The Glimpses of the Moon - Edith Wharton (short novels in english txt) 📗
- Author: Edith Wharton
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fog on her own horizon. Suddenly she too felt old—old and
unspeakably tired.
“It’s been nice seeing you, Nelson. But now I must be getting
home.”
He offered no objection, but asked for the bill, resumed his
jaunty air while he scattered largesse among the waiters, and
sauntered out behind her after calling for a taxi.
They drove off in silence. Susy was thinking: “And Clarissa?”
but dared not ask. Vanderlyn lit a cigarette, hummed a dance-tune, and stared out of the window. Suddenly she felt his hand
on hers.
“Susy—do you ever see her?”
“See—Ellie?”
He nodded, without turning toward her.
“Not often … sometimes ….”
“If you do, for God’s sake tell her I’m happy … happy as a
king … tell her you could see for yourself that I was ….”
His voice broke in a little gasp. “I … I’ll be damned if …
if she shall ever be unhappy about me … if I can help it ….”
The cigarette dropped from his fingers, and with a sob he
covered his face.
“Oh, poor Nelson—poor Nelson, ” Susy breathed. While their cab
rattled across the Place du Carrousel, and over the bridge, he
continued to sit beside her with hidden face. At last he pulled
out a scented handkerchief, rubbed his eyes with it, and groped
for another cigarette.
“I’m all right! Tell her that, will you, Susy? There are some
of our old times I don’t suppose I shall ever forget; but they
make me feel kindly to her, and not angry. I didn’t know it
would be so, beforehand—but it is …. And now the thing’s
settled I’m as right as a trivet, and you can tell her so ….
Look here, Susy …” he caught her by the arm as the taxi drew
up at her hotel …. “Tell her I understand, will you? I’d
rather like her to know that …. “
“I’ll tell her, Nelson,” she promised; and climbed the stairs
alone to her dreary room.
Susy’s one fear was that Strefford, when he returned the next
day, should treat their talk of the previous evening as a fit of
“nerves” to be jested away. He might, indeed, resent her
behaviour too deeply to seek to see her at once; but his
easygoing modern attitude toward conduct and convictions made
that improbable. She had an idea that what he had most minded
was her dropping so unceremoniously out of the Embassy Dinner.
But, after all, why should she see him again? She had had
enough of explanations during the last months to have learned
how seldom they explain anything. If the other person did not
understand at the first word, at the first glance even,
subsequent elucidations served only to deepen the obscurity.
And she wanted above all—and especially since her hour with
Nelson Vanderlyn—to keep herself free, aloof, to retain her
hold on her precariously recovered self. She sat down and wrote
to Strefford—and the letter was only a little less painful to
write than the one she had despatched to Nick. It was not that
her own feelings were in any like measure engaged; but because,
as the decision to give up Strefford affirmed itself, she
remembered only his kindness, his forbearance, his good humour,
and all the other qualities she had always liked in him; and
because she felt ashamed of the hesitations which must cause him
so much pain and humiliation. Yes: humiliation chiefly. She
knew that what she had to say would hurt his pride, in whatever
way she framed her renunciation; and her pen wavered, hating its
task. Then she remembered Vanderlyn’s words about his wife:
“There are some of our old times I don’t suppose I shall ever
forget—” and a phrase of Grace Fulmer’s that she had but half
grasped at the time: “You haven’t been married long enough to
understand how trifling such things seem in the balance of one’s
memories.”
Here were two people who had penetrated farther than she into
the labyrinth of the wedded state, and struggled through some of
its thorniest passages; and yet both, one consciously, the other
half-unaware, testified to the mysterious fact which was already
dawning on her: that the influence of a marriage begun in
mutual understanding is too deep not to reassert itself even in
the moment of flight and denial.
“The real reason is that you’re not Nick” was what she would
have said to Strefford if she had dared to set down the bare
truth; and she knew that, whatever she wrote, he was too acute
not to read that into it.
“He’ll think it’s because I’m still in love with Nick … and
perhaps I am. But even if I were, the difference doesn’t seem
to lie there, after all, but deeper, in things we’ve shared that
seem to be meant to outlast love, or to change it into something
different.” If she could have hoped to make Strefford
understand that, the letter would have been easy enough to
write—but she knew just at what point his imagination would
fail, in what obvious and superficial inferences it would rest
“Poor Streff—poor me!” she thought as she sealed the letter.
After she had despatched it a sense of blankness descended on
her. She had succeeded in driving from her mind all vain
hesitations, doubts, returns upon herself: her healthy system
naturally rejected them. But they left a queer emptiness in
which her thoughts rattled about as thoughts might, she
supposed, in the first moments after death—before one got used
to it. To get used to being dead: that seemed to be her
immediate business. And she felt such a novice at it—felt so
horribly alive! How had those others learned to do without
living? Nelson—well, he was still in the throes; and probably
never would understand, or be able to communicate, the lesson
when he had mastered it. But Grace Fulmer—she suddenly
remembered that Grace was in Paris, and set forth to find her.
XXIVNICK LANSING had walked out a long way into the Campagna. His
hours were seldom his own, for both Mr. and Mrs. Hicks were
becoming more and more addicted to sudden and somewhat imperious
demands upon his time; but on this occasion he had simply
slipped away after luncheon, and taking the tram to the Porta
Salaria, had wandered on thence in the direction of the Ponte
Nomentano.
He wanted to get away and think; but now that he had done it the
business proved as unfruitful as everything he had put his hand
to since he had left Venice. Think—think about what? His
future seemed to him a negligible matter since he had received,
two months earlier, the few lines in which Susy had asked him
for her freedom.
The letter had been a shock—though he had fancied himself so
prepared for it—yet it had also, in another sense, been a
relief, since, now that at last circumstances compelled him to
write to her, they also told him what to say. And he had said it
as briefly and simply as possible, telling her that he would put
no obstacle in the way of her release, that he held himself at
her lawyer’s disposal to answer any further communication—and
that he would never forget their days together, or cease to
bless her for them.
That was all. He gave his Roman banker’s address, and waited
for another letter; but none came. Probably the “formalities,”
whatever they were, took longer than he had supposed; and being
in no haste to recover his own liberty, he did not try to learn
the cause of the delay. From that moment, however, he
considered himself virtually free, and ceased, by the same
token, to take any interest in his own future. His life seemed
as flat as a convalescent’s first days after the fever has
dropped.
The only thing he was sure of was that he was not going to
remain in the Hickses’ employ: when they left Rome for Central
Asia he had no intention of accompanying them. The part of Mr.
Buttles’ successor was becoming daily more intolerable to him,
for the very reasons that had probably made it most gratifying
to Mr. Buttles. To be treated by Mr. and Mrs. Hicks as a paid
oracle, a paraded and petted piece of property, was a good deal
more distasteful than he could have imagined any relation with
these kindly people could be. And since their aspirations had
become frankly social he found his task, if easier, yet far less
congenial than during his first months with them. He preferred
patiently explaining to Mrs. Hicks, for the hundredth time, that
Sassanian and Saracenic were not interchangeable terms, to
unravelling for her the genealogies of her titled guests, and
reminding her, when she “seated” her dinner-parties, that Dukes
ranked higher than Princes. No—the job was decidedly
intolerable; and he would have to look out for another means of
earning his living. But that was not what he had really got
away to think about. He knew he should never starve; he had
even begun to believe again in his book. What he wanted to
think of was Susy—or rather, it was Susy that he could not help
thinking of, on whatever train of thought he set out.
Again and again he fancied he had established a truce with the
past: had come to terms—the terms of defeat and failure with
that bright enemy called happiness. And, in truth, he had
reached the point of definitely knowing that he could never
return to the kind of life that he and Susy had embarked on. It
had been the tragedy, of their relation that loving her roused
in him ideals she could never satisfy. He had fallen in love
with her because she was, like himself, amused, unprejudiced and
disenchanted; and he could not go on loving her unless she
ceased to be all these things. From that circle there was no
issue, and in it he desperately revolved.
If he had not heard such persistent rumours of her remarriage
to Lord Altringham he might have tried to see her again; but,
aware of the danger and the hopelessness of a meeting, he was,
on the whole, glad to have a reason for avoiding it. Such, at
least, he honestly supposed to be his state of mind until he
found himself, as on this occasion, free to follow out his
thought to its end. That end, invariably, was Susy; not the
bundle of qualities and defects into which his critical spirit
had tried to sort her out, but the soft blur of identity, of
personality, of eyes, hair, mouth, laugh, tricks of speech and
gesture, that were all so solely and profoundly her own, and yet
so mysteriously independent of what she might do, say, think, in
crucial circumstances. He remembered her once saying to him:
“After all, you were right when you wanted me to be your
mistress,” and the indignant stare of incredulity with which he
had answered her. Yet in these hours it was the palpable image
of her that clung closest, till, as invariably happened, his
vision came full circle, and feeling her on his breast he wanted
her also in his soul.
Well—such all-encompassing loves were the rarest of human
experiences; he smiled at his presumption in wanting no other.
Wearily he turned, and tramped homeward through the winter
twilight ….
At the door of the hotel he ran across the Prince of Teutoburg’s
aide-de-camp. They had not met for some days, and Nick had a
vague feeling that if the Prince’s matrimonial designs took
definite shape he himself was not likely, after all, to be their
chosen exponent. He had surprised, now and then, a certain
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