The Glimpses of the Moon

by Edith Wharton

  VII.

  OF some new ferment at work in him Nick Lansing himself was equallyaware. He was a better judge of the book he was trying to write thaneither Susy or Strefford; he knew its weaknesses, its treacheries,its tendency to slip through his fingers just as he thought his grasptightest; but he knew also that at the very moment when it seemed tohave failed him it would suddenly be back, beating its loud wings in hisface.

  He had no delusions as to its commercial value, and had winced more thanhe triumphed when Susy produced her allusion to Marius. His book was tobe called The Pageant of Alexander. His imagination had been enchantedby the idea of picturing the young conqueror's advance through thefabulous landscapes of Asia: he liked writing descriptions, and vaguelyfelt that under the guise of fiction he could develop his theory ofOriental influences in Western art at the expense of less learning thanif he had tried to put his ideas into an essay. He knew enough of hissubject to know that he did not know enough to write about it; but heconsoled himself by remembering that Wilhelm Meister has survived manyweighty volumes on aesthetics; and between his moments of self-disgusthe took himself at Susy's valuation, and found an unmixed joy in histask.

  Never--no, never!--had he been so boundlessly, so confidently happy. Hishack-work had given him the habit of application, and now habit wore theglow of inspiration. His previous literary ventures had been timid andtentative: if this one was growing and strengthening on his hands, itmust be because the conditions were so different. He was at ease, he wassecure, he was satisfied; and he had also, for the first time since hisearly youth, before his mother's death, the sense of having some one tolook after, some one who was his own particular care, and to whom hewas answerable for himself and his actions, as he had never felt himselfanswerable to the hurried and indifferent people among whom he hadchosen to live.

  Susy had the same standards as these people: she spoke their language,though she understood others, she required their pleasures if she didnot revere their gods. But from the moment that she had become hisproperty he had built up in himself a conception of her answering tosome deep-seated need of veneration. She was his, he had chosen her,she had taken her place in the long line of Lansing women who had beenloved, honoured, and probably deceived, by bygone Lansing men. He didn'tpretend to understand the logic of it; but the fact that she was hiswife gave purpose and continuity to his scattered impulses, and amysterious glow of consecration to his task.

  Once or twice, in the first days of his marriage, he had asked himselfwith a slight shiver what would happen if Susy should begin to borehim. The thing had happened to him with other women as to whom his firstemotions had not differed in intensity from those she inspired. The parthe had played in his previous love-affairs might indeed have been summedup in the memorable line: "I am the hunter and the prey," for he hadinvariably ceased to be the first only to regard himself as the second.This experience had never ceased to cause him the liveliest pain, sincehis sympathy for his pursuer was only less keen than his commiserationfor himself; but as he was always a little sorrier for himself, he hadalways ended by distancing the pursuer.

  All these pre-natal experiences now seemed utterly inapplicable to thenew man he had become. He could not imagine being bored by Susy--ortrying to escape from her if he were. He could not think of her asan enemy, or even as an accomplice, since accomplices are potentialenemies: she was some one with whom, by some unheard-of miracle, joysabove the joys of friendship were to be tasted, but who, even throughthese fleeting ecstasies, remained simply and securely his friend.

  These new feelings did not affect his general attitude toward life: theymerely confirmed his faith in its ultimate "jolliness." Never had hemore thoroughly enjoyed the things he had always enjoyed. A good dinnerhad never been as good to him, a beautiful sunset as beautiful; he stillrejoiced in the fact that he appreciated both with an equal acuity. Hewas as proud as ever of Susy's cleverness and freedom from prejudice:she couldn't be too "modern" for him now that she was his. He shared tothe full her passionate enjoyment of the present, and all her feverisheagerness to make it last. He knew when she was thinking of ways ofextending their golden opportunity, and he secretly thought with her,wondering what new means they could devise. He was thankful that EllieVanderlyn was still absent, and began to hope they might have the palaceto themselves for the remainder of the summer. If they did, he wouldhave time to finish his book, and Susy to lay up a little interest ontheir wedding cheques; and thus their enchanted year might conceivablybe prolonged to two.

  Late as the season was, their presence and Strefford's in Venice hadalready drawn thither several wandering members of their set. It wascharacteristic of these indifferent but agglutinative people that theycould never remain long parted from each other without a dim sense ofuneasiness. Lansing was familiar with the feeling. He had known slighttwinges of it himself, and had often ministered to its qualms in others.It was hardly stronger than the faint gnawing which recalls the tea-hourto one who has lunched well and is sure of dining as abundantly; but itgave a purpose to the purposeless, and helped many hesitating spiritsover the annual difficulty of deciding between Deauville and St. Moritz,Biarritz and Capri.

  Nick was not surprised to learn that it was becoming the fashion, thatsummer, to pop down to Venice and take a look at the Lansings. Streffyhad set the example, and Streffy's example was always followed. And thenSusy's marriage was still a subject of sympathetic speculation. Peopleknew the story of the wedding cheques, and were interested in seeinghow long they could be made to last. It was going to be the thing,that year, to help prolong the honey-moon by pressing houses on theadventurous couple. Before June was over a band of friends were baskingwith the Lansings on the Lido.

  Nick found himself unexpectedly disturbed by their arrival. To avoidcomment and banter he put his book aside and forbade Susy to speakof it, explaining to her that he needed an interval of rest. His wifeinstantly and exaggeratedly adopted this view, guarding him from thetemptation to work as jealously as she had discouraged him from idling;and he was careful not to let her find out that the change in his habitscoincided with his having reached a difficult point in his book. Butthough he was not sorry to stop writing he found himself unexpectedlyoppressed by the weight of his leisure. For the first time communaldawdling had lost its charm for him; not because his fellow dawdlerswere less congenial than of old, but because in the interval he hadknown something so immeasurably better. He had always felt himself to bethe superior of his habitual associates, but now the advantage was toogreat: really, in a sense, it was hardly fair to them.

  He had flattered himself that Susy would share this feeling; but heperceived with annoyance that the arrival of their friends heightenedher animation. It was as if the inward glow which had given her a newbeauty were now refracted upon her by the presence of the very peoplethey had come to Venice to avoid.

  Lansing was vaguely irritated; and when he asked her how she liked beingwith their old crowd again his irritation was increased by her answeringwith a laugh that she only hoped the poor dears didn't see too plainlyhow they bored her. The patent insincerity of the reply was a shock toLansing. He knew that Susy was not really bored, and he understood thatshe had simply guessed his feelings and instinctively adopted them: thathenceforth she was always going to think as he thought. To confirm thisfear he said carelessly: "Oh, all the same, it's rather jolly knockingabout with them again for a bit;" and she answered at once, and withequal conviction: "Yes, isn't it? The old darlings--all the same!"

  A fear of the future again laid its cold touch on Lansing. Susy'sindependence and self-sufficiency had been among her chief attractions;if she were to turn into an echo their delicious duet ran the risk ofbecoming the dullest of monologues. He forgot that five minutes earlierhe had resented her being glad to see their friends, and for a momenthe found himself leaning dizzily over that insoluble riddle of thesentimental life: that to be differed with is exasperating, and to beagreed with monotonous.

  Once more he be
gan to wonder if he were not fundamentally unfitted forthe married state; and was saved from despair only by remembering thatSusy's subjection to his moods was not likely to last. But even thenit never occurred to him to reflect that his apprehensions weresuperfluous, since their tie was avowedly a temporary one. Of thespecial understanding on which their marriage had been based not a traceremained in his thoughts of her; the idea that he or she might everrenounce each other for their mutual good had long since dwindled to theghost of an old joke.

  It was borne in on him, after a week or two of unbroken sociability,that of all his old friends it was the Mortimer Hickses who bored himthe least. The Hickses had left the Ibis for an apartment in a vastdilapidated palace near the Canareggio. They had hired the apartmentfrom a painter (one of their newest discoveries), and they put upphilosophically with the absence of modern conveniences in order tosecure the inestimable advantage of "atmosphere." In this privilegedair they gathered about them their usual mixed company of quietstudious people and noisy exponents of new theories, themselves totallyunconscious of the disparity between their different guests, andbeamingly convinced that at last they were seated at the source ofwisdom.

  In old days Lansing would have got half an hour's amusement, followedby a long evening of boredom, from the sight of Mrs. Hicks, vast andjewelled, seated between a quiet-looking professor of archaeology and alarge-browed composer, or the high priest of a new dance-step, whileMr. Hicks, beaming above his vast white waistcoat, saw to it that thechampagne flowed more abundantly than the talk, and the bright youngsecretaries industriously "kept up" with the dizzy cross-current ofprophecy and erudition. But a change had come over Lansing. Hithertoit was in contrast to his own friends that the Hickses had seemed mostinsufferable; now it was as an escape from these same friends that theyhad become not only sympathetic but even interesting. It was something,after all, to be with people who did not regard Venice simply asaffording exceptional opportunities for bathing and adultery, but whowere reverently if confusedly aware that they were in the presence ofsomething unique and ineffable, and determined to make the utmost oftheir privilege.

  "After all," he said to himself one evening, as his eyes wandered, withsomewhat of a convalescent's simple joy, from one to another of theirlarge confiding faces, "after all, they've got a religion...." Thephrase struck him, in the moment of using it, as indicating a newelement in his own state of mind, and as being, in fact, the key to hisnew feeling about the Hickses. Their muddled ardour for great thingswas related to his own new view of the universe: the people who felt,however dimly, the wonder and weight of life must ever after be nearerto him than those to whom it was estimated solely by one's balance atthe bank. He supposed, on reflexion, that that was what he meant when hethought of the Hickses as having "a religion"....

  A few days later, his well-being was unexpectedly disturbed by thearrival of Fred Gillow. Lansing had always felt a tolerant liking forGillow, a large smiling silent young man with an intense and seriousdesire to miss nothing attainable by one of his fortune and standing.What use he made of his experiences, Lansing, who had always gone intohis own modest adventures rather thoroughly, had never been able toguess; but he had always suspected the prodigal Fred of being no morethan a well-disguised looker-on. Now for the first time he began to viewhim with another eye. The Gillows were, in fact, the one uneasy point inNick's conscience. He and Susy from the first, had talked of them lessthan of any other members of their group: they had tacitly avoided thename from the day on which Susy had come to Lansing's lodgings to saythat Ursula Gillow had asked her to renounce him, till that other day,just before their marriage, when she had met him with the rapturous cry:"Here's our first wedding present! Such a thumping big cheque from Fredand Ursula!"

  Plenty of sympathizing people were ready, Lansing knew, to tell him justwhat had happened in the interval between those two dates; but he hadtaken care not to ask. He had even affected an initiation so completethat the friends who burned to enlighten him were discouraged by his soobviously knowing more than they; and gradually he had worked himselfaround to their view, and had taken it for granted that he really did.

  Now he perceived that he knew nothing at all, and that the "Hullo, oldFred!" with which Susy hailed Gillow's arrival might be either the usualtribal welcome--since they were all "old," and all nicknamed, in theirprivate jargon--or a greeting that concealed inscrutable depths ofcomplicity.

  Susy was visibly glad to see Gillow; but she was glad of everything justthen, and so glad to show her gladness! The fact disarmed her husbandand made him ashamed of his uneasiness. "You ought to have thought thisall out sooner, or else you ought to chuck thinking of it at all,"was the sound but ineffectual advice he gave himself on the day afterGillow's arrival; and immediately set to work to rethink the wholematter.

  Fred Gillow showed no consciousness of disturbing any one's peace ofmind. Day after day he sprawled for hours on the Lido sands, his armsfolded under his head, listening to Streffy's nonsense and watching Susybetween sleepy lids; but he betrayed no desire to see her alone, orto draw her into talk apart from the others. More than ever he seemedcontent to be the gratified spectator of a costly show got up for hisprivate entertainment. It was not until he heard her, one morning,grumble a little at the increasing heat and the menace of mosquitoes,that he said, quite as if they had talked the matter over long before,and finally settled it: "The moor will be ready any time after the firstof August."

  Nick fancied that Susy coloured a little, and drew herself up moredefiantly than usual as she sent a pebble skimming across the dyingripples at their feet.

  "You'll be a lot cooler in Scotland," Fred added, with what, for him,was an unusual effort at explicitness.

  "Oh, shall we?" she retorted gaily; and added with an air of mysteryand importance, pivoting about on her high heels: "Nick's got work to dohere. It will probably keep us all summer."

  "Work? Rot! You'll die of the smells." Gillow stared perplexedly skywardfrom under his tilted hat-brim; and then brought out, as from the depthof a rankling grievance: "I thought it was all understood."

  "Why," Nick asked his wife that night, as they re-entered Ellie's cooldrawing-room after a late dinner at the Lido, "did Gillow think it wasunderstood that we were going to his moor in August?" He was consciousof the oddness of speaking of their friend by his surname, and reddenedat his blunder.

  Susy had let her lace cloak slide to her feet, and stood before himin the faintly-lit room, slim and shimmering-white through blacktransparencies.

  She raised her eyebrows carelessly. "I told you long ago he'd asked usthere for August."

  "You didn't tell me you'd accepted."

  She smiled as if he had said something as simple as Fred. "I acceptedeverything--from everybody!"

  What could he answer? It was the very principle on which their bargainhad been struck. And if he were to say: "Ah, but this is different,because I'm jealous of Gillow," what light would such an answer shed onhis past? The time for being jealous-if so antiquated an attitude wereon any ground defensible-would have been before his marriage, and beforethe acceptance of the bounties which had helped to make it possible. Hewondered a little now that in those days such scruples had not troubledhim. His inconsistency irritated him, and increased his irritationagainst Gillow. "I suppose he thinks he owns us!" he grumbled inwardly.

  He had thrown himself into an armchair, and Susy, advancing across theshining arabesques of the floor, slid down at his feet, pressed herslender length against him, and whispered with lifted face and lipsclose to his: "We needn't ever go anywhere you don't want to." Foronce her submission was sweet, and folding her close he whispered backthrough his kiss: "Not there, then."

  In her response to his embrace he felt the acquiescence of her wholehappy self in whatever future he decided on, if only it gave them enoughof such moments as this; and as they held each other fast in silence hisdoubts and distrust began to seem like a silly injustice.

  "Let us stay here as long as
ever Ellie will let us," he said, as if theshadowy walls and shining floors were a magic boundary drawn about hishappiness.

  She murmured her assent and stood up, stretching her sleepy arm aboveher shoulders. "How dreadfully late it is.... Will you unhook me?... Oh,there's a telegram."

  She picked it up from the table, and tearing it open stared a moment atthe message. "It's from Ellie. She's coming to-morrow."

  She turned to the window and strayed out onto the balcony. Nick followedher with enlacing arm. The canal below them lay in moonless shadow,barred with a few lingering lights. A last snatch of gondola-music camefrom far off, carried upward on a sultry gust.

  "Dear old Ellie. All the same... I wish all this belonged to you andme." Susy sighed.