The Golden Vanity

by Isabel Paterson

  Polly touched up her face and rose to go. "Must you?" Mrs. Siddall had a genuine affection for Polly, in spite of her settled disapprobation of Polly's extravagance and her attendant swains.

  Polly made a sulky mouth. "There's no discharge in the war. I accepted the invitation for a week; I thought it was to be a cruise. But the old boy can't travel this year, so they brought him onto the yacht in his wheel chair and we steam up the Sound in the morning and back in the afternoon and anchor for the night. The yacht has to be kept very quiet, so we play bridge in whispers and would like to cut one another's throats. Awfully jolly."

  Again Mrs. Siddall was baffled by a tone, an attitude, so subversive, that reproof could find no point of approach. She preserved her dignity by silence, but her mental disquiet affected her bodily. She was conscious for the first time of age as a process of loss, authority slipping away. She looked to Gina for support and was slightly comforted; there at least was a vindication of her own judgment.

  Gina smiled back at Mrs. Siddall mechanically . . . She thought, Arthur scarcely knows Marion Townley. Marion tries the same tricks on every man she meets; and Arthur isn't interested, didn't even catch her intention; he's talking to Guy Fletcher now. But why has he changed? . . .

  Gina could not recall precisely when the estrangement had begun. Arthur's mannner toward her had not changed—except in the one particular. She had thought nothing of it—for how long? . . . The answer, which did not occur to her, was contained in the fact that she had thought nothing of it.

  Arthur was instantly aware of Gina's oblique concentration on him. For the remainder of the evening, throughout dinner, while Mrs. Perry made conversation with an inconsequence that frustrated all rational rejoinder, Arthur speculated what Gina wanted of him; he felt the tension in the dark, as they sat on the terrace after dinner.

  Mrs. Siddall thought, really, Annabel is too tiresome. All these silly women chattering, running about and making speeches and getting their pictures in the papers, with prominent teeth . . . Mrs. Siddall's reflections were incoherent, and the connection remote; Mrs. Perry had never made a speech in her life, nor had her photograph published even as an indistinguishable smudge in the background of a group of patronesses of this or that. But Mrs. Siddall felt suddenly that there were far too many women in the world, and no men at all. Only committees and mobs. She rose and excused herself brusquely. Arthur gave her his arm to mount the marble stairs, and Gina came to say good night.

  Arthur would have gone down again, for no particular reason except that there was no reason for anything else. Gina said: "Were you—if you're not busy—"

  "Why, no," Arthur's invincible courtesy constrained him. He followed her into their sitting room, one of five immense rooms forming their suite. There were also nurseries reserved for Benjy on the same floor. Arthur sat on the wide window ledge and watched Gina move about nervously, her backless white satin gown rippling around her pretty ankles.

  "Just a moment—it was so hot in town to-day—" Gina said.

  "Very hot," Arthur agreed. There was thunder in the air; the night was thick dark, and a sultry sweetness rose from the garden. He waited . . . She couldn't touch him any more. Strangely, desire troubled him least when he was near Gina, because all his emotional experience was identified with her, and it was over. Even the nights when he couldn't sleep, or when he woke at lonely hours, the knowledge that she was there beyond an unlocked door, that if he asked her she would not refuse, subdued his senses. The expense of spirit in a waste of shame . . . He had schooled himself to be fair to her, to admit the failure must be his. Now it was as if she merely reminded him, by the poise of her head, the downcast eyelids, of someone he had loved. Someone who had never existed. A picture, a fancy. There was nobody else, and he doubted if there ever would be. Not caring was easier, once you had attained it. One couldn't, he thought, go through that twice. He was still young enough to believe in the efficacy of such resolutions.

  Gina returned in a lace negligee, having sent away her maid. Arthur was lighting a cigarette; he said: "May I?" since this was her room, and he no more than a guest.

  "Of course; give me one." But she laid it down immediately. "We haven't seen much of each other lately," she said.

  The few feet of distance between them became absolute. She couldn't mean . . . Would she say it? He had enough unregenerate human nature in him to feel that it was her turn, yet he felt also that to let her speak was a tacit treachery, since it was too late. No, he didn't want her to. Leave it alone. "I suppose I have been in town more than usual," he said quickly. "A lot of editorial conferences—rather futile, I'm afraid."

  "Perhaps it's my fault," Gina said. His manner, polite, attentive and disinterested, struck her with dismay. That was how he had conducted himself toward Marion Townley. "I've been worried about other things—but that doesn't matter."

  "Of course it matters, if you're worried. What is wrong?" He was sincerely insistent, making amends for his ungenerous first thought. They must go on as they were....

  She knew later she had committed a folly in telling him what he asked, but she too was under compulsion to fill the dead space between them with words—She had had a letter from her mother. Soon after his marriage, Arthur had made a settlement on Mrs. Fuller, with reversion to Gina. Five thousand a year. At the time, it was half his own private income, money inherited from his grandfather. It made no material difference to him; Mrs. Siddall had always allowed him much more; but it solved a painful problem for Gina. She could not leave her mother in poverty, and she didn't want her living with them as an unofficial pensioner, another poor relation like Mrs. Perry. Mrs. Fuller had retired to Santa Barbara, where the climate agreed with her health and she was the most important figure in a group of elderly left-over women of sufficient means, who played cards, went to lectures and the movies, and exchanged reminiscences of deceased husbands, absent children and vanished friends. Gina's amazing marriage had left her mother permanently dazed. Once a year she visited Gina and Arthur, a proud but uncomfortable pilgrimage. Once a week she wrote, and Gina answered. The money came through the bank every month.

  Three months ago the remittances had dwindled to a quarter of the accustomed sum. Mrs. Fuller supposed it was a mistake. Her bank made enquiry for her; she was informed that "owing to unprecedented conditions" the income had diminished. She sent the letter to Gina, with a timid bewildered note. What did it mean? Assailed by a frightful suspicion that the gift might somehow have been revoked, Gina spent the day in town pursuing information. Deferential but ambiguous gentlemen assured her that the trust was unaltered, but some of the securities were "frozen."

  "Never mind," Arthur said. "I'll send a check to your mother to-morrow, and I'll ask Mr. Lützen to look into the trust fund. He'll straighten it out." Arthur couldn't imagine any other issue. Certainly Mrs. Siddall had told him that they must cut down expenses, as the estate income was diminished by the depression. He had refrained from buying various rare editions for his library, items he had coveted, which were going cheap. So far as he could see, he had no other expenses. Household bills, club dues, that sort of thing, were paid through an estate account. Of course there was the magazine; Mrs. Siddall had hinted at that; it was hard to decide what to do about it. ... Some time ago Mrs. Siddall had transferred to Arthur a minority interest in the estate corporation; but as it carried no control, he accepted it as a formality. He really never thought about money, unlike most young men in his position. He was neither stingy nor spendthrift; his point of view was very like that of a well-behaved child with a good home and sufficient pocket money. He took it for granted. If money was what Gina wanted, she could have it, he thought, with the high-minded contempt of endowed virtue for the ethics of necessity.

  "Don't worry," he repeated. Gina saw that he was going, and she couldn't hold him. He would stay as long as she furnished a pretext; he would not be rude. But her advantage had slipped from her. Theretofore he had been the one who asked and she who
granted favors.

  She did not even know how to—to make love to him, to win him back. She had never needed to. ...

  There was a light tap on the door. Gina blushed, an involuntary betrayal. "Who is it?" she called sharply.

  It was Benjy's nurse. "Excuse me, perhaps I shouldn't disturb you; I expect it's only that he was so active this afternoon. Benjy has been restless, and he has a slight temperature."

  "You should have told me at once," Gina exclaimed. She hurried to the nursery, while the nurse protested that there had been no delay. Benjy had waked and asked for a drink of water, saying that he was hot.

  The dim glow of a shaded night-light showed Benjy lying flat on his stomach, in blue pyjamas, with one knee drawn up, and a calico doll on the pillow beside him, his favorite toy. "He's asleep again," the nurse whispered, with relief. "I daresay it's only the heat."

  Benjy waked, instantaneously and completely, as a child does. "Hello, daddy, is it morning? Can I go and see my pony?"

  "No, dear, it isn't morning yet." Gina stroked his head. His forehead was cool, and the tender hollow of his neck slightly moist with perspiration. "You shut your eyes," Arthur said, "and it will be morning in a wink." "I didn't fall off, did I?" Benjy asked. He had dreamed he had fallen off, and was not quite old enough to distinguish between dream and reality. "No chance," Arthur said. "You rode like a trooper." "Lucy can have a ride tomorrow," Benjy said. Lucy was the rag doll.

  "Certainly," Arthur stooped for a kiss; and Benjy flung his arms about Arthur's neck and hugged him tight.

  The nurse returned to say she had telephoned to the doctor, as a precaution, though Gina agreed the child did not seem feverish . . . Dr. Haines was out. The nurse had left word for him to call in the morning.

  "I think I'll go down and get the air," Arthur said. "It's the hottest night...."

  He paced the terrace for an indefinite time. He had read books explaining how marriage and divorce should be made easy and painless. When love ceased, there should be an amicable parting. Presumably, under some unspecified anaesthetic, one dissected out from the intricate living tissue of nerves and cells whatever held the imprint of the years spent together. What could be simpler?

  A flicker of summer lightning picked out the night watchman making his round. Arthur leaned on the terrace balustrade. Down there was the lily pool, smothered in darkness. Carp swam in it, sluggish creatures with gasping mouths and dull goggling eyes. They ate and swam about in the circle of their marble tank. Patches of moss or fungus grew on them as they aged. They lived to be very old. They were imported. Generations of them had been fed by hand; when a shadow fell on the water they thrust their snouts to the surface, anticipating food. Arthur disliked them. The sight of them made him queasy. They were invisible now, but they were there, in the dark.

  It was past midnight when he went upstairs again. He might look into the nursery—or perhaps he'd better not; it might rouse Benjy. As he glanced down the hall, Gina was standing at the nursery door. She had her hand on the knob; then she drew back and went away. They had had the same thought.

  She cares about Benjy, Arthur thought. It is more decent to feel kindly toward a woman you once loved. The heat deadened all feeling. He sat by his window until a gust of rain brought coolness from seaward; and sleep took him stealthily. His valet woke him at eight o'clock, to say that Dr. Haines had come to see Benjy.

  Dr. Haines had a good bedside manner, serious and encouraging in just the right measure to indicate to wealthy women that their ailments were important but curable. His lucrative practice had been acquired by social connections as much as professional skill; he had married a rich widow and lived on an impressive scale, with a house near Sutton Place and a summer residence on Long Island.

  As a young man he had worn a Van Dyck beard; at fifty he was clean shaven, with a golfing tan, keeping up with the current model for fashionable physicians.

  The nurse had kept Benjy in bed; he sat up, drowsy and bright-eyed, submitting to the examination with sweet docility. A slight temperature—yes. He had better stay in bed for the day. Children ran a temperature very easily, the doctor reflected; but prognosis was difficult, because they could not describe incipient symptoms. Dr. Haines began to write a prescription for a mild febrifuge, and hesitated. Had Benjy complained of any pain? The nurse said no, he was not a complaining child. He must have bruised his foot yesterday, but he said it didn't hurt. Ah, said Dr. Haines thoughtfully, and got Gina and Arthur out of the room. He remained about ten minutes, having implied that he wished to give the nurse instructions.

  Dr. Haines's gravity was genuine when he left. He did not want to believe the dreadful possibility, but he dared not put it aside. The symptoms were irregular, especially the lameness before any other manifestation. But it was a disease so little understood, and cases varied greatly.

  Dr. Haines said he would return before noon. He did so, and suggested that Benjy should be removed to a hospital. He was so tactful that Gina and Arthur did not immediately apprehend his meaning.

  Poliomyelitis. Dr. Haines was obliged to repeat the word. He would be glad to call a consultant. He would be very glad to find himself mistaken.

  "How could Benjy have got it?" Arthur asked numbly.

  "Nobody knows. The mode of infection, or contagion, has not yet been discovered." A grimly indiscriminating disease, striking the most tenderly nurtured children as readily as the neglected offspring of the slums.

  The discussion was renewed when the consultant arrived; then Mrs. Siddall had to be told. The same phrases were repeated over and over. Quarantine. The resources of science .. . All the time Arthur knew what must be. The worst was when he saw the nurse carrying Benjy down to the ambulance. They wouldn't let him say good-by; it was better not to excite him.

  Dr. Haines offered an encouraging remark. Arthur winced and said: "But even if he lives, he'll be—lame"

  "By no means necessarily. In many cases there is complete recovery."

  You've got to believe that, Arthur thought. As long as possible.

  For the remainder of the day Mrs. Siddall and Arthur and Gina stayed together. They told one another what the doctors had said; Mrs. Siddall played solitaire; and at intervals they telephoned to the hospital. There was no new developments; Benjy was no worse. The evening passed in the same manner, till Mrs. Siddall nodded over her cards. She was flushed and spoke slowly: "We had better not wait for the Senator." Hearing herself, she started from her doze; for a moment she had fancied herself giving a dinner, in Washington, and that her husband was delayed by a debate in the Senate. On Free Silver. Why, that was forty years ago. . . . Arthur persuaded her to go and rest.

  "Are you—going down again?" Gina asked Arthur. She dreaded being alone. "You must try to sleep," he said. "I can't," her eyes were dry, and she twisted her hands together. After awhile he coaxed her to try; he held her hand, and before morning they both slept.

  They went to the hospital mornings and afternoons, but regulations were strict; they weren't allowed in the room with Benjy. The nurse was human and occasionally managed to let them have a glimpse through the door, when Benjy was asleep. They could see the round of his dark head on the pillow. The rest of the time they sat waiting in a separate room. Arthur thought that was an ingenious kind of hell, waiting, with only a wall between. Dr. Haines expressed increasing hope of a wholly favorable outcome; the child had not developed acute symptoms, no delirium or unconsciousness. Some weeks must elapse before the disease ran its course, but he was doing remarkably well. The nurse said Benjy had asked when he could go home. He was a good patient.

  Gina broke down and cried on Arthur's shoulder. He was kind, without bitterness or desire. Presently she said: "You don't love me any more."

  "Of course I love you," he said. She clung to him and he kissed her; his resolution vanished.

  But he did not love her any more. He knew it most certainly after the brief oblivion of pleasure. He thought, perhaps that is of no consequence in ma
rriage. The experience of the race has never found it to be sufficient; it will not endure. It was children made marriage permanent. The rest is habit and the occasional urgency of the blood.

  On the sixth day Benjy died.

  24

  BY A misunderstanding, it was Mrs. Siddall who received the message over the telephone, instead of Arthur. She said: "What? I can't hear you ... I don't believe it!" She had heard clearly enough; but how could Benjy be dead? Though she could not continue to deny it, she would not speak of it afterward; and her silence was respected as an evidence of grief. It was, in fact, a wall built up obstinately to shore her tottering world.

  In his decline, Napoleon continued to give orders for the disposition of regiments which had ceased to exist, because he regarded himself as the image of victory. Deprived of that derivative mode of being, he was nothing. He could not contemplate his own nothingness; that was a logical impossibility. The alternative was to see himself as a little sick fat man, a cuckold, a broken adventurer. His ego preferred the illusion, and strove to maintain it by the most puerile devices. This is the weakness of temporal ambition, the seed of ruin ripening in the fruit of success. The man whose achievement is measured by externals must never entertain a doubt that he commands events; else what is he? Too rudely forced to a reckoning, he may die of chagrin.