The child had run into one of the downstairs drawing rooms to hide, not from her parents (for neither Leah nor Gideon had had the slightest awareness of her presence—they had been that coldly furious) but from the idea of her parents, and their quietly raised voices, and the air all jagged knives and icicles and protruding nails, and that sour black gagging taste at the back of the mouth; without knowing what she did she ran into the room now called, since its renovation that fall, the Peacock Room (for Leah had had it papered in a sumptuous French silk wallpaper that showed, against an opalescent background, peacocks and egrets and other plumed, graceful birds in a style copied from a twelfth-century Chinese scroll), and threw herself down behind a love seat that faced the empty fireplace. There, she lay for some time, motionless, panting, prickling with unease. She did not know what her parents were quarreling about but she understood very well the light, deft, wounding, vicious nature of their banter, especially Leah’s.
And then, suddenly, two people entered the room, engaged in an equally passionate conversation.
“But I cannot not say such things,” a gentleman said at once.
Germaine did not recognize their voices. They were speaking in an undertone, and were clearly agitated. One of them—it must have been the woman—went to the fireplace to stand, and appeared to be leaning her forehead against the mantel, or against her arm which was stretched along the mantel; the other hesitated a respectful distance away.
“It’s simply that I don’t understand you,” the gentleman said. “That you might ultimately refuse me—that you might even turn away in contempt—I can accept: but that you haven’t the patience, or the kindness, or even the sense of—of humor—to hear me out—”
The woman laughed helplessly. “Ah, but you don’t understand! You don’t understand my circumstances!”
“I must beg your pardon, my dear, but I have made inquiries—discreet inquiries—”
“But no one would tell you, surely!”
“They have told me only that you’re unhappy—that you’re alone now in the world—a young woman of rare courage and character—but one who has suffered—”
“Suffered!” the woman laughed. “Is that what they say? Really?”
“They say that you’ve suffered a great deal, but choose never to speak of yourself.”
“May I ask who this they is?”
There was the briefest hesitation. And then the gentleman said, in an imploring tone: “My dear, I really would rather not say.”
“In that case please don’t. I can’t ask you to betray a confidence.”
“You’re not angry, I hope?”
“Why should I be angry?”
“At my making queries about you, behind your back.”
“Well—!”
“What other course had I, my dear? As a stranger here—knowing that I must necessarily be cautious to whom I speak—for there are, you know, surely you know, a dizzying profusion of plots in this house—plots, calculations, aspirations, dreams—some of them, to my way of thinking, quite mad—as, I say, a stranger here, I was forced to make my way like a sleepwalker. For though I knew from that very first night exactly what my own dreams were, I could not speak my heart, for fear of deeply insulting someone or other—someone who had, let us say, her own plans for me.”
“They want to marry you off?”
“I gather as much. But they seem somewhat confused—they haven’t come to any mutual agreement—and so in the meantime I am relatively free. Except, of course, that I am,” he said lightly, “anything but free.”
The woman made a muffled sound like a sob. “But I’ve asked you not to say such things!”
“My dear, we have so little time, how can you deny me?—deny me, I mean, the only opportunity I may have to express myself? We are so rarely alone together, since you forbid it—”
“I know what’s best,” the woman said in a trembling voice. “Or do I mean—I know what is inevitable.”
“But you won’t have pity on me, not even to the point of—of facing me? Turning to me? No? But surely you know,” he said in a low voice, “how I value you. How I worship you.”
“Please—I will be forced to leave—”
“Surely you know, since that first night?”
“I prefer not to think of that first night. I am overcome with shame and humiliation, thinking of it.”
“But my dear—”
“You injure me terribly, to bring it up!”
“You aren’t being reasonable—”
“You aren’t being reasonable,” the woman said, greatly agitated. “In the guise of being my friend you are persecuting me far more cruelly than my enemies have persecuted me.”
“Enemies! Have you enemies?”
The woman was silent, now pacing on the hearth a few yards away. Germaine could hear her gasping for breath. “. . . I’ve said too much,” she whispered. “I dare not say any more.”
“Surely you haven’t enemies? People who actively wish you harm?”
“I’m afraid I must leave, please excuse me—”
“But you promised me this meeting, and we’ve only now begun—”
“I spoke unwisely. I’m forced now to change my mind.”
“But to be so cruel—cruel not only to me but to yourself! I can see that you’re tortured by something, you do want to turn to me, you do want to speak—isn’t it so? My dear, won’t you have faith in me?”
“This is impossible. No, really, I can’t allow you to say such things under the circumstances.”
“But what are the circumstances? You are a young, unattached woman; you appear to have no responsibilities or obligations to your family, so far as I know; and I,” he said with a startling, bitter laugh, “am an unattached man, no longer young—except in experience.”
“Please don’t mock yourself.”
“But how can I refrain from mocking myself, when it appears that I am, in your eyes, an object of mockery? Too contemptible even to hear out—even to humor.”
“You misunderstand me,” the woman said, weeping. “You—you simply don’t know my circumstances.”
“Then you must explain them to me!”
“Please. I really can’t—I can’t—I can’t bear this,” she said.
She wept, and the gentleman seemed about to approach her, and comfort her; but (and Germaine, cringing behind the love seat, could feel his misery) he dared not. After some minutes of silence, except for the woman’s heartbroken sobbing, he said, “My dear, are you afraid that there is too great a discrepancy between our backgrounds? It’s very difficult for me to express this—I lack fluency, and subtlety—but— Are you concerned that because you are alone in the world, and have no fortune, my people might object to—might object to our—”
The woman’s sobs grew louder. Indeed, the poor thing seemed to lack all control. The gentleman continued to speak, in a voice that veered in pitch, and Germaine had the feeling (though she was by now pressing her fists against her ears, for it was all so embarrassing) that he was summoning all his courage to take the young woman in his arms—yet could not move. The two of them were a short distance away from the fireplace, now, in the far corner of the room.
“—might object to our marriage?”
The woman hissed something unintelligible.
“Ah, have I insulted you?” the gentleman cried in despair. “Simply by uttering the word marriage—? I had hoped it would not sound so despicable on my lips.”
“I can’t bear this!” the woman exclaimed.
There was then a scuffling sound, and a sharp surprised intake of breath, as if the woman had tried to brush past the gentleman; and he had acted upon instinct to prevent her.
Germaine’s little heart was pounding with alarm and embarrassment. If they discovered her—! She was sitting on the floor with her back to the love seat, her knees drawn up tightly to her chin and her eyes shut. She did not, she did not want to hear them; she did not want to hear any of the adults in
their private, secret, passionate conversations. (So much was said, and so much left unsaid. Her father’s frequent absences from home; his expensive automobiles; a letter Leah had received from a girl . . . or was it from a young girl’s mother. . . . Gideon saying to Leah, I don’t make any claim upon you, why should you want, at this point, to make any claim upon me, and Leah saying coldly, you might at least think of the child and of how this is affecting her, and Gideon saying, with an air of genuine surprise, the child?—what child? Have we a child in common, still? And there were the hushed scandalized remarks, the week before, about great-grandmother Elvira and the old man from the flood: the old man who was evidently her “lover.” But to allow the old fool to marry, at her age, and to marry that—that wretch! Hiram said dully. What might this mean about the estate? Will she want her will changed? And Noel saying, How dare you call our mother a fool! You, to call anyone a fool! I don’t say the match is a felicitous one—I don’t, in fact, say that any match is a felicitous one—but if Mother is happy, as she appears to be, marrying for the second time, at the age of—of, dear God, is it nearly 101?—we dare not oppose her. And the old man is, so far as I can judge, perfectly harmless—smiling and amiable and undemanding and— And senile! Hiram cried. His brain must have been soaking in the flood for days!—he simply smiles all the time, as if he knows we have to keep him for the rest of his life. And what if Mother dies first, and the estate falls into his hands, and he dies, and his heirs step forward? What if we are evicted from our home? Displaced by brutes? . . . And, earlier still, there were the low rapid exchanges between Ewan and Leah, about Vernon’s death: Suppose you know perfectly well who killed him, but haven’t any witnesses? Suppose you simply move in to take our revenge? Who would protest? Who would dare protest? But you’ll have to be quick, when you do move. And don’t be any more merciful than they were.)
So much said, and so much unsaid.
Now the woman’s voice lifted bravely. “The circumstances are—the circumstances are simply that I am not worthy of you. And now you know, and must let me go.”
“Not worthy of me!” The gentleman laughed. “How can you say such a thing, when I’ve declared my love for you—when I have practically begged you for the opportunity to declare it? My dear, my dearest, only stand still, and look me in the face—”
“But I can’t! I can’t!” she cried. “I am unworthy.”
“What on earth can you mean?”
“I—I—I’ve been involved with another man,” she said in a wild, choked voice.
For a moment there was silence. Then the gentleman said, evenly, “Why, yes, another man: of course, another man. I am saddened but hardly . . . I must admit, hardly surprised. For you are, after all, an extremely attractive young woman, and it stands to reason that . . . that . . .”
“The relationship was not a happy one,” she murmured.
“Was he . . . Did he . . . Did he take advantage of you?”
“Advantage!” The woman laughed. “Perhaps it was I who took advantage of him!”
“What do you mean? Why do you look at me so strangely?”
“I was the sinner, for I fell in love with a married man,” she said angrily, “I fell in love, and pursued him, mad with love I could not let him alone, until at last—at last—”
“Yes?”
“But I’ve said enough! Already you must feel such contempt for me.”
“My dear, your words wound me, but do I look as if I feel contempt? Please! Don’t turn aside! Do I look as if I feel anything for you other than love?”
“You’re too good— You stand too far above me—”
“Please don’t say such irresponsible things! When you are my wife, when all this is settled and behind us, and you realize the depth of my love, you’ll see how inconsequential these feelings are. Set beside my love for you, my dearest—”
“But I tell you: I am unworthy.”
“But why? Simply because, as an inexperienced young girl, you fell in love unwisely? I suspect you were taken advantage of by this man you mention, this married man—I will not, of course, ask his identity—whether he is a member of this very household, as I am led to believe—I will not inquire, now or in the future—never—you have my word—you must trust me! But I cannot accept your harsh judgment, your condemnation of yourself. If, as an innocent young girl, you fell in love, and were deeply wounded—I can find in my heart only sympathy for you, and a desire to atone for that wretch’s cruelty—”
“He isn’t a wretch!” the woman cried. “He’s a prince! He’s not to be judged by us!”
“Then we must never speak of him again,” the gentleman said slowly.
“Except for the fact,” said the woman, “that I . . . I had a baby by him. A baby out of wedlock. Never acknowledged by its father, though all the world knew.”
Germaine could hear the gentleman’s labored breath.
“I see,” he said quietly. “A baby.”
“A baby, yes. Never acknowledged by its father.”
“And so, and so. . . . You had a baby.”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“And you loved its father. . . .”
“I loved its father. I love him still.”
“A baby. . . .”
“A baby.”
“Then I . . . I . . . Then I must love you both,” the gentleman said, with an effort. “I must love the baby as I love its mother, without censure . . . without judgment. I am, my dear, fully capable of . . . of such a love . . . if only you will test me; if only you won’t turn me away. This has been, as you can see, a considerable shock to me, but . . . but I believe I will recover . . . am already recovering. . . . If only . . . If . . . But I will, you see,” he said, somewhat desperately, “I will love your baby as I love you, if only you give me the chance to prove myself!”
“Ah, but you don’t understand,” the woman whispered. “The baby is dead.”
“Dead—!”
“The baby is dead. And I am lost, and should have been allowed, that night, to drown myself! If only you had let me go—if only you had had mercy on me!”
Suddenly she ran from the room, and the gentleman, stunned, called out after her, “But my dear— My poor darling— What have you said?”
He ran out after her, clumsily, panting.
“My dear— Oh, my dear— Please don’t forsake me—”
GERMAINE, HIDDEN BEHIND the love seat, sat with her eyes shut tight and her fists pressed against her ears. She did not want to hear, she did not want to know.
Deep in her chest, in the lower part of her chest, that odd pulsating ache began, as if it were something that wanted violently to kick into life, to define itself. But she ignored it. She remained motionless, alone now in the room, hearing nothing. Her cheeks were damp with tears but she could not judge—were they tears of sorrow, or of rage? She did not want to be a witness to all that was forced upon her.
The Mirror
Preparing herself for her journey to Winterthur, where she was to sign a very important contract and to acquire a considerable amount of land, Leah studied her glowing reflection in the mirror and was well pleased with it. Her reflection, and her mirror: and even on one of her less triumphant mornings, when she woke confused and unrefreshed from a light, worrisome sleep, her mind already jangling and clattering like a trolley, the chaff of stray bits of quarrels blowing about her head, the mirror gave her back a calm, composed, and frankly—was there any need for modesty?—beautiful image. She turned from side to side, examining herself. Those magnificent eyes . . . the fleshy, full lips . . . the comely nose . . . the heavy red-brown hair, as lustrous now as it had been when she was a girl of sixteen. . . . She wore emerald earrings and a green cashmere suit with a sable collar, which Nightshade had selected for her (for the strange little man delighted in his mistress’s clothes, her innumerable clothes, exactly as if he were a giddy young girl servant—and what did it matter, Leah said sharply to Gideon or Cornelia or Noel or anyone who p
resumed to criticize her, if he was somewhat repulsive, oughtn’t they to look beyond physical appearances?); she slipped a gold bracelet watch, a parting gift from Mr. Tirpitz, around her wrist.
Germaine, she called out, absently, while gazing into the mirror, are you hiding in here?—where are you?
She had thought she’d seen, for a brief moment, the child’s reflection in the mirror, behind her; but when she glanced around no one was there. A pale glowering winter light gave to the furnishings in the room—some of them familiar, some new—an inhospitable look.
Germaine? Are you playing a game with me?
But the child did not appear from behind the bed, or the desk, or the old armoire Leah had had moved upstairs from Violet’s room, and since she rarely played games with anyone, let alone her mother on a busy morning, Leah concluded that she wasn’t in the room: it was quite probable that the new girl, Helen, was still dressing her in the nursery. Perhaps one of the cats had darted beneath the bed.
Though it was a long journey by train to Winterthur, and a December blizzard was predicted, Germaine was to accompany Leah; for Leah would have been uneasy, for reasons she could not have articulated, if the child were left behind. Often, upon impulse, at the oddest times (when Germaine was being bathed, for instance, or when she was already asleep for the night, or when Leah was in the midst of an important telephone call), Leah felt the need, an almost physical need, to seek out her daughter, to hug her and stare into her eyes, to laugh, to kiss her, to ask, in a voice that never betrayed anxiety, What should I do next? What next? Germaine? At such times the child usually hugged her mother, wordlessly, and with a surprising strength; her slender arms could close like steel bands around Leah’s neck, startling and delighting her. The love that passed between them—! But it was more than love, it was the passion of absolute sympathy: absolute identity: as if the same blood coursed through both their bodies, carrying with it the very same thoughts. Naturally the two-year-old never told Leah what to do, or even betrayed much intelligent awareness of Leah’s actual words, but after a few minutes of hugging and kissing and whispering, during which Leah had no idea what she said, it might have been simply baby talk, she would invariably know what strategy to pursue: the idea, the perfectly formed conviction, would rise jubilant in her mind.
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