The Wide House

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  The great and exquisite parlor was warm and soft with lamplight. A fire crackled and roared on the marble hearth. On the pianoforte stood a crystal vase of hot-house roses. Roses were everywhere, from Stuart’s precious conservatory. Robbie glanced about him approvingly. Everything was so tasteful. As always, when he entered this house, his respect for Stuart increased surprisingly.

  Stuart insisted on being present at Laurie’s lessons. He sat down and took his daughter on his knee. She nestled her head against his chest, and lay weakly in his arms. Sometimes she glanced up at him with shy and shining adoration. Marvina seated herself with the unconscious grace of an actress, her lustrous blue velvet draping itself perfectly along the lines of her thighs and legs, her white neck gleaming in the lamplight. Her usual lovely and empty smile was already graciously fixed on her face. Robbie sat neatly and stiffly in his chair of pale French satin, and prepared for an hour of complete boredom. He did not understand music. He did not care for it. But he turned his face politely and expectantly towards Laurie, who stood by the pianoforte while the vapid Mr. Berry played a few flowery chords. All about them bloomed the lamps, brightening the delicate colors of furniture, draperies and carpets, touching pale carved wood with fingers of soft light, mingling with the rosy lances of the fire.

  Laurie had not yet begun to sing. Robbie glanced about him. Stuart’s face was haggard and somber, and abstracted. He played slowly with a lock of his child’s dark hair, and caressed her cheek with absent fingers. Her little legs were flaccid against the buff pantaloons that covered his fine good legs. His rings glimmered on the fingers of his big hands. It had been a hard year for him, reflected Robbie, with some involuntary sympathy. And the bad year was not yet up. He, Robbie, knew a great deal, from his mother’s malignant remarks. The “panic” had done Stuart no good at all, and would do him still more mischief if he were not careful. Doubtless, he was thinking of it. There were deep and irascible clefts about his gloomy mouth. His eyes were sunken and heavy. He was a rash and foolish man, Robbie’s reflections continued, and a turbulent one. But there was something about him—

  Mr. Berry turned dramatically from the piano to the audience. “Schubert’s Who is Sylvia!” he announced. “Miss Laurie has been practicing this for some time, and now she will give us an elegant rendering, for your pleasure!”

  Robbie saw an irrepressible smile touch Laurie’s lips. The minx stood beside her teacher, tall and composed and so damnably assured! Robbie was amused. There was an air of calm detachment about Laurie, too mature for her age.

  Then her mouth opened, and from its rosy cavern came her voice, pure and effortless, full of sweet strength and melancholy. Now her detachment was gone. Her whole body became part of her voice, and it seemed to vibrate. Everything about her, now, was alive and rapturous, intense and vehement with ardor. She had forgotten those who listened. She flung back her head; her face was lighted and ecstatic, strong with passion. Her hair fell down her back; her young breast arched. She lifted her hands, and they remained before her, lifted, palms upward, as if pleading. She was a woman, no longer a girl. Slowly her head turned, as if drawn by an irresistible wild attraction, and she looked at Stuart, her voice pouring from her like a golden stream.

  And Stuart looked at her in return. His slowly moving hand faltered, then lay passively on his child’s shoulder. Across the width of the lighted room his eyes met Laurie’s. And now there was a tenseness about him, though he had not moved, and for all his quietness.

  Robbie had heard Laurie sing at a distance in his own home, but he had not been interested, or even fully aware. His precise and orderly heart, so carefully free of emotion, had never been touched by music, for he lacked the organs to perceive so purely instinctual and emotionally noble an art. But now his cool senses were most enormously disturbed, and he felt the presence of an overwhelming passion and exaltation and terror in Laurie’s overwhelming voice and her living young face.

  He thought to himself: The money has not been wasted, then. She can really sing. But the thought was mechanical. There was something else in this room beyond a glorious voice, perfect and rounded and heroic though it was. There was something abandoned and more than a little terrible, something beyond reason, something which could overwhelm reason in one fiery flood, and demolish it, and set its little meaningless fragments to floating and rolling like jetsam on a roaring sea.

  He looked at Laurie, as if the meaning of all this might be in her. He saw that her face was white and passionate, her blue eyes distended. He saw that she looked only at Stuart. Slowly, Robbie turned to his host. He saw the still hand on Mary Rose’s dark hair. He could not see Stuart’s profile, for it was turned away from him. But he sensed Stuart’s passion which answered that in Laurie’s face and in her voice.

  Robbie frowned. Why, the minx was hardly fourteen! Fourteen in four weeks. He wondered, for an instant, why he remembered that. He had not even been aware of her age before. But this was not a child who stood there singing. It was a woman, unashamed, crying out, pleading, humbling herself, reaching out in an enormous hunger and rapture that would not be denied.

  Robbie’s contemplative frown deepened. He compressed his lips. It was all nonsense, of course. Would the damn song never end? He looked at Marvina, who was still smiling emptily, and nodding her head in pleased graciousness in time to Laurie’s singing. She was fluttering a perfumed handkerchief before her lips. Her slipper tapped, under the flowing blue velvet of her gown.

  When Robbie saw Marvina like this, he cursed himself for a fool, an idiot. And then Laurie was no longer singing. She was smiling down at Mr. Berry, who, with a judicious inclination of his head, was criticizing her effort. “A slight strain on the high notes—here,” he said, striking a few loud notes. “A slight weakening at this passage, where it should be full.” He commanded Laurie to repeat the criticized passages. She did so, out of context.

  But now there was nothing wrong with the atmosphere of the room. It was all casual again, and ordinary. The repeated notes bored Robbie. He drew out his kerchief and wiped hands whose palms were ridiculously moist.

  Stuart’s hand had begun to play with little Mary Rose’s locks again. He appeared suddenly exhausted. There was a weak and relaxed look about his long legs. He smiled down at his child; he was very pale. He murmured something to the little girl, and she nestled closer to him. Marvina yawned, caught herself, smiled about her vaguely and politely as if apologizing. Mr. Berry was pointing out a passage very irritably and severely to Laurie, and she was bending obediently over him. One heavy strand of her yellow hair fell across her attentive face. She warbled a few notes, nodding her head. It had become very dull and tiresome in the room. Robbie caught himself yawning.

  Mr. Berry was giving Laurie instructions now, about her next practice. She nodded her head thoughtfully. Robbie glanced with boredom about the room again. He looked furtively at his watch. Through the half-drawn draperies he saw that it had begun to snow. Dark swirling flakes rushed against the polished windows. The fire crackled loudly, swept up the chimney touched with orange as it was caught by a heavy wind. Now, to Robbie, the room, the whole house, seemed empty for all its brightness and beauty, and a little cold. He wanted to go home.

  And then he knew that he must talk to Stuart. He had contemplated this before, but had forgotten it in the ridiculous confusion of his thoughts. Stuart was talking quite loudly to Mary Rose, who was giggling. He hugged her to him, and the child shrieked, with delight. Marvina yawned again. Mr. Berry was closing the lid over the keys. He swung around to Stuart. “Did you enjoy the song, Mr. Coleman?” he asked smugly.

  Stuart started. He looked over Mary Rose’s head. “Eh? Oh, yes. Very much indeed. Laurie is coming along, eh?”

  Mr. Berry paused portentously. He pursed up Iris lips. His black beard stuck out from his chin impressively. He contemplated the ceiling, screwing up his eyes. “She is improving, yes. She is growing, yes. But she will need much more before she can be accepted in our N
ew York school. I suggest about a year more of close application. Yes, indeed. Very close application. No frivolity. No carelessness. A serious dedication, which is hard to find in the young. A religious dedication, Mr. Coleman. A thoughtfulness. A determination. But I think Miss Laurie has all these,” he added hastily.

  He then informed Laurie that he would have the pleasure of hearing her practice on Tuesday. (The practicing went on during the week. On Sundays Stuart and his family were regaled by the results.) A maid entered with a tea-tray, and the firelight glanced rosily on the silver. Marvina, all gracefulness and amiable twitters, seated herself before the tray and began to pour tea and dispense little slices of bread-and-butter and small cakes. All sat near her, about the fire. Stuart seemed to have forgotten everyone but his daughter. She perched on his knee. He would fold a slice of bread neatly and urge her to eat. At first she would refuse, gazing at her father pleadingly, but at his gentle insistence she would eat obediently, to please him. But her appetite was meager.

  Mr. Berry had embarked enthusiastically upon the subject of operas he had heard in Berlin and Paris and London. As he talked, he waved the hand that held a little cake, and distributed crumbs copiously over the rug and himself. Stuart listened with real attention, now that the subject was a personal one with him, Marvina chattered amiably to Laurie, and the girl answered politely. Sometimes she would regard Marvina long and seriously, her fair brows knitted as if she had grave thoughts. She was young again, hardly more than a child, eating with pleasure, tossing back her streams of golden hair. Robbie drank tea, which he hated, and dispassionately disposed of cakes.

  “Yes, it is definitely Wagnerian, that voice,” Mr. Berry confided to Stuart. “Definitely Wagnerian. I can just hear Miss Laurie in Lohengrin! The lovely Elsa! She has a natural presence for the role. She will need no wig. The hair is perfect. She will have the stature, sir. Yes, very definitely, the stature! She will be a sensation, Mr. Coleman, a positive sensation! She will receive ovations in the capitals of the world! She will be received by crowned heads. As for America—” and he spread out his hands with somber significance—“who appreciates the arts in America? A barbarous country, sir, a barbarous country! There will never be anything here.”

  Stuart’s face suddenly darkened with annoyance. He shifted his child on his knee, and she murmured. “What do you mean, sir?” he demanded irascibly. “What is wrong with America? It is a young country, yes. But you apparently forget that young countries are potentially capable of anything. When America has come of age, she will produce her own peculiar genius. What it will be I don’t know. But produce it she will. I am certain of that. There is nothing impossible here.”

  Mr. Berry was taken aback. He said apologetically to his patron: “That may be quite true. But I have seen no signs of it, yet.”

  “It does not have to be the same kind of genius as that of Europe,” continued Stuart, with rising irritation. “It may be something new. The signs are all about. America has a lustiness, sir. You may call it ugly. I call it strength. Have you forgotten your history? Rome was a barbarous young nation at one time. Greece laughed at her. But Rome had her splendor, later.”

  “A barbarous splendor, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Berry, proud to display his erudition. “You remember that, sir. It never even approached the ‘glory’ of Greece. Rome never produced the arts and the sciences of Athens, the philosophy, the—the—”

  But Stuart interrupted rudely. “It was another kind of genius, I tell you. Why anyone has to think that only one type of genius is valuable, I don’t know. It is as foolish as expecting every man to have blue eyes, just because blue eyes are admired. Have you no eye for variety, for change, for other colors? Does the whole landscape of the world have to be monotonous to be admired and enjoyed? Where is your appreciation of uniqueness, of difference, of individuality?”

  Robbie was faintly surprised. It was a good argument, that of Stuart’s, he commented to himself. But why the devil need he get so excited about it? His very excitement made his words seem puerile and ridiculous. When a man spoke heatedly, and stammered a little, and said his say in a loud and hurried voice, then men no longer listened to his words, however true and golden they were, and only smiled in superiority at his vehemence. It was very unfortunate, and people were asses.

  A smug but furtive smile touched Mr. Berry’s lips, and he inclined his head to hide it, discreetly. Robbie suddenly disliked him intensely. He entered the argument smoothly, his cool and neutral voice like a breath of damp air:

  “I agree with you, Stuart. But men are unoriginal. What has pleased them once, and excited their admiration once, always seems to them to be the best. They disapprove in direct ratio to difference. A man with a new philosophy, a musician with a new idiom, a planner with a new idea, an architect with a new design, is always contemptible to the donkey world, which has its preconceived ideas, its devotion to the past. That comes from timidity, from a fear of change, inherent in human nature. To accept a new idea threatens its security, always precarious in a constantly changing universe.”

  Stuart listened, frowning. Then he said impatiently: “Yes, yes. That is what I meant. Thank you. That is why I say that American genius is different. It is just developing. It is in flux. We can’t see the outlines yet. It is all so new.”

  He looked at his wife. All at once he seemed utterly exhausted and undone. He said, in a dull but gentle voice: “My dear, will you call the nurse? The child is asleep; she is very tired.”

  Marvina, smiling vacantly, reached for the bell-rope near her. Then, still smiling that vacant smile, she rested her tawny eyes on her daughter. The smile did not increase in mellowness or tenderness. It was only there, like the fixed smile of a painted portrait.

  The nurse came in and carried off the sleeping child, whose mass of dark hair fell over her crisp white arm. Marvina watched her go. Robbie was reminded of a mindless kitten, involuntarily following with its shallow eyes any chance movement that attracted its attention. When the door closed after the nurse, Marvina graciously returned her countenance to those about the fire, and urged fresh tea upon them.

  Robbie said to Laurie, who was now staring at the fire: “Shall we go, my dear? There is a blizzard out, and we have quite a walk.”

  Marvina said amiably: “Do let us send you home in the carriage, my love.” But there was no concern in her voice.

  Mr. Berry bowed himself out of the room, after a last whispered instruction to Laurie. Laurie moved off into the hall, followed by the gracious Marvina, who belatedly congratulated her on her song. Stuart and Robbie were left alone. Stuart restlessly opened a silver box and brought out a cheroot. He lit it with a taper. He stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece and looked sideways at the fire. He appeared to have forgotten Robbie.

  Robbie moved closer to him. He said, in a low tone: “Stuart, I want to talk to you.”

  Stuart lifted his head heavily, and stared in silence at his kinsman.

  “I don’t know whether anyone properly thanked you before for what you are doing for Laurie,” said Robbie, with a tentative smile. “But I thank you now. It is excessively kind of you.”

  Stuart’s brows drew together. Then he shrugged. He flicked ash into the fire. “Well, the girl has a voice. You admit that? And her mother said that she could not afford a teacher.”

  Robbie laughed, and the sound was unpleasant. “She was quite convinced that Laurie ‘has a voice.’ Had you only waited a little, discreetly, she would have coughed up the money for a teacher. But you did not wait. She waited. She is very clever.”

  Stuart scowled angrily. “I doubt it, that she would have ‘coughed up,’ as you say. She has no liking for the girl Besides, I never wait.” Now he smiled a little, quickly.

  Robbie nodded. “My mother is ambitious. Once assured that Laurie could sing she would have spent any amount. I know that. It was unfortunate.”

  Stuart said nothing. He looked gloomily at the fire.

  Robbie continued: “Another
thing. I understand that you have suggested to my mother that you again send Bertie to Saratoga.”

  Stuart was silent.

  Now Robbie approached him, and laid his hand with unusual urgency on Stuart’s arm. “I must ask you not to do this, Stuart Please.”

  Stuart regarded him with surprise. “Why not? Do you think your mother might ‘cough up’ for him, this time?” He smiled disagreeably.

  “No,” said Robbie quietly. “I do not I know she will not Because I have convinced her it is no use.”

  Stuart dropped his arm from the mantelpiece. He looked at Robbie curiously. The “damned little schoolmaster” looked gravely disturbed and grim.

  “You convinced her? Why should you do that? Didn’t the last treatment help the poor young fool? He was six months off the bottle after that. Has he gone back to it?”

  Robbie looked away. But his voice was still level when he spoke: “Yes. He has. It’s no use.”

  All at once he appeared very tired. “It’s no use,” he repeated. “Once, I had a different idea about Bertie. It is still partly right. But the reason was deeper than what I had supposed. I know now that if he has any desire for anything it is for death.”

  Stuart gaped at him. His features wrinkled with shock and repudiation. “Why do you say that? That’s idiotic. You talk like a fool.”

  Robbie shook his head. But he did not look at Stuart. “I know I am right. And I know that nothing will give Bertie any desire to live. It is not because he is ‘sick’ of living. He just has no desire for life.”

  He turned to Stuart, slowly, and somberly. “Have you seen a mirror on the wall, Stuart? It hangs there forever. Sometimes the sun flashes on it. Or leaves it. Then it is in darkness. It only—reflects. It has no life of its own. It is perfectly static. Perhaps,” he added, with a curious twisted smile, “if it could express its one opinion, it would ask to be taken down from the wall. It would perhaps say it is tired of hanging there, reflecting sunlight, or darkness.”