyish relaxation.

Toby helped her to a chair and drew another close to hers. In the penurious surroundings of his big dusty attic he experimented in chemical syntheses, and now he carefully produced from his pockets some tiny vials containing perfumes made by himself, which he solemnly bestowed on Em.

“To enable you to keep your husband’s love,” he said unctuously. Em ignored his language and thanked him effusively. “Don’t I even get a kiss?” he complained sadly. She laughed again and kissed him lightly, jumping up to escape his lingering embrace. She loved him, too. He loves me--even if I don’t let him.

“I’ll make us all some chocolate.” She tripped back and forth gayly, the cups and spoons tinkling pleasantly in her hands. Toby’s damp eyes followed her avidly. Poor Toby! He was boundlessly promiscuous in his search for the _grand amour_ that would be the culmination of his life. Toby was a flower--a flower on a dung-hill. Em loved him for the virtues in him which he himself despised. She smiled affectionately first at him and then at Tit. When the chocolate was ready she went over and kissed Les. They all gathered contentedly around a low table. Candle-light drew them together in its vagueness. “Look out, it’s hot,” she warned solicitously.

Before they could drink, the bell rang. Em ran to the door. It was Mark and Blanche. Blanche burst excitedly into the room, giggling and patting Em and Les, oblivious of them in her own agitation. Her perfect satisfaction with herself was disarming.

“You lovely children, do you know, Mark, that I said to John just the night before Jen told me--” Without stopping for breath she was off on her endless soliloquy. All, in spite of themselves, conspired toward the perfection of her illusions.

Mark shambled in after her. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Gulping violently he kissed Em and seized Les’s hand in a spasmodic quivering grip.

“What’s the use of trying to say anything?” he said, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose shamelessly. Unheeding of Blanche’s unbroken chatter in his ear, he carelessly handed a little package to Em. She untied it and drew out a beautiful Chinese carving.

“Oh, Mark!” she expostulated, “you shouldn’t. You need the money yourself.”

“Money’s no good, you can’t buy anything with it,” he replied quaintly. Mark was utterly irresponsible as regards finances. His rent was overdue and Em’s carving had been bought with the landlord’s money. He told himself that he refused to take life seriously, and his stories concerned themselves with morbid and whimsical conceptions of annihilation, a mixture of decadence and transcendentalism, mirroring his easy yet terrible philosophy. Now, among his friends, he was giving himself simply and completely to the voluptuous feeling of affection without responsibility. “It’s good to see you together again,” he whispered to Em.

More chocolate was set forth and boisterous conversation made the rooms live.

“I have a poem here,” Les drew a paper from his desk, “new style, written to someone unknown to me. I’ll read it to you if you’ll give me your opinions on it.”

“Go on! Sure! Fine! Let’s have it.”

Les read gravely.

_“TO J. V._

_Dickens and Balzac
Were said to have constantly
Mingled their fictions
With their real experiences.
Every one must have known
_Some_ specimen of our mortal dust
So intoxicated
With the thought of his own person
And the sound of his own voice
As never to be able
Even to think the truth
When his own autobiography was in question.
Amiable, harmless, radiant J. V.!
Mayst thou never wake
To the difference between thy real
And thy fondly-imagined self!”_

“A fine thing, but a shade too intellectual,” said Tit oracularly as Les finished.

“I don’t call it a poem,” declared Em brusquely.

“I can’t get it at all,” Blanche admitted blithely.

Toby deigned no comment on an effusion that contained nothing erotic. Mark was lost in rapt self-communion and had heard nothing.

“You’re primarily a painter, Em, and don’t sense the subtleties of words,” argued Tit. “I seldom find myself at fault on such things. The author of that thing is a real artist, but inexperienced. Where did you get it, Les?”

“James’s _Principles of Psychology_, volume one, page 374.”

“Get out!” Tit looked frightened.

Les handed him a book.

“Word for word. The page is turned down.”

Tit involuntarily joined in the laughter.

“Well, this proves what I’ve always maintained, that William James was the artist and Henry the psychologist,” he retorted adroitly with an impish gesture.

They felt happy in each other’s warmth. It was late when the group broke up.

“If Stuart and Jen had only been here it would have been perfect,” gushed Blanche as good-nights were said.

“See you soon,” they each called as they filed down the stairs.

“Aren’t they imperfect dears?” demanded Em as the lower hall-door slammed after them. “And isn’t it lovely to be here together again?”

Les kissed her.

“Yes,” he said.

2

New days of life. Some of them were beautiful. Then the old tentacles feeling their way again. Tiny spun threads of doubt. Em was too careful. Deep in herself she realized this was her last chance with Les, her last chance with life. She had to rebel against the need for hiding her sharp undeviated edges of personality. Life, forcing her to restraint, made her the more unpremeditated. The world was growing dim again. Outside horrible people, living unreally according to conventional types. She tried in vain to work seriously. The promising picture had not precipitated into distinction: at the instant of hope it was gone, some paint upon a canvas. I can’t get it. Maybe it’s because I’m happy again. Am I happy--

Les, the silent Les, began to talk. Something unknown drove him. He was sitting at his desk in the waning afternoon light, his strong nose etched against the curtain behind him, his wide chin emphasized by the dark furrows at either side of his mouth. Em watched him. Her tenderness for him ached in her.

“Em.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Has your picture come out right?”

“Not yet.” She willed hope into her voice.

“I feel--I blame myself--for your not having done more. I sometimes think--I was to blame--for things--” The reason for my failure is that I’m too reasonable. The virtue of a little insanity!

Em went to him and smoothed his hair.

“It will come, Les. It’s all right.” Shadows lay under her eyes and ran down from the bridge of her delicate nose toward the edges of her mouth.

He drew a long breath. Conquering a lifetime secrecy, he fought on.

“My hardness persecuted you till you--” If I can talk I won’t feel this hindrance between us.

She placed her fingers on his lips.

“You’re _not_ hard. I won’t have you abusing yourself. I was the one who--Let’s not talk, Les. Let’s just love each other.” She bent and laid her lips against his forehead. She feared his conscience. “I love you, Les. Don’t you know I love you?”

“I wonder if any woman can love me.” Nobody can love one who arouses contempt, as I do in Em. How had she ever left him if this perfection were not an illusion? Once before it was like this and I believed. He could not bear to risk another awakening.

“Oh, Les--” Pain. Tim was the one who wanted peace now!

He took her hand and held it to his cheek.

“I’m afraid my vanity is too crippled ever to recover, Em.” Howard Story. That Algeria woman. _They_ were what Em went to. The kind of people she--Don’t you see I don’t dare to believe in us?

Em withdrew her hand and seated herself in a chair near the desk. Her sloping shoulders drooped, already she was tired.

“Les, you mustn’t let things grow that were never there. We _must_ be happy now.” She was stubbornly giving.

“I’m very much older than you, Em,” he said irrelevantly. She needs something I couldn’t give, that I’ll never be able to give.

“Bosh! What’s that got to do with _us_? Les, you’re as morbid as--”

“I wonder if it’s the place,” he continued, perplexed. Greenwich Village. We must get away. Then maybe we--“Em, I saved quite a lot while I was alone in Chicago with my salary and expenses, let’s go somewhere together.”

“All right, sir!” She jumped from her chair and flung her arms around him. “Won’t it be dear?” she whispered.

As she released him he lighted a gas lamp and took up his papers.

“I’ve got to finish my blurb on this damned book before dinner.”

“And I’ll make a charcoal sketch for an arrangement I thought of last night.” She walked toward her work-room. “Let’s get Jen and Stuart and go to Manzinetti’s for dinner tonight. The bunch will probably all be there.”

“All right.”

They felt better.

3

Genevieve came often, usually with Stuart. Genevieve was too timidly glad, too conscious of them, did not take enough for granted. Jen is afraid for us--Em and Les had been talking again. Talk about Howard, Algeria, not about Cicely, talk.

Michael had been in, full of talk about an old connoisseur who wanted to adopt him, leave him money, or Ming vases, in his will. Michael had ostentatiously steered away from personal matters. Now Genevieve, exhibiting too much delicacy. Em’s talk with Les had unfitted her to bear Genevieve’s anxiety. Les had explained that he felt he was emotionally lacking. Otherwise Em would not have gone to Howard, he thought. She had thought, I’m too much for him.

Cicely! He loved Cicely because she needed none of his strength. Can I trust myself? Will I ever be what Les wants? If he’ll only wait! If he’ll let me grow old. Les might die. She couldn’t bear that. Better die first. Cicely had disappeared. Gouvain had told her. Les would not speak of it.

Genevieve sat in the studio and chatted almost as loquaciously as Blanche could. If Genevieve would let them see her heart. But she only talked frantically.

“Good-by, dears.” She was going. She kissed Em and held Les’s hand in both hers. Her faithful eyes were worried as she walked slowly downstairs. Is it my fault? Afraid to blame Em, she blamed Les for her doubts. I suppose I’m a damn fool, she said to herself.

As Genevieve’s footsteps died away in the hall Em lighted a cigarette and sat down to think.

“Les, do you love me?” she asked suddenly. Genevieve had said something to disturb her. Something is still wrong between Les and me, what is it?

“Of course I do, Em.”

Em thought and felt incidentally. No amount of devotion could convince her of love. In most ways she accepted from Les a responsibility for her that was absurd, yet she exercised over him a minute psychical tyranny of which he was but half aware.

“That’s a queer way to express it, Les.” I can’t take things as a matter of course.

“What do you mean, dear?” He came to her.

“You only talk about love.” He has no curiosity, she thought bitterly. Just drift--

“There’s no answer to that, Em.” His voice was tired and hurt, the lines in his face deepened. Every emotion dictated. No place to retreat into myself while I’m with her. Strength all for defense--

Em drew away from him.

“Of course not. It’s true. There’s never any answer to the truth. What you want is answers.”

He felt confused and wronged. His suspicion of himself already seemed confirmed. The change of keying was sudden and inevitable, but he could not put his finger on the subtlety beneath it. Crown of thorns. Blood on His gown ... the cross ... sleep flying down ... He should have taken her in his arms and broken her on his heart, but he only talked hopelessly. Fevered striving for recognition. The world cold, Em needed a touch to heal her, and he offered her words.

“Because I act differently you feel that I--”

He pities himself, she thought pitilessly.

“If I only knew you felt at all!”

Les began to walk back and forth.

“I said just before Jen came in that I lacked something, Em.” Les acknowledging inferiority! The sin of being forgiven--Had they both forgotten that they were determined that life together should not be impossible?

Em rose.

“You expend just as much emotion on anybody or anything else as you have for me.”

Les’s eyes darkened, he felt numb. It’s she who shares with anybody. I don’t count. No appreciation of individuality. Invades my personality. Ignores my desire. Achievement ... my novel ... graves lying still ... I wish Carl--Fear of losing her still ruled him.

“I don’t dare now to say what I think any more.” She always lustful for revenge, and I always frightened. Impulses, outgoings--all swallowed up in fear!

They looked at each other baffled. The trip they were to take together away from grief was forgotten.