The Glimpses of the Moon - Edith Wharton (short novels in english txt) 📗
- Author: Edith Wharton
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might have been spent; and no one had asked her where she had
come from, or why she was alone, or what was the key to the
tragedy written on her shrinking face ….
That was the way of the world they lived in. Nobody questioned,
nobody wondered any more-because nobody had time to remember.
The old risk of prying curiosity, of malicious gossip, was
virtually over: one was left with one’s drama, one’s disaster,
on one’s hands, because there was nobody to stop and notice the
little shrouded object one was carrying. As Susy watched the
two people before her, each so frankly unaffected by her
presence, Violet Melrose so engrossed in her feverish pursuit of
notoriety, Fulmer so plunged in the golden sea of his success,
she felt like a ghost making inaudible and imperceptible appeals
to the grosser senses of the living.
“If I wanted to be alone,” she thought, “I’m alone enough, in
all conscience.” There was a deathly chill in such security.
She turned to Fulmer.
“And Grace?”
He beamed back without sign of embarrassment. “Oh, she’s here,
naturally—we’re in Paris, kids and all. In a pension, where we
can polish up the lingo. But I hardly ever lay eyes on her,
because she’s as deep in music as I am in paint; it was as big a
chance for her as for me, you see, and she’s making the most of
it, fiddling and listening to the fiddlers. Well, it’s a
considerable change from New Hampshire.” He looked at her
dreamily, as if making an intense effort to detach himself from
his dream, and situate her in the fading past. “Remember the
bungalow? And Nick—ah, how’s Nick?” he brought out
triumphantly.
“Oh, yes—darling Nick?” Mrs. Melrose chimed in; and Susy, her
head erect, her cheeks aflame, declared with resonance: “Most
awfully well—splendidly!”
“He’s not here, though?” from Fulmer.
“No. He’s off travelling—cruising.”
Mrs. Melrose’s attention was faintly roused. “With anybody
interesting?”
“No; you wouldn’t know them. People we met ….” She did not
have to continue, for her hostess’s gaze had again strayed.
“And you’ve come for your clothes, I suppose, darling? Don’t
listen to people who say that skirts are to be wider. I’ve
discovered a new woman—a Genius—and she absolutely swathes
you…. Her name’s my secret; but we’ll go to her together.”
Susy rose from her engulphing armchair. “Do you mind if I go up
to my room? I’m rather tired—coming straight through.”
“Of course, dear. I think there are some people coming to
dinner … Mrs. Match will tell you. She has such a memory ….
Fulmer, where on earth are those cartoons of the music-room?”
Their voices pursued Susy upstairs, as, in Mrs. Match’s
perpendicular wake, she mounted to the white-panelled room with
its gay linen hangings and the low bed heaped with more
cushions.
“If we’d come here,” she thought, “everything might have been
different.” And she shuddered at the sumptuous memories of the
Palazzo Vanderlyn, and the great painted bedroom where she had
met her doom.
Mrs. Match, hoping she would find everything, and mentioning
that dinner was not till nine, shut her softly in among her
terrors.
“Find everything?” Susy echoed the phrase. Oh, yes, she would
always find everything: every time the door shut on her now,
and the sound of voices ceased, her memories would be there
waiting for her, every one of them, waiting quietly, patiently,
obstinately, like poor people in a doctor’s office, the people
who are always last to be attended to, but whom nothing will
discourage or drive away, people to whom time is nothing,
fatigue nothing, hunger nothing, other engagements nothing: who
just wait …. Thank heaven, after all, that she had not found
the house empty, if, whenever she returned to her room, she was
to meet her memories there!
It was just a week since Nick had left her. During that week,
crammed with people, questions, packing, explaining, evading,
she had believed that in solitude lay her salvation. Now she
understood that there was nothing she was so unprepared for, so
unfitted for. When, in all her life, had she ever been alone?
And how was she to bear it now, with all these ravening memories
besetting her!
Dinner not till nine? What on earth was she to do till nine
o’clock? She knelt before her boxes, and feverishly began to
unpack.
Gradually, imperceptibly, the subtle influences of her old life
were stealing into her. As she pulled out her tossed and
crumpled dresses she remembered Violet’s emphatic warning:
“Don’t believe the people who tell you that skirts are going to
be wider.” Were hers, perhaps, too wide as it was? She looked
at her limp raiment, piling itself up on bed and sofa, and
understood that, according to Violet’s standards, and that of
all her set, those dresses, which Nick had thought so original
and exquisite, were already commonplace and dowdy, fit only to
be passed on to poor relations or given to one’s maid. And Susy
would have to go on wearing them till they fell to bits-or
else …. Well, or else begin the old life again in some new
form ….
She laughed aloud at the turn of her thoughts. Dresses? How
little they had mattered a few short weeks ago! And now,
perhaps, they would again be one of the foremost considerations
in her life. How could it be otherwise, if she were to return
again to her old dependence on Ellie Vanderlyn, Ursula Gillow,
Violet Melrose? And beyond that, only the Bockheimers and their
kind awaited her ….
A knock on the door—what a relief! It was Mrs. Match again,
with a telegram. To whom had Susy given her new address? With
a throbbing heart she tore open the envelope and read:
“Shall be in Paris Friday for twenty-four hours where can I see
you write Nouveau Luxe.”
Ah, yes—she remembered now: she had written to Strefford! And
this was his answer: he was coming. She dropped into a chair,
and tried to think. What on earth had she said in her letter?
It had been mainly, of course, one of condolence; but now she
remembered having added, in a precipitate postscript: “I can’t
give your message to Nick, for he’s gone off with the Hickses-I
don’t know where, or for how long. It’s all right, of course:
it was in our bargain.”
She had not meant to put in that last phrase; but as she sealed
her letter to Strefford her eye had fallen on Nick’s missive,
which lay beside it. Nothing in her husband’s brief lines had
embittered her as much as the allusion to Strefford. It seemed
to imply that Nick’s own plans were made, that his own future
was secure, and that he could therefore freely and handsomely
take thought for hers, and give her a pointer in the right
direction. Sudden rage had possessed her at the thought: where
she had at first read jealousy she now saw only a cold
providence, and in a blur of tears she had scrawled her
postscript to Strefford. She remembered that she had not even
asked him to keep her secret. Well—after all, what would it
matter if people should already know that Nick had left her?
Their parting could not long remain a mystery, and the fact that
it was known might help her to keep up a presence of
indifference.
“It was in the bargain—in the bargain,” rang through her brain
as she re-read Strefford’s telegram. She understood that he had
snatched the time for this hasty trip solely in the hope of
seeing her, and her eyes filled. The more bitterly she thought
of Nick the more this proof of Strefford’s friendship moved her.
The clock, to her relief, reminded her that it was time to dress
for dinner. She would go down presently, chat with Violet and
Fulmer, and with Violet’s other guests, who would probably be
odd and amusing, and too much out of her world to embarrass her
by awkward questions. She would sit at a softly-lit table,
breathe delicate scents, eat exquisite food (trust Mrs. Match!),
and be gradually drawn again under the spell of her old
associations. Anything, anything but to be alone ….
She dressed with even more than her habitual care, reddened her
lips attentively, brushed the faintest bloom of pink over her
drawn cheeks, and went down—to meet Mrs. Match coming up with a
tray.
“Oh, Madam, I thought you were too tired …. I was bringing it
up to you myself—just a little morsel of chicken.”
Susy, glancing past her, saw, through the open door, that the
lamps were not lit in the drawing-room.
“Oh, no, I’m not tired, thank you. I thought Mrs. Melrose
expected friends at dinner!”
“Friends at dinner-to-night?” Mrs. Match heaved a despairing
sigh. Sometimes, the sigh seemed to say, her mistress put too
great a strain upon her. “Why, Mrs. Melrose and Mr. Fulmer were
engaged to dine in Paris. They left an hour ago. Mrs. Melrose
told me she’d told you,” the housekeeper wailed.
Susy kept her little fixed smile. “I must have misunderstood.
In that case … well, yes, if it’s no trouble, I believe I will
have my tray upstairs. “
Slowly she turned, and followed the housekeeper up into the
dread solitude she had just left.
XIVTHE next day a lot of people turned up unannounced for luncheon.
They were not of the far-fetched and the exotic, in whom Mrs.
Melrose now specialized, but merely commonplace fashionable
people belonging to Susy’s own group, people familiar with the
amusing romance of her penniless marriage, and to whom she had
to explain (though none of them really listened to the
explanation) that Nick was not with her just now but had gone
off cruising … cruising in the AEgean with friends … getting
up material for his book (this detail had occurred to her in the
night).
It was the kind of encounter she had most dreaded; but it
proved, after all, easy enough to go through compared with those
endless hours of turning to and fro, the night before, in the
cage of her lonely room. Anything, anything, but to be
alone ….
Gradually, from the force of habit, she found herself actually
in tune with the talk of the luncheon table, interested in the
references to absent friends, the light allusions to last year’s
loves and quarrels, scandals and absurdities. The women, in
their pale summer dresses, were so graceful, indolent and sure
of themselves, the men so easy and good-humoured! Perhaps,
after all, Susy reflected, it was the world she was meant for,
since the other, the brief Paradise of her dreams, had already
shut its golden doors upon her. And then, as they sat on the
terrace after luncheon, looking across at the yellow tree-tops
of the park, one of the women said something—made just an
allusion—that Susy would have let pass unnoticed in the old
days, but that now filled her with a sudden deep disgust ….
She stood up and wandered away, away from them all through the
fading garden.
Two days later Susy and Strefford sat on the terrace of the
Tuileries above the Seine. She had asked him to meet her there,
with the desire to avoid the crowded halls and drawing-room of
the Nouveau Luxe where, even at that supposedly “dead” season,
people one knew were always drifting to and fro; and they sat on
a bench in the pale sunlight, the discoloured leaves heaped at
their feet, and no one to share their solitude but a lame
working-man and a haggard woman who were lunching
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