Chapter IV: A Point of Time

_“Never, never, I return:
Still for Victory I burn.
Living, thee alone I’ll have:
And when dead I’ll be thy Grave.”_

WILLIAM BLAKE--_(Rossetti MS.)_

1

Em sometimes feared Howard. She wished his detachment were often less complete. His contempt of morality seemed to her a little false. We’re all dependent on each other, she thought, why pretend to ignore it?

His tall frame was grotesque. His aquiline profile, his receding brow--almost beautiful in its clear line--his eyes. They were his most compelling feature: translucent greenish-brown, abstraction and elation, a half-mad look. When he was stirred their focus relaxed. He suggested capacity for abandon, and irresponsibility. His hands were ugly--hopelessly sensitive. He invited one to evoke his emotions, yet one knew he would disdain consequences.

Les’s solid blue eyes.

Howard did not consider her. I consider _him_, she thought.

“Drane is too frank in his worship to make it valuable.” Howard was secretly a little afraid of Les. His effort to despise him showed it. If one _feels_, it’s real though it hurts, Em thought as she watched Howard walking beside her, his angular features, his sweet bitter mouth, curved and hard. But how can he say such things? (“Don’t believe in good taste,” he had once said. “Involves too many modifications of my self-expression.”) Now he continued, taking jerky puffs at a cigarette. “A woman like him would have made him like you.”

Em looked at Howard malignantly.

“You shan’t talk this way.”

“Pooh! He’s a great man. I’ve said nothing against him. I’m speaking of you. Must be terrible to take oneself seriously, though. The most frightful of all decisions is to decide not to decide.” Howard didn’t want to have to respect the feeling between Em and Les. Why doesn’t he give her up? “I can’t live on vicarious excitement myself.”

“He’s an angel,” vowed Em.

“Exactly.” Howard grimaced.

“I hate you.” Tears stood in her eyes.

“Better try him again. He’ll never fail you. But don’t forget that what’s invariable is dead.”

2

Les had said nothing more to Em. They lived as before, except that Em didn’t paint now. On occasion Les and Howard met naturally, modern style. Conversation on safe matters. Em was out a great deal. Les took longer and more frequent walks. When they were together they made each other unhappy. Em protested her theories of reality and denied to herself her feeling of guilt. But she couldn’t talk about Howard. It was Les’s fault. He wouldn’t let her, she told herself.

Morning and Empire State Trust Company. Streets stuffed with people. Les swung rapidly along. Why do I go to work? Two kinds of fools, men and women. I’m both kinds. I can’t be cynical--

One of the lesser bank officers greeted him.

“It’s a fine day, Mr. Drane.”

“Yes, indeed.” Yellow bearded sun ... beams dripping a golden stain ... leaves falling like dark tears ... The difference between a man and a woman is a child. Reefs of clouds....

He was in the high building. Elevators. Crowding employees.

“Mr. Sutton wants to see you, Drane.”

Glass door marked “Vice President,” bald Mr. Sutton, narrow nose deflected, eyes slumbering, “human dynamo.” Les opened the door. He had seen the man twice before.

“Sit down. Your work has shown considerable judgment. We’d like you to run out to Chicago and get the statistical men started off the right foot in the new branch we’ve just acquired--this is confidential as yet--formerly the Dearborn Trust Company. It’ll take you about a month or six weeks. An allowance will be made you for expenses while away.” Mr. Sutton made a note on a silver-bound memorandum calendar. “You’d better start Monday. Let’s see, Friday--take today and Saturday off and that’ll give you three days. Turn your work here over to young Babbitt. Good luck.” The Vice President smiled and held out his hand.

“Gee, I wish I was in your shoes!” Young Babbitt surveyed Les respectfully. “It’s the first step up for you, all right all right.”

3

Boy and girl, they sat in their living-room, Pale gray walls, purple painted floor and black rugs. On the low couch, pillows--red, green, heavy blue, purple, black. The old candlesticks on the mantel were dull. Through an archway Em’s workshop, her pictures, tense erotic colors harshly juxtaposed. Manuscript neat on Les’s desk by a window. The place held the affection of familiarity.

Both were thinking of his coming departure. I wonder if he cares. He won’t talk about it. Les watched the blackness quietly fall. Leopard night put on your mottled cloak. Moon passing along the street of heaven. Good to be together in the dark. Forever and ever.... Em safe.... Tenderness had them both. I can’t lose her. I can’t leave him. Candles burning by their bed in the next room. They could scarcely see each other in the dim light, she like a slender wraith, he formless and motionless. They drew unconsciously closer together.

“Em.” His voice was quiet.

“Yes.”

“I feel that my going--that--”

“Yes, dear.”

“If you could only be--”

“Be you.”

Pain sprang at their throats. They talked on in the night. Something between. Neither thought of Howard. No anger. Both drew away sick.

4

She found Howard pacing up and down his apartment.

“I’m glad you’ve come at last, Em. It’s been two days since you were here.”

“Don’t be silly, Howard. Les is going to Chicago day after tomorrow. I wanted to see something of him.”

“I must wait for my turn.”

Em flushed.

“That’s not very nice, Howard.”

“I don’t bother over niceties, except in art.”

His eyes would not meet hers. Em was elated at his displeasure. She seated herself and studied first one Japanese print on the wall and then the other.

“They’re lovely,” she remarked.

“Yes, I’m sophisticated.” His lips curled. “Superiority of a limited view.”

Em smiled.

“You’re not very good-tempered, are you, sonny?” She leaned back gracefully and clasped her hands behind her head. “You’re a cute child, though,” she added. Howard still paced the room. Em contentedly lighted a cigarette. The energy of the instant was food to her. “Howard--”

“Shut up,” he growled.

Her apparent humility had been the momentary inversion of intense vanity. She stood up, coldly.

“It’s not necessary to be any cruder. I’m going.”

Howard stopped in front of her. Her sudden malignant antagonism fired him. His greenish-brown eyes were sharp and excited. Though his glance touched her long white neck, her defiant head, her breasts rising and falling beneath her smock, he scarcely seemed to see her.

“You’re _not_ going.” He seized her roughly in his arms, crushed her to his body, kissed her mouth and eyes. When Howard was stirred by her, physically or emotionally, she felt that he was wrapped in the experience of himself. Even now she was depressed at being shut out of him while she was the stimulus of his passion. But a sort of morbid pleasure and power came to her as she saw him react to her so intensely, though he disavowed her. She did not resist. He said, “You are going to stay with me tonight.”

5

A bright clear cold morning, dust of the city in the sunlight like fine bronze powder.

Em turned a corner swiftly and almost ran into the arms of Genevieve. Mark and Blanche were with her. Genevieve, no matter how studied the appearance of her dress, invariably gave the impression that she was carelessly groomed. She was fond of dull colors and severe lines, velvets which seemed a little shabby, and fur trimmings that were barbaric without being smart.

“Why, how are you, dear?” She exclaimed in pleased surprise. “We haven’t seen you for a long time. What is the matter? Have you given us up for some new group of our younger intellectuals? Is Les well?”

“He’s in Chicago,” said Em. Her eyes did not meet Genevieve’s.

“In _Chicago_?” exclaimed Blanche. “Well, I like _that_! Why in the world didn’t he let some of his friends know? You’d better look out or he’ll find some other girl out there. I’d never have let him go alone. You know I said to John--” Blanche giggled and began her monologue that no one ever listened to.

“Well, _my_ feelings are hurt.” Genevieve’s frank eyes confirmed her words.

Em hesitated guiltily.

“He had to go suddenly.”

“I know--” Mark paused, his gawky figure drooping. Almost passionately helpless, his aggressive tolerance for others was an unconscious excuse for self-tolerance.

Genevieve was disconcertingly definite.

“Are you going, too?”

Em hesitated again, and answered timidly. She could lie gorgeously, but hated puny and implied falsehoods.

“I--think so.”

“Well, don’t _you_ serve us the same way, dear. Let me know in plenty of time and we’ll give a farewell party. I shan’t know what to think if you don’t.” Genevieve spoke tartly, but her smile and eyes were affectionate.

“How is Stuart?” asked Em. She drew a long breath.

“Terribly depressed. His last story was promptly turned down. He’s trying to get another started. Good-by, dear.” She kissed Em.

Mark tore himself away from Blanche and took Em’s hand. He smiled without speaking, his sensitive mouth trembling slightly.

“Bye-bye, darling,” said Blanche heartily. “You know, Mark, I think that John--” Her monotonous voice floated back as the three passed on.

Em walked slowly in the other direction.

6

_“Dear Les_,

_“I’m going away with Howard. It will be easier to go before you get
back._

_“If you had wanted to talk to me before you left it might have been
different. You’ve never thought of what I’ve wanted, always of what
I ought to want. We’re going to Europe. I can’t bear New York. I
haven’t told anybody about it._

_“I think you can’t understand why I suffer because you can’t share
it. Les, I was never allowed to do things from childhood, not even
little things like to ride or swim. Always things decided for me.
I’ve been trying to give myself to someone ever since I grew up, but
I never found anyone who wanted me--the me that I know. People
always like me at first and then get afraid of me. Even you have been
afraid of me. I don’t think he will. I want to be loved, but for what
I am._

_“Perhaps I don’t know what love is. I guess it’s oneself. I know
you’ve been jealous, when you knew I’d stayed with Howard. I’ve been
jealous of you too, but only of your past and your vagueness about
it. I wouldn’t have cared what you did when you were with me. I
couldn’t be jealous of anything I knew. Then it would be mine._

_“I can’t work. Maybe I can afterwards. I hope you can finish your
novel, too. Oh, Les, I will always love you._

_Em.”_

7

_“Dear Em_,

_“I have been thinking over your letter all night._

_“I don’t feel that Howard Story is really part of things at all. It
is something more than that._

_“Your resentments toward me have been subtly growing since we first
knew each other. I could have lived your life or mine, but not both.
I cannot be alternately loved and despised. I hate the atmosphere
of formless horror that has gradually come to hover over us. You’ve
grown more and more pitiless in wringing reactions from me. One
occasion for hurting me was as good as another. You’ve never had
any compunction in striking the smile from my lips. You have traded
on my potentiality for sacrifice, you have fed my fears for you. You
always found ultimatums easier than kindness. You resent that I’ve
never given you dramatic cause either for loving or punishing me. Yet
you’ve insisted that I be happy as a tribute to you, that I build for
you to tear down. You admit no resources you do not share, Em. Peace
kills you._

_“This isn’t blame or criticism. I’m sure you’re as much of a person
as I. I’m only trying to explain things to myself. It may sound like
a homily, but I can’t help it. I feel that you are in my life. I
can’t get away from the feeling. Don’t ever do the one thing that
is irrevocable, Em--please. Won’t you call on me at any time, for
anything?_

_“I don’t know how long I shall stay in Chicago. I may be here a
couple of months more._

_“Les.”_

8

He went down to the street to mail his letter. The act of walking. The call! Go away. Desert wastes. Vultures wheeling far above me. Tunneled growth. Leaves tingling with life. She not with me. Swamps. Pleading arms of mist ... pain of God.... Of such were the real and excellent reasons for the expeditions that had made his reputation. No. I can’t run from life. Must take myself. A place to lie down. Baby on her breast.... He stopped suddenly. Not anguish of hunger....

“I think my vanity is hurt,” he said.

He must write his novel. When he got back to his room at the hotel, he picked up some manuscript from his desk. Sheets of paper, what about? I remember it was half done. _“Chapter XII. ‘Let me go--let me live,’ she sobbed piteously. He smiled. ‘You think you must be understood. Comprehension has nothing to do with love._’” Damn the fool book! What did I mean? He threw the pages aside. They together. Throbbing ship. Night.... He beat his head with his fists. If he drives her to death I’ll--But what for? It will be too late.

Figures were kind. Long columns, the longer the better, reams, no time to think.

The Chicago manager had been kind.

“Mr. Drane, I’ve written Mr. Sutton how extremely pleased we are with the work you’ve done while with us. I thought it only your due.” The manager paused and scrutinized Les. “I don’t see anything to laugh at, Mr. Drane.”

“That’s why I’m laughing.”

Drink. Make life purely physical. Other women. Whores. The girl at Howard’s party, she loves me. Ladies. Champagne-colored silk and chiffon. Breasts like marble.... No. Oh, Em, Em--

He gave up his passionate assumption of right. Finding relief in his self-contempt. I wanted to draw her to harmony with myself. To subjection. Terrible. She’ll not die now. Merciful God forgive. No God. How could I, how could I--Accept the body but refuse the spirit! A master unknown to me....

Perhaps the romantic never gets hurt enough.