The Goddess Abides: A Novel

by Pearl S. Buck

  “I’ve forgotten how old you are, if that’s what you mean!”

  “Seventy-six, my dear love, and I still feel a stir in my central parts when I hear your voice.”

  “Edwin!”

  “You reproach me?”

  “Good night, good night, and I repeat—you’re incorrigible!”

  “God’s blessing on you, sweetheart! When are you coming to see me?”

  “Soon—very soon.”

  She put the receiver into its place again and lay back on her pillows, smiling. How could she explain to anyone the comfort of knowing that she was the center of an old philosopher’s amiable heart? That was what she had missed most when Arnold died. She had ceased to be first with anyone, meaning of course, heterosexual that she was, first with any man. Though Edwin Steadley stirred no central part of her, she allowed him to love her, although of what love was compounded at such an age, she did not know. Perhaps it was only a formula, words to which he had been so long accustomed in the thirty years of happy marriage with Eloise, his wife, dead these twenty-four years, that they had become habit. How long ago could be measured in the terms of her own life, for when Eloise died she had been a girl of eighteen, teasing her mother to let her cut her long hair. She had thought of Edwin as an old man even then, although in reality he had been at the height of his career as a famous philosopher, and she had been his pupil in college.

  Handsome and virile she had thought him, in spite of his age, and filled with an élan that she had not associated with philosophy until she knew him. How much of this was due to Eloise it would be hard to guess, but a great deal, doubtless, for she had been articulate and ardent, and madly in love with him, developing, no doubt, every element of sex in him. She guessed at that, for Arnold had developed her in the same way, drawing her out of virgin shyness and leading her to her fullest womanhood, until since his death she had felt the currents of her sexuality stopped and protesting. Yet the original delicacy held. She was still to be sought and not to do the seeking.

  The fire was dying here in her bedroom, too, and she fell asleep.

  Jared Barnow was gone and so swiftly had the time passed that she could not believe the clock said nine o’clock in the morning. They had talked over the breakfast table until suddenly the clock in the corner had chimed the hour and he had leaped to his feet.

  “My God, I came to ski! You make me forget. Here, I’ll help with the dishes.”

  “No, no—”

  “But, of course—”

  In the end she had persuaded him and had seen him off, and then had remembered and had called him. “Come back if you don’t find something nearer to the slopes!”

  “Thanks!” he had shouted.

  She watched him tramp down the hill to the valley road which in turn would lead him up to the ski area on the mountain opposite her window. When he was out of sight in the intervening forest, she turned to the room again. It was strangely empty, a room too huge, as Arnold had always told her.

  “It’s a room to get lost in,” he had said one evening when the fire was casting shadows in the distant corners, and suddenly now although the sun was shining through the windows, she felt lost.

  She finished the dishes, and then went into the room that had been Arnold’s but now was her guest room. The bed was neatly made, and everything in order. Then he must have planned to come back again? Otherwise he would have left the bed unmade. Or if he had made the bed he would have put aside the sheets. Why did she keep thinking about him? She would call Edwin and tell him about the guest and so free herself, perhaps. This much she had learned about being alone, that she could mull over something and worry herself with it until she did nothing else.

  “Although I shouldn’t use Edwin merely to ease myself,” she murmured, and went to the telephone and took off the receiver and dialed. Ten o’clock? He would be at his desk, writing his memoirs, the history of a long and distinguished life, spent among famous men of letters and learning.

  She heard his voice on the telephone at her ear. “Yes? Who is it?”

  “It’s I.”

  “Oh, my darling—how wonderful to hear from you at the beginning of day!”

  “I shouldn’t be interrupting your work but I need to hear your voice. The house seems empty.”

  “It makes me happy that you need me.”

  No, it is not fair of me, she thought, to use him because I miss someone else, and besides it is impossible that I miss someone I met only yesterday and that someone a man young enough to be my son. It is only that I cannot accustom myself to living alone—not yet.

  “When are you coming to see me?” the voice inquired over the telephone.

  It had been agreed long ago, without words, that when they met it was she who must go to him. The hazards of traveling were too much for him now, but beyond that fact was her own inclination to keep this house jealously for herself. Even her children she did not welcome here, preferring to put them up in the guest house nearby. This house was hers, inviolate now that Arnold was gone. There were times which she would not acknowledge that even he had sometimes been an intruder, But she had never known herself as she really was until now when she was alone.

  Before her widowhood she had been a daughter and sister, wife and mother, dividing herself perforce, though willingly, for she had enjoyed each relationship and treasured her memories. Now she was living with herself and by herself as though she were a stranger, discovering new likes and dislikes, new abilities. Books, for example—she had thought of books as diversion and amusement. Now she knew they were communication between minds, her own and others, living and dead. Such communication was the source of learning and she had a thirst for learning, reviving after the busy years of her married life.

  “I have a guest,” she said now.

  “Who is it?”

  She heard an echo of jealousy in Edwin’s voice, and was amused.

  “You’re jealous!”

  “Of course I am!”

  “But that’s absurd.”

  “No, only natural. I’m in love with you.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “No, only reality. Let me tell you an amazing truth about the human being. You’re too young to know, but I know. The ability to love is the secret of life. So long as one can love, really love, another human being, death waits afar off. It is only when the capacity to love ceases to exist that death follows soon. I thank you, my darling, for letting me love you. It keeps death from my door.”

  She listened as she always listened to him, accepting and believing. He was still teacher and she was still pupil. “You make too much of me,” she said, “and that is very sweet.”

  “So,” he continued, “who is your guest?”

  She told him briefly, almost indifferently, ending with the words, “And probably he won’t be back. The weekend rush is over today and he’ll find another place to stay.”

  “I hope so,” he replied. “I don’t like your being alone in the house with a stranger. One never knows, these days—and you’re a very beautiful woman.”

  Arnold had not been one to praise her looks and she had never been sure of her own beauty. He had been jealous, yes, but without cause, and since he was possessive it occurred to her now that perhaps she had always been beautiful, and he had not dared to tell her so.

  “It’s only what you think, Edwin,” she said, “but still I like to hear it, being in my secret heart a vain woman.”

  “You’ve never thought of yourself. I’ve always known you were beautiful. I remember the first time I saw you. It was a September day, and your head, true red gold, was shining there among the browns and blacks and blondes of the freshmen. I marked you then, without any thought of course that one day you would become my life. I saw your eyes, clear with intelligence. That’s my prize pupil, I thought—as you were. And I began then to scheme how I could keep you in my department, and failed because that rascal, Arnold Chardman, married you too early! I almost wept the day you came to
tell me. Remember?”

  She did remember. It was true she had married too young, but she had been so joyful that she had not noticed the professor’s eyes, only his silence.

  “Will you not wish me well?” she had asked.

  She remembered the long pause before he answered. “I wish you to be happy. You will find your happiness in different ways. Just now you are sure it is in marriage. Well, perhaps so. But the time will come when it will be in something else.”

  “So long as it is not in someone else,” she had said gaily.

  “Do not limit happiness,” he had said gravely. “One takes it where one finds it.”

  They had not met again for years and she forgot him. Then one day, soon after Arnold had died, among the many letters of condolence she found his letter. He wrote as though they had parted only yesterday.

  “Do you remember,” he had written, “do you remember what I said about happiness? One happiness has passed, but hold yourself ready for the next, whatever it is. If you do not see it on the horizon, then you must create it where you are. So long as you live you may find happiness if you search for it, or create it for yourself. Perhaps the search itself is happiness.”

  It had been a long letter, speaking only of herself and the future, of life and not of death. Yet he, too, had known death, ho reminded her, for Eloise, his wife, had died many years before. Now he lived alone in their house in the country, which had been their summer home, and he was writing books.

  She had replied with a sad short letter, merely saying that his had been the most comforting words she had received, “but there is no happiness on the horizon,” she had told him, “and I find no creative spark within me.”

  Then he had sent her a telegram, inviting her to visit him, and she had gone, only to find him the center of a houseful of grown children and grandchildren, temporary visitors, and among whom she had sat as a guest, vaguely welcome, but of no importance. It was he who had made her important, singling her out as his companion, to remain at his side when the others went off on jaunts together. Alone in the vast sprawling family house, he had talked and she had listened. He was writing a book on immortality, and he talked of what he wrote. She had listened with concentrated interest, for Arnold had not believed in life beyond death. In the midst of her anguish as he lay dying, she had admired his firm courage.

  “I am very near the end,” he had told her. “And it is the end, my dear. There remains only my gratitude—to you. For your infinite variety—my thanks!”

  Those were his last coherent words, for he had been overcome with pain, and in a daze of agony had died a few hours later. On her first night alone in the great house in Philadelphia which was now hers only, she had pondered his words. Was it true, could it be true, that nothing of him remained except the body buried in the churchyard where his ancestors lay? She had puzzled her way among such thoughts, unable to reach conclusion, equally unwilling to believe he was right, and yet compelled to fear that he was. She had no proof of immortality, but then he had had no proof against it, either. In this frame of mind she had been willing, and indeed eager, to hear what Edwin had to say.

  “We human beings are the only creatures who are able to think of our own end, without doubt or faith.”

  He had made this as a statement one day on her first visit. They sat on the terrace overlooking the distant mountains, and the housekeeper had brought them tea and small cakes and, setting the tray on the table between them, had gone away again. Alone with him, she had dared to disagree with him. Over her teacup she had shaken her head.

  “You disagree?” he had asked, surprised.

  “Even animals know their end and fear it,” she had replied. “See how wildly they try to escape death! They may not be able to reason or think, but they fight death. Have you ever seen a rabbit in the clutch of a dog’s jaws? Until its last breath it struggles against death. A fish, drawn out of water, will straggle to live. Animals fear death and if they fear, they know.”

  He had listened, surprised and pleased. “Good thinking,” he had replied, “but don’t confuse instinct with consciousness.”

  She had pondered this and then had inquired, “What is the difference between animal and human being?”

  “Consciousness of self,” he had said. “A human being declares himself because he knows his own being. Animals? No. They don’t separate themselves from the cosmos.”

  They had come strangely close even on that first visit and, as time passed, had grown into mutual dependence each upon the other, although she recognized that what she felt for him was not love, only closeness. On his part it was frankly love, an old man’s love, the nature of which was not close to her. Whatever it was, love was sweet, and she clung to its persistence. He was wiser than she, and this, too, was sweet. She had never leaned on anyone, for Arnold, she had discerned early, would never be able to know her altogether. They were compatible, but she was the knowing one.

  Edwin’s voice recalled her. “Are you still there, Edith?”

  “Yes, oh, yes,” she replied quickly.

  “Then you haven’t been listening!”

  “Not quite,” she confessed.

  “You’ve been dreaming!”

  “Only thinking—about you and me.”

  “Ah, then, I forgive you. And thank you! It’s not good for me to suffer jealousy, you know—at my age.”

  “You needn’t. Now go back to your work, dear.”

  She put up the receiver, turned to face the day, a bright sunlit day, the white slopes gay with darting figures, and she wasted it wantonly. A multitude of small tasks waited, a silver bowl to be polished and filled with fruit, a trip to the village store which she postponed so that she could sit by the window and gaze again at the mountainside, imagining which of the flying dots of color could be that of Jared Barnow. She had never known anyone named Jared and the strange name added to his attraction. Something new, someone new, had entered her house last night.

  …When the sun had set and shadows crept over the mountain, leaving only the peak rose-red against the sky, she busied herself with the evening meal. For two? Or only herself? She would not set the table until she knew. Meanwhile she would prepare enough food—two small steaks, the larger one for him. Then suddenly she heard his footsteps, stamping off the snow, and he opened the door without knocking.

  “I’m back,” he said.

  “I was expecting you.”

  She went toward him as she spoke and to her surprise and somewhat to her horror, she felt an impulse to put her arms about him. She restrained herself. To what absurdities could loneliness reduce her! She must be on guard. A new experience, this impulse, for until now she had only to be on guard against others, her own fastidiousness—coldness, Arnold had sometimes called it, when he was angry with her—until now had been her weapon. In her own being she had known she was not cold, withdrawn perhaps into a space which she had never shared with anyone, an inner space.

  “I’m back, as you see,” he repeated.

  “No luck in finding a room?”

  “I didn’t try,” he said, unlacing his boots.

  “I’m rather glad,” she said. “It makes me feel a part of life on the mountain.”

  “You’ve never skied?”

  “Oh, yes, I loved it when I was young.”

  “It’s not too late, you know.”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Nonsense! You look—about twenty-five, say!”

  She laughed. “Add ten years and then another seven. I’m forty-two!”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “Never mention it again,” he commanded. He rose and went toward the door to the guest room. “I’ll just wash up a bit, brush my hair—”

  “Everything is ready,” she said.

  He paused. “You expected me?”

  “I hoped.”

  They exchanged a look and he went into the room and closed the door. And she stood, uncertain. Should she change her dark
green wool suit? But if she did, would he suspect her of some absurd coquetry? She decided not to change and was glad, half an hour later, for he sat down and began eating with self-assurance and in a silence that was almost ingratitude, she thought. He was only young, she decided, watching him—young and very hungry. It would be absurd to change into her long red dress—or the black one trimmed in silver, merely for this greedy boy.

  “How long are you staying on the mountain?” she asked at last, to break the silence. No, she was ready for him to leave, her pride wounded, remembering the foolish impulse she had resisted.

  “I must go back tomorrow,” he said. “I have a job in a laboratory. Well, it’s more than that. It’s an opportunity—a chance at last to invent, to discover—do something on my own, perhaps—Brinstead Electronics.”

  “A fine firm,” she said.

  “You know it?”

  “My father was a sort of consultant.”

  “I wish I’d known him!”

  “He died long before you were old enough to know him.”

  The words stung her heart with a sudden wounding of her selfhood. When he had been born she was already out of childhood, a girl quarreling with her patient mother over the length—or shortness—of skirts and defending her right to come home after midnight when she was out with Arnold.

  “The whole world knew him,” he was saying.

  “I suppose so.”

  Why was it difficult to talk? She felt depressed and apart, almost hostile to him because he was so young. Yet last night the conversation had flowed between them, easily and with understanding. She lifted her head involuntarily and realized that she had done so because he was staring at her, his eyes very dark under his brows. When their eyes met he spoke abruptly.

  “I like you. Not just because you’re beautiful, either. I’m used to that sort of thing. The girl I’m going with is pretty enough. But you have something—”

  He broke off and she made herself laugh.