Chapter V: Love May Go on

_“But ah! you should have seen me when I was sweet seventeen. I was
the very moral of my poor dear mother, and she was a pretty woman,
though I say it that shouldn’t. She had such a splendid mouth of
teeth. It was a sin to bury her in her teeth.”_

SAMUEL BUTLER--_“The Way of All Flesh”_

1

Genevieve, worried and timorous, finally braved the scrawny woman’s spectacles.

“May I see Miss Tyler?”

The woman pointed weirdly upward, Genevieve ascended along the gloomy stairway and knocked softly at the mysterious door. Em opened to her. Genevieve tried not to see the white drawn face and thin arms, the tumbled bed behind Em, paper bags, food. Em hasn’t been out to eat.

“Jen--what--” Em spoke dully but her eyes shone unnaturally.

“Darling, I just came!” Genevieve gathered Em in her arms and held her.

Em attempted to smile, haggard sick smile. Sunshine came through the window behind her. Back yards. Cold walls. Tiny gray-green leaves on the thin tree brushing the window. Em’s handkerchiefs, stockings, hung up to dry.

“Thank you, Jen, but I don’t need anybody.”

Genevieve would not be rebuffed.

“Em, what frightful things have happened in these few days?” Her eyes filled. “You haven’t a cent. You don’t have to tell me. Eating this way. Your friends--I’m--”

“Not at all, Jen, all the frightful things happened before.” I don’t want money. I could go out.

Genevieve’s strong wise eyes in her perplexed little face. She did not dare ask questions, she was baffled. Life horrible--we’ve got to save her--

“Michael has actually taken a job with his connoisseur, as secretary, of course there’s no work attached to it--Blanche and her John are to be married, just think, poor man!--Mark has sold four stories and already spent all the money.” Genevieve pretended that something to interest was needed. She was talking for opportunity. “Tit is in love and has written an awful poem to his Columbine, who’s a pretty little idiot. Who with brains could stand Tit? He never felt anything real in his life--I saw Les a day or two ago, he’s looking rotten.” She glanced keenly at Em for her effect. “Women are terrible creatures, Em, we want the moon. Have you painted any since you came here?” Genevieve paused for breath, her hands still holding Em’s. What must I do? Her own fastidiousness would not let her go further with Em’s futile reticences. I must tell Les.

“No,” said Em vacantly. They blame me. They’re sorry for Les. I have no one.

“You’d smile at the pretty girl who now adorns my walls--magazine cover--I posed for it in a mirror. It does amuse me when I think of my serious art-student days. Life grinds us--”

Genevieve talked on industriously, believing that she was doing good. She said nothing of her own worry, of Stuart’s terrible depression. Her shallow cynical snapshots were the same they had always been, her beautiful feeling was unchanged, but Em read into it that the last approval had been removed. They’ve gone back on me. Les is right. I’m unfitted for human life. I’m alone.

Genevieve went away, miserable. Her warm kiss left Em cold. Enmity. Les is theirs. Being an idealist saves lots of trouble! In America a lack of sentimentality is more embarrassing than a lack of money. But Em was still uncontaminated. I’ll be myself! She dressed with trembling fingers and went out. She forgot her hollow cheeks, her almost emaciated form, forgot that she looked ill and piteous. It was growing dusk. She had no plan. She almost ran along the streets. She did not know where she was. Men looked at her. She had visions of men devouring her with their eyes. She was naked in their arms. Mitra! In the middle of the Square she met him. She was oblivious to the people about them.

He smiled coldly, a smile for himself. His hardness was something precious to her. She needed his simplicity of selfishness. At least he wants my body. She stood looking boldly into his opaque eyes, she opened and shut her mouth.

“Speak!” he commanded shortly.

“Mitra, do you want to love me? Take me.”

His abysmal vanity had waited. His immobile eyes were like black beads. There was no move, no gesture. He almost whispered.

“Little red snake, you ought to be killed. If your naked body knelt before me I would not touch it.” He moved slowly away, his face unchanged.

Em wanted to laugh hysterically. Not even a harlot without pay. She walked unsteadily back to her room. Some place to hide. Away from the Village--away from all the world!

When she went in, Les was there. His responsibility for her would not die. He wanted nothing else. He could not keep away. His conscience dragged him back. His glance was troubled. Her eyes.... He took her in his arms. She was cold and trembling. Her eyes stared and her mouth was loose. They both felt an unspoken horror of the poverty-stricken little room. Les blamed himself for her being there.

“Em, we have nobody but us.” He held her tenderly. “Em, let’s be good to each other--won’t you? Em--” He sobbed once as her cold face touched his. “Em--I--let’s not expect too much--Em--let’s--” He could not say anything more. He refuses to resent, she thought with vague surprise. She scarcely had heard his words. He helped her to remove her coat and hat. The room was cold, he lighted a little kerosene stove and sat down, pulling her to his knees. “Won’t you come back, Em? Oh, Em--” He leaned against her and cried as a punished child cries.

She tried to speak. Why don’t I say anything?

“All right,” she answered at last. Her voice sounded far off. She could not realize she had said it. Life was too dim.

“Shall we go now?” he asked gently. He was careful. He knew no one had ever forced Em.

“Don’t make me do anything. Don’t make me go now. Don’t--” I can’t see. I must think, I must think. Who is taking me now? Men--He pities me. I can’t be pitied.

The scrawny woman was moving warningly in the hall outside. Les rose and put on his big overcoat.

“When, Em?” He kissed her soothingly. She stared at him blankly. I am blind. Is he here? Who wants me? “Shall I come in the morning?” His voice is so kind! Am I sick? “Shall I come in the morning?” he repeated.

“No, not then. No, not then.” What does he want? I can’t do anything.

“When, Em?” he insisted, his arm around her. The light from the oil-stove, like a dancing flower on the wall behind her, annoyed him. It was all unreal to him, too, but he ignored the feeling.

“Some time. I don’t know.” Are we dead? Why is it all dark?

“Tomorrow night, then?” His experience misled him, he should have carried her away.

“All right.” Em was numb.

“We’ll go to dinner together.” He was kind. Hope would cure her.

Why is he always the same? She was perplexed. No, I want him to be that way. What does it mean? Les kissed her again and went out. I can’t think. She lay down on the bed, her clothes on. I can’t think. What is the matter? I’m tired.

2

Les set out from Jane Street after breakfast, peddling hack-work, timely stuff, special articles, feature stories, human interest, captions, bunk. Why? Was there still courage? There was no success! Yawning girls, irritable editors, insulting advertising managers. He went back to the studio. Crushed and discouraged. The fat Polish janitress handed him a cablegram.

_“Mlle. E. Tyler.”_

“Bad news it is not?” the janitress said, eyeing the envelope fearfully.

Les opened it. Part of the words started out at him.

_“Vos peintures--honneur--grand prix--mes compliments--Lepelletier.”_

“No, it’s good news!” exclaimed Les joyfully. “Mrs. Drane has just had some great luck.”

“I will be glad for you,” replied the woman shyly. She was, however, already condemning Em for her absence.

Les ran up the stairs and threw down his portfolio, then descended with all his speed to the street again and started happily for Em’s place. I must write Carl about it--and we’ll get Jen and Stuart and the whole bunch and have a big blowout tonight. Em is--Now she can paint. I can write.... It began to drizzle. I won’t believe it’s over. Something outside us will save us. It’s all right now. The rain increased. Golden liquor of rain ... wind dallying with the mists.... We are safe. The trees guard the streets.... We’ll go away now, and work at last. Our star has bowed.... He felt delirious--happy delirium. Happy. We haven’t been happy in so long. We must!

Something in Les made him whistle gayly as he strode quickly along.

3

Em was in her hall bedroom. The sunlight made a golden pool on the faded carpet. She looked out into the back yard. The lonely tree, young leaves prematurely blackening and shriveling, half-washed clothes hanging to dry.

She rose and rearranged her dress neatly, brushed out her hair. I will think now. The Village--Howard--Algeria--Mitra--who--

Les. She knew she was a victim of his sacrifice. I destroy him. She laughed. That is life. Eat and grow fat! I’m so sorry for people.

Les. Meaningless acceptance. The land of reticence. A receiver of the dead! Oh, I can’t be invisible with them before me! I must live or kill life! The fear of fear. Iron hand, I’m choking--I must die. Then I won’t worry him--or anybody. I’ll be tranquil and sure, like him.

I don’t know whether I’m crazy or not, something hurts me so, round and round! My work is gone forever--gone--Oh, don’t everybody go away from me! Anything, that is like love! Silver gong--ring!--ring!--Em was in the power of the unknown.

Les’s secret peace. She was sure that when it was over she could rest. She felt she could not leave the room until it was done. Something kept her from putting it into words. She sat down to think it out. Trying to think--A belated fly buzzed feebly behind the curtain. The clock annoyed her with its irrelevance. Noises from the street bothered her. She tried to make herself unconscious of them.

I must think. She sat rigid, her knees drawn together in a narrow posture, her hands clenched, her white knuckles peering at her like white eyes. She was ashamed that she could not live. She stared dizzily, her eyes wide, the pupils unseeing, then her unsteady gaze came back. I’m not going to die. She tried to convince herself, looking dumbly at her strained hands, only half perceiving them.

Her breath stopped as the memory of the night she left Les came again. The thought of death was so much easier than the thought of that night. Her cheeks were gray under their splashes of rouge. Hatred leaped to her head. Her hands were tortured. She swerved like one who is struck. Her body jerked involuntarily. Light life! Lives of--what? Bohemian death. She rose and turned on the gas and flung herself on the narrow bed.

There was a gentle hissing sound. The indefinable smell of the close room mingled with the smell of the gas. It did not penetrate her understanding. She imagined she was shrinking up. She loved death and she was afraid of it. I am dead. I could endure no more. Her senses became unbearably acute. Every thread in the curtains was intense. She moved slightly. It seemed as though Les had touched her. She spoke tenderly as if they were alone.

“Les--Les--”

Iron hands again on her breasts. She whimpered, little inarticulate sounds in her throat. She hated herself for dying.

Her cramped hands unclenched, they were flushed and the nails were blue. A gentle color had come back to her cheeks and her eyes were clear, beautiful violet rings under them, tiny freckles over the bridge of her delicate nose. Her pale lips drooped apart wistfully, a bar of sunshine leaped between the curtains and trembled on her white teeth. The power of violence made her beautiful.

An hour later a knock on the door and Les’s jubilant voice.

“Em! Em!”

4

At San Francisco Les found a tramp clearing for Suva.

The ship goes out.

Clotted sky ... night closing eyes of the sun with soft fingers ... fold giant wings ... buoy ... bells of death ... dead bury their dead ... fame!... art is dead ... a wordless Book ... moon pour balm from your pale cup....

_“... white memory
Of a tropic sea,
How softly it comes up
Like an ungathered lily.”_

Morning. Above, gay clouds. Chariots of the air ... the unknown isles ... a kind place ... hills of amethyst ... more life, more life ... the palimpsest ... cool medicine of the ideal ... arms of peace ... moons like breasts ... the finger-tips of the holy Spirit ... I don’t need Carl....

This was his reward.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

- In section III-V-2 there are a few lines of verse with strange
hyphenization. They have been maintained.

- New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.

- Some clear typographical and spelling errors have been corrected.

- The table of contents was tweaked from the original for this
edition to include a list of the sections in each chapter

- Text between _underscores_ represents italics.