IV.
Towards seven o'clock the following evening, Maurice loitered about thevestibule of the Conservatorium. In spite of his attempt to timehimself, he had arrived too early, and his predecessor on the programmehad still to play two movements of a sonata by Beethoven.
As he stood there, Madeleine entered by the street-door.
"Is that you?" she asked, in the ironical tone she now habitually usedto him. "You look just as if you were posing for the John in a RubensCrucifixion.--Feel shaky? No? You ought to, you know. One plays all thebetter for it.--Well, good luck to you! I'll hold my thumbs."
He went along the passage to the little green-room, at the heels of hisstring-players. On seeing them go by, it had occurred to him that hemight draw their attention to a passage in the VARIATIONS, with whichhe had not been satisfied at rehearsal that day. But when he caughtthem up, they were so deep in talk that he hesitated to interrupt. The'cellist, a greasy, little fellow with a mop of touzled hair, wasrelating an adventure he had had the night before. His droll way oftelling it was more amusing than the long-winded story, and he himselfwas more tickled by it than was the violinist, a lanky German-Americanboy, with oily black hair and a pimpled face. Throughout, both tunedtheir instruments assiduously, with that air of inattention common tostring-players.
Meanwhile, the sonata by Beethoven ran its course. While thestory-teller still smacked his lips, it came to an end, and theperformer, a tall, Polish girl, with a long, sallow, bird-like neck,round which was wound a piece of black velvet, descended the steps.Behind her was heard the applause of many hands. As this showed no signof ceasing, Schwarz, who had come out of the hall by a lower door, badeher return and bow her thanks. At his words, the girl burst into tears.
"NA, NA, NA!" he said soothingly. "What's all this about? You didexcellently."
She seized his hand and clung to it. The 'cellist ran to fetch water;the other two young men were embarrassed, and looked away.
Here, however, several friends burst into the room, and bore FrauleinPrybowski off. Schwarz gave the signal, the stringplayers picked uptheir instruments, and the little procession, with Maurice at its head,mounted the steps to the platform.
Although before an audience for the first time in his life, Maurice hadnever felt more composed. Passing by the organ, and the empty seats ofthe orchestra, he descended to the front of the platform, where twogrand pianos stood side by side; and, as he went, he noted that thehall was exceptionally well filled. He let down the lid of the piano tothe peg for chambermusic; he lowered the piano-chair, and flicked thekeys with his handkerchief. And Schwarz, sitting by him, to turn thepages of the music, felt so sure of this pupil's coolness that heyawned, and stroked the insides of his trouser-legs.
Maurice was just ready for the start, when the 'cellist, who wasrestless, discovered that the stand which had been placed for him wasinsecure; rising from his scat, he went to fetch another from the backof the platform. In the delay that ensued, Maurice looked round at theaudience. He saw innumerable heads and faces, all turned expectantlytowards him, like lines of globular fruits. His eye rangedindifferently over the occupants of the front seats--strange faces,which told him nothing--until his attention was arrested by a facealmost directly beneath him, in the second row. For the flash of asecond, he thought he knew the person to whom it belonged, andstruggled to recall a name. Then, almost as swiftly, he dismissed theidea. It was, however, a face of that kind which, once seen, is neverforgotten--a frog-like face, with protruding eyes, and the frog'sexpressive leer. Somewhere, not very long ago, this face had beenbefore him, and had stared at him in the same disconcerting manner--butwhere? when? In the few seconds that remained, his brain workedfuriously, sped back in desperate haste over all the likely placeswhere he might have seen it. And a restaurant evolved itself; a tablein a secluded corner; chrysanthemums and their acrid scent; a screen,round which this repulsive face had peered. It had fixed them both,with such malevolence that it had destroyed his pleasure, and he hadpersuaded Louise to go home. His memory was now so alert that he couldrecall the man's two companions as well.
The scene built itself up with inconceivable rapidity. And while he wasstill absorbed by it, Schwarz raised a decisive hand. It was the signalto begin; he obeyed unthinkingly; and was at the bottom of the firstpage before he knew it.
Throughout the whole of the opening movement, he was not rightly awaketo what he was doing. His fingers, like well-drilled soldiers, wentautomatically through their work, neither blundering nor forgetting;but the mind which should have controlled them was unable toconcentrate itself: he heard himself play as though he were listeningto some one else. He was only roused by the burst of applause thatsucceeded the final chords. As he struck the first notes of the ANDANTEWITH VARIATIONS, he nerved himself for an effort; but now, as if itwere the result of his previous inattention, an odd uneasiness besethim; and his beginning to weigh each note as he played it, his fingershesitated and grew less sure. Having failed, through over-care, in therounding of a turn, he resolved to let things go as they would, and histhoughts wander at will. The movements of the trio succeeded oneanother; the VARIATIONS ceased, and were followed by the crisp gaietyof the MINUET. The lights above his head were reflected in the shiningebony of the piano; regularly, every moment or two, he was struck bythe appearance of Schwarz's broad, fat hand, which crossed his range ofvision to turn a leaf; he meditated absently on a sharp uplifting ofthis hand that occurred, as though the master were dissatisfied withthe rhythm--the 'cellist's fault, no doubt: he had been inexact atrehearsal, and, this evening, was too much taken up with his ownwitticisms beforehand, to think about what he had to do. And thus thefour divisions of the trio slipped past, separated by a disturbingnoise of hands, which continued to seem as unreal to Maurice aseverything else. Only as the last notes of the PRESTISSIMO died away,in the disappointing, ineffectual scales in C major, with which thetrio closed--not till then did he grasp that the event to which he hadlooked forward for many weeks was behind him, and also that no onepresent knew less of how it had passed off than he himself.
With his music in his hand, he turned to Schwarz, to learn what successhe had had, from the master's face. According to custom, Schwarz shookhands with him; he also nodded, but he did not smile. He was, however,in a hurry; the old: white-haired director had left his seat, and stoodwaiting to speak to him. Both 'cellist and violinist had vanished onthe instant; the audience, eager as ever at the end of a concert toshake off an imposed restraint, had risen while Maurice still playedthe final notes; and, by this time, the hall was all but empty.
He slowly ascended the platform. Now that it was over, he felt howtired he was; his very legs were tired, as though he had walked formiles. The green-room was deserted; the gas-jet had been screwed downto a peep. None of his friends had come to say a word to him. He hadreally hardly expected it; but, all the same, a hope had lurked in himthat Krafft would perhaps afterwards make some sign--even Madeleine.As, however, neither of them appeared, he seemed to read a confirmationof his failure in their absence, and he loitered for some time in thesemi-darkness, unwilling to face the dispersing crowd. When at lengthhe went down the passage, only a few stragglers remained. One or twoacquaintances congratulated him in due form, but he knew neither wellenough to try to get at the truth. As he was nearing the street-door,however, Dove came out of the BUREAU. He made for Maurice at once; hismanner was eager, his face bore the imprint of interesting news.
"I say, Guest!" he cried, while still some way off. "An oddcoincidence. Young Leumann is to play this very same trio next week. Alittle chap in knickerbockers, you know--pupils of Rendel's. He is saidto have a glorious LEGATO--just the very thing for the VARIATIONS."
"Indeed?" said Maurice with a well-emphasised dryness. His tone nudgedDove's memory.
"By the way, all congratulations, of course," he hastened to add."Never heard you play better. Especially the MENUETTO. Some peoplesitting behind me were reminded of Rubinstein."
"Well, go
od-night, I'm off," said Maurice, and, even as he spoke, heshot away, leaving his companion in some surprise.
Once out of Dove's sight, he took off his hat and passed his hand overhis forehead. Any slender hope he might have had was now crushed; hisplaying had been so little remarkable that even Dove had been on thepoint of overlooking it altogether.
Louise threw herself into his arms. At last! she exulted to herself.But his greeting had not its usual fervour; instead of kissing her, helaid his face against her hair. Instantly, she became uncertain. Shedid not quite know what she had been expecting; perhaps it had beensomething of the old, pleasurable excitement that she had learnt toassociate with an occasion like the present. She put back her head andlooked at him, and her look was a question.
"Yes. At least it's over, thank goodness!" he said in reply.
Not knowing what answer to make to this, she led him to the sofa. Theysat down, and, for a few minutes, neither spoke. Then, he did what onthe way there, he had imagined himself doing: laid his head on her lap,and himself placed her hands on his hair. She passed them backwards andforwards; her sense of having been repulsed, yielded, and she tried tochange the current of his thoughts.
"Did you notice, Maurice, as you came along, how full the air was ofdifferent scents to-night?" she asked as her cool hands went to andfro. "It was like an evening in July. I was at the window trying tomake them out. But the roses were too strong for them; for you see--orrather you have not seen--all the roses I have got for you--yes, justdark red roses. This afternoon I went to the little shop at the corner,and bought all they had. The pretty girl served me--do you remember thepretty girl with the yellow hair, who tried to make friends with youlast summer? You like roses, too, don't you? Though not as much as Ido. They were always my favourite flowers. As a child, I used toimagine what it would be like to gather them for a whole day, withoutstopping. But, like all my wishes then, this had to be postponed, too,till that wonderful future, which was to bring me all I wanted. Therewere only a few bushes where I lived; it was too dry for them. But thesmell of them takes me back--always. I have only to shut my eyes, and Iam full of the old extravagant longings--the childish impatience withtime, which seemed to crawl so slowly ... even to stand still."
"Tell me all about it," he murmured, without raising his head.
She smiled and humoured him.
"I like flowers best for their scents," she went on. "No matter whatbeautiful colours they have. A camelia is a foolish flower; like ablind man's face--the chief thing is wanting. But then, of course, thesmell must remind one of pleasant things. It's strange, isn't it, howmuch association has to do with pleasure?--or pain. Some things affectme so strongly that they make me wretched. There's music I can't listento; I have to put my hands to my ears, and run away from it; and allbecause it takes me back to an unhappy hour, or to a time of my lifethat I hated. There are streets I never walk through, even words Idread to hear anyone say, because they are connected with some one Idisliked, or a day I would rather not have lived. And it is just thesame with smells. Wood smouldering outside!--and all the country roundis smoky with bush fires. Mimosa in the room--and I can feel the sunbeating down on deserted shafts and the stillness of the bush. Rottingleaves and the smell of moist earth, and I am a little girl again, inshort dresses, standing by a grave--my father's to which I was drivenin a high buggy, between two men in black coats. I can't remembercrying at all, or even feeling sorry; I only smelt the earth--it was inthe rainy season and there was water in the grave.--But flowers give memy pleasantest memories. Passion-flowers and periwinkles--you will saythey have no smell, but it's not true. Flat, open passionflowers--redor white--with purplish-fringed centres, have a honey-smell, and makeme think of long, hot, cloudless days, which seemed to have neitherbeginning nor end. And little periwinkles have a cool green smell; forthey grew along an old paling fence, which was shady and sometimes evendamp. And violets? I never really cared for violets; not till ... Imean ... I never ..."
She had entangled herself, and broke off so abruptly that he moved. Hewas afraid this soothing flow of words was going to cease.
"Yes, yes, go on, tell me some more--about violets."
She hastened to recover herself. "They are silly little flowers. Madeto wither in one's dress ... or to be crushed. Unless one could havethem in such masses that they filled the room. But lilac, Maurice,great sprays and bunches of lilac-white and purple--you know, don'tyou, who will always be associated with lilac for me? Do you remembersome of those evenings at the theatre, on the balcony between the acts?The gallery was so hot, and out there it seemed as if the whole townwere steeped in lilac. Or walking home--those glorious nights--whensome one was so silent ... so moody--do you remember?"
At the peculiar veiled tone that had come into her voice; at thisreminder of a past day of alternate rapture and despair, so differentfrom the secured happiness of the present; at the thought of thiscommon memory that had built itself up for them round a flower's scent,a rush of grateful content overcame Maurice, and, for the first timesince entering the room, he looked up at her with a lover's eyes.
Safe, with her arms round him, he was strong enough to face the worst."How good you are to me, dearest! And I don't deserve it. To-night, youmight just have sent me away again, when I came. For I was in adisagreeable mood--and still am. But you won't give me up just yet forall that, will you? However despondent I get about myself? For you areall I have, Louise--in the whole world. Yes, I may as well confess itto you, to-night was a failure--not a noisy, open one but all the same,it's no use calling it anything else."
He had laid his head on her lap again, so did not see her face. Whilehe spoke, Louise looked at him, in a kind of unwilling surprise.Instinctively, she ceased to pass her hands over his hair.
"Oh, no, Maurice," she then protested, but weakly, without conviction.
"Yes--failure," he repeated, and put more emphasis than before on theword. "It's no good beating about the bush.--And do you realise whatit--what failure means for us, Louise?"
"Oh, no," she said again, vaguely trying to ward off what she foresawwas coming. "And why talk about it to-night? You are tired. Things willseem different in the morning. Shut your eyes again, and lie quitestill."
But, the ice once broken, he felt the need of speaking--of speaking outrelentlessly all that was in him. And, as he talked, he found itimpossible to keep still; he paced the room. He was very pale and veryvoluble, and made a clean breast of everything that troubled him; notso much, however, with the idea of confessing it to her, as of easinghis own mind. And now, again, he let her see into his real self, and,unlike the previous occasion, it was here more than a glimpse that shecaught. He was distressingly frank with her. She heard now, for thefirst time, of the foolish ambitions with which he had begun hisstudies in Leipzig; heard of their gradual subsidence, and his humbleacceptance of his inferiority, as well as of his present fear that,when his time came to an end, he would have nothing to show for it--andunder the influence of what had just happened, this fear grew morevivid. It was one thing, he made clear to her, and unpleasant enough atbest, to have to find yourself to rights as a mediocrity, when you hadhoped with all your heart that you were something more. But what if,having staked everything on it, you should discover that you hadmistaken your calling altogether?
"To-night, you see, I think I should have been a better chimney-sweep.The real something that makes the musician--even the genuinely musicaloutsider--is wanting in me. I've learnt to see that, by degrees, thoughI don't know in the least what it is.--But even suppose I weremistaken--who could tell me that I was? One's friends are only too gladto avoid giving a downright opinion, and then, too, which of them wouldone care to trust? I believe in the end I shall go straight to Schwarz,and get him to tell me what he thinks of me--whether I'm making a foolof myself or not."
"Oh, I wouldn't do that," Louise said quickly.
It was the first time she had interrupted him. She had sat and followedhis restless movements with a
look of apprehension. A certain board inthe floor creaked when he trod on it, and she found herself listening,each time, for the creaking of this board. She was sorry for him, butshe could not attach the importance he did to his assumed want ofsuccess, nor was she able to subdue the feeling of distaste with whichhis doubtings inspired her. It was so necessary, too, this outpouring;she had never felt curious about the side of his nature which was notthe lover's side. Tonight, it became clear to her that she would havepreferred to remain in ignorance of it. And besides, what he said wasso palpable, so undeniable, that she could not understand his draggingthe matter to the surface: she had never thought of him but as one ofthe many honest workers, who swell the majority, and are not destinedto rise above the crowd. She had not dreamed of his considering himselfin another light, and it was painful to her now, to find that he haddone so. To put an end to such embarrassing confidences, she went overto him, and, with her hands on his shoulders, her face upturned, saidall the consoling words she could think of, to make him forget. Theyhad never yet failed in their effect. But to-night too much was at workin Maurice, for him to be influenced by them. He kissed her, andtouched her cheek with his hand, then began anew; and she moved away,with a slight impatience, which she did not try to conceal.
"You brood too much, Maurice ... and you exaggerate things, too. Whatif every one took himself so seriously?--and talked of failure becauseon a single occasion he didn't do himself justice?"
"It's more than that with me, dear.--But it's a bad habit, I know--notthat I really mean to take myself too seriously; but all my life I havebeen forced to worry about things, and to turn them over."
"It's unhealthy always to be looking into yourself. Let things go more,and they'll carry you with them."
He took her hands. "What wise-sounding words! And I'm in the wrong, Iknow, as usual. But, in this case, it's impossible not to worry. Whathappened this evening seems a trifle to you, and no doubt would toevery one else, too. But I had made a kind of touchstone of it; it wasto help to decide the future--that hideously uncertain future of ours!I believe now, as far as I'm concerned, I don't care whether I evercome to anything or not. Of course, I should rather have been asuccess--we all would!--but caring for you has swallowed up theridiculous notions I once had. For your sake--it's you I torment myselfabout. WHAT is to become of us?"
"If that's all, Maurice! Something will turn up, I'm sure it will. Havea little patience, and faith in luck ... or fate ... or whatever youlike to call it."
"That's a woman's way of looking at things."
He was conscious of speaking somewhat unkindly; but he was hurt by herlack of sympathy. Instead, however, of smoothing things over, he wasimpelled, by an unconquerable impulse, to disclose himself stillfurther. "Besides, that's not all," he said, and avoided her eyes."There's something else, and I may just as well make a clean breast ofit. It's not only that the future is every bit as shadowy to-night asit has always been: I haven't advanced it by an inch. But I feelto-night that if I could have been what I once hoped to be--no, howshall I put it? You know, dear, from the very beginning there has beensomething wrong, a kind of barrier between us hasn't there? How oftenI've tried to find out what it is! Well, to-night I seem to know. If Iwere not such an out-and-out mediocrity, if I had really been able toachieve something, you would care for me--yes, that's it!--as you can'tpossibly care now. You would have to; you wouldn't be able to helpyourself."
Her first impulsive denial died on her lips; as he continued to speak,she seemed to feel in his words an intention to wound her, or, atleast, to accuse her of want of love. When she spoke, it was in a coolvoice, as though she were on her guard against being touched too deeply.
"That has nothing whatever to do with it," she said. "It's youyourself, Maurice, I care for--not what you can or can't do."
But these words added fuel to his despondency. "Yes, that's just it,"he answered. "For you, I'm in two parts, and one of them means nothingto you. I've felt it, often enough, though I've never spoken of it tillto-night. Only one side of me really matters to you. But if I'd beenable to accomplish what I once intended--to make a name for myself, orsomething of that sort--then it would all have been different. I couldhave forced you to be interested in every single thing I did--not onlyin the me that loves you, but in every jot of my outside life as well."
Louise did not reply: she had a moment of genuine despondency. Thestaunch tenderness she had been resolved to feel for him this evening,collapsed and shrivelled up; for the morbid self-probing in which hewas indulging made her see him with other eyes. What he said belongedto that category of things which are too true to be put into words: whycould not he, like every one else, let them rest, and act as if theydid not exist? It was as clear as day: if he were different, the wholestory of their relations would be different, too. But as he could notchange his nature, what was the use of talking about it, and of turningout to her gaze, traits of mind with which she could not possiblysympathise? Standing, a long white figure, beside the piano, she lether arms hang weakly at her sides. She did not try to reason with himagain, or even to comfort him; she let him go on and on, always in thesame strain, till her nerves suddenly rebelled at the needlessirritation.
"Oh, WHY must you be like this to-night?" she broke in on him. "Why tryto destroy such happiness as we have? Can you never be content?"
From the way in which he seized upon these words, it seemed as if hehad only been waiting for her to say them. "Such happiness as we have!"he repeated. "There!--listen!--you yourself admit it. Admit all I'vebeen saying.--And do you think I can realise that, and be happy? No,I've suffered under it from the first day. Oh, why, loving you as I do,could I not have been different?--more worthy of you. Why couldn't I,too, be one of those favoured mortals ...? Listen to me," he saidlowering his voice, and speaking rapidly. "Let me make anotherconfession. Do you know why to-night is doubly hard to bear? It'sbecause--yes, because I know you must be forced--and not to-night only,but often--to compare me what I am and what I can do--with ... with ...you know who I mean. It's inevitable--the comparison must be thrust onyou every day of your life. But does that, do you think, make it anythe easier for me?"
As the gist of what he was trying to say was borne in upon her, Louisewinced. Her face lost its tired expression, and grew hard. "You arebreaking your word," she said, in a tone she had never before used tohim. "You promised me once, the past should never be mentioned betweenus."
"I'm not blind, Louise," he went on, as though she had not spoken. "Noram I in a mood to-night to make myself any illusions. The remembranceof what he was--he was never doubtful of himself, was he?--mustalways--HAS always stood between us, while I have racked my brains todiscover what it was. To-night it came over me like a flash that it washe--that he ... he spoiled you utterly for anyone else; made itimpossible for you to care for anyone who wasn't made of the same stuffas he was. It would never have occurred to him, would it, to tormentyou and make you suffer for his own failure? For the very good reasonthat he never was a failure. Oh, I haven't the least doubt what a sorryfigure I must cut beside him!"
The unhappy words came out slowly, and seemed to linger in the air.Louise did not break the pause that followed, and by her silence,assented to what he said. She still stood motionless beside the piano.
"Or tell me," Maurice cried abruptly, with a ray of hope; "tell me thetruth about it all, for once. Was it mere exaggeration, or was hereally worth so much more than all the rest of us? Of course he couldplay--I know that--but so can many a fool. But all the other part ofit--his incredible talent, or luck in everything he touched--was itjust report, or was it really something else?--Tell me."
"He was a genius," she answered, very coldly and distinctly; and hervoice warned him once more that he was trespassing on ground to whichhe had no right. But he was too excited to take the warning.
"A genius!" he echoed. "He was a genius! Yes, what did I tell you? Yourvery words imply a comparison as you say them. For I?--what am I? Amiserable bungler, a w
retched dilettant--or have you another word forit? Oh, never mind--don't be afraid to say it!--I'm not sensitivetonight. I can bear to hear your real opinion of me; for it could notpossibly be lower than my own. Let us get at the truth for once, by allmeans!--But what I want to know," he cried a moment later, "is, why oneshould be given so much and the other so little. To one all the talentsand all your love; and the other unhappy wretch remains an outsider hiswhole life long. When you speak in that tone about him, I could wishwith all my heart that he had been no better than I am. It would giveme pleasure to know that he, too, had only been a dabbling amateur--thevictim of a pitiable wish to be what he hadn't the talent for."
He could not face her amazement; he stared at the yellow globe of thelamp till his eyes smarted.
"It no doubt seems despicable to you," he went on, "but I can't helpit. I hate him for the way he was able to absorb you. He's my worstenemy, for he has made it impossible for you--the woman I love--to loveme wholly in return.--Of course, you can't--you WON'T understand.You're only aghast at what you think my littleness. Of all I've gonethrough, you know nothing, and don't want to know. But with him, it wasdifferent; you had no difficulty in understanding him. He had the powerover you. Look!--at this very moment, you are siding, not with me, butwith him. All my struggling and striving counts for nothing.--Oh, if Icould only understand you!" He moved to and fro in his agitation. "Whyis a woman so impossible? Does nothing matter to her but tangiblesuccess? Do care and consideration carry no weight? Even matchedagainst the blackguardly egoism of what you call genius?--Or will youtell me that he considered you? Didn't he treat you from beginning toend like the scoundrel he was?"
She raised hostile eyes. "You have no right to say that," she said in asmall, icy voice, which seemed to put him at an infinite distance fromher. "You are not able to judge him. You didn't know him as ... as Idid."
With the last words a deeper note came into her voice, and this was allMaurice heard. A frenzied fear seized him.
"Louise!" he cried violently. "You care for him still!"
She started, and raised her arms, as if to ward off a blow. "I don't... I don't ... God knows I don't! I hate him--you know I do!" She hadclapped both hands to her face, and held them there. When she looked upagain, she was able to speak as quietly as before. "But do you want tomake me hate you, too? Do you think it gives me a higher opinion ofyou, to hear you talk like that about some one I once cared for? Howcan I find it anything but ungenerous?--Yes, you are right, he WASdifferent--in every way. He didn't know what it meant to be envious ofanyone. He was as different from you as day from night."
Maurice was hurt to the quick. "Now I know your real opinion of me!Till now you have been considerate enough to hide it. But to-night Ihave heard it from your own lips. You despise me!"
"Well, you drove me to say it," she burst out, wounded in her turn. "Ishould never have said it of my own accord--never! Oh, how ungenerousyou are! It's not the first time you've goaded me into sayingsomething, and then turned round on me for it. You seem to enjoyfinding out things you can feel hurt by.--But have I ever complained?Did I not take you just as you were, and love you--yes, love you! Iknew you couldn't be different--that it wasn't your fault if you werefaint-hearted and ... and--But you?--what do you do? You talk as if youworship the ground I walk on: but you can't let me alone. You arealways trying to change me--to make me what you think I ought to be."
Her words came in haste, stumbling one over the other, as it becameplain to her how deeply this grievance, expressed now for the firsttime, had eaten into her soul. "You've never said to yourself, she'swhat she is because it's her nature to be. You want to remake my natureand correct it. You are always believing something is wrong. You knewvery well, long ago, that the best part of me had belonged to some oneelse. You swore it didn't matter. But to-night, because there'sabsolutely nothing else you can cavil at, you drag it up again--inspite of your promises. I have always been frank with you. Do you thankme for it? No, it's been my old fault of giving everything, when itwould have been wiser to keep something back, or at least to pretendto. I might have taken a lesson from you, in parsimonious reserve. Forthere's a part of you, you couldn't give away--not if you lived with aperson for a hundred years."
Of all she said, the last words stung him most.
"Yes, and why?" he cried. "Ask yourself why I You are unjust, as only awoman can be. You say there's a part of me you don't know. If that'strue, what does it mean? It means you don't want to know it. You don'twant it even to exist. You want everything to belong to you. You don'tcare for me well enough to be interested in that side of my life whichhas nothing to do with you. Your love isn't strong enough for that."
"Love!--need we talk about love?" Her face was so unhappy that itseemed to have grown years older. "Love is something quite different.It takes everything just as it is. You have never really loved me.".
"I have never really loved you?"
He repeated the words after her, as if he did not understand them, andwith his right hand grasped the table; the ground seemed to be slippingfrom under his feet. But Louise did not offer to retract what she hadsaid, and Maurice had a moment of bewilderment: there, not three yardsfrom him, sat the woman who was the centre of his life; Louise satthere, and with all appearance of believing it, could cast doubts onhis love for her. At the thought of it, he was exasperated.
"I not love you!"
His voice was rough, had escaped control. "You have only to lift yourfinger, and I'll throw myself from that window on to the pavement."
Louise sat as if turned to stone.
"Don't you hear?" he cried more loudly. "Look up! ... tell me to do it!"
Still she did not move.
"Louise, Louise!" he implored, throwing himself down before her. "Speakto me! Don't you hear me?--Louise!"
"Oh, yes, I hear," she said at last. "I hear how ready you are withpromises you know you will not be asked to keep. But the small,everyday things--those are what you won't do for me."
"Tell me ... tell me what I shall do!"
"All I ask of you is to be happy. And to let me be happy, too."
He stammered promises and entreaties. Never, never again!--if only thisonce she would forgive him; if only she would smile at him, and let thelight come back to her eyes. He had not been responsible for hisactions this evening.
"It was more of a strain than I knew. And after it was over, I had tovent my disappointment somehow; and it was you, poor darling, whosuffered. Forgive me, Louise!--But try, dear, a little to understandwhy it was. Can't you see that I was only like that through fear--yes,fear!--that somehow you might slip from me. I can't help feeling, oneday you will have had enough of me, and will see me for what I reallyam."
He tried to put his arms round her, but she held back: she had nodesire to be reconciled. The sole response she made to his beseechingwords was: "I want to be happy."
"But you shall.--Do you think I live for anything else? Only forgiveme! Remember the happiest hours we have spent together. Come back tome; be mine again! Tell me I am forgiven."
He was in despair; he could not get at her, under her coating ofinsensibility. And since his words had no power to move her, he took tokissing her hands. She left them limply in his; she did not resist him.From this, he drew courage: he began to treat her more inconsiderately,compelling her to bend down to him, making her feel his strength; andhe did not cease his efforts till her head had sunk forward, heavy andsubmissive, on his shoulder.
They were at peace again: and the joys of reconciliation seemed almostworth the price they had paid for them.
Maurice Guest Page 34
