The Goddess Abides: A Novel

by Pearl S. Buck

“Age—that’s all!”

  He did not reply with laughter. Instead he spoke almost with irritation. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about age! I’m ashamed of being—foolishly young. I’ve always been too young for what I wanted to do—too young to go to college, too young for a job. I ran away when I was fifteen, just to pass the time until I was older. I finished college too young. I’ve always done everything too young.”

  “Where did you run?”

  “I traveled—loafed would be better—around the world for two years.”

  “So now you’re—”

  “Twenty-four.”

  She stabbed herself again. “Tell me about your girl.”

  He frowned and turned his head toward the window. Over the rim of the mountain a slim new moon hung suspended, a decoration in the sky.

  “She’s not my girl exactly,” he replied, still irritably.

  “Why not?”

  He pushed his plate aside, rose and went to the window. There he stood gazing at the shadowed mountain and the hanging moon.

  “I’m in a strange situation,” he said.

  “Yes?” Her voice invited.

  “I’m always too young for what I want to do, but I’m too old for—for girls.”

  A moment of silence hung between them, as tenuous, as quivering, as the new moon, glimmering in the clouds now drifting above the mountain.

  “I don’t quite know what you mean,” she said at last, her voice gentle.

  “I don’t, either,” he said abruptly and came back to the table and sat down. “More coffee, please. What’s your name, by the way? Your first name—”

  “Edith.”

  “Edith,” he repeated. “Edith? I never knew anyone with that name. My mother had a silly name—Ariadne. Still, it’s rather sweet. As I said, I don’t remember her, but my uncle said she was a sweet person.”

  “What happened to them?” she asked in the same gentle voice.

  “They were killed in a motor accident when I was two. Yet I seem to remember someone like my mother, a soft pretty someone—but probably I don’t remember, really—just a dream, perhaps, or even pure imagination.”

  “And there’s been no one to take her place?”

  “No. My uncle never married. Didn’t I tell you? I suppose he has a mistress tucked away somewhere. We never discuss such matters.”

  “No one has ever taken your mother’s place?”

  “I’ve never looked for anyone. Mothers are irreplaceable, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly, and then after a moment, “but the girl? Is she younger than you really?”

  “Not so many years—but otherwise—” He shrugged slightly. “Yet she’s clever enough, intelligent, all that. But I’m too old for her. I’m too old for myself. I’m a burden even to myself.”

  She laughed, “Oh, come now!”

  He did not reply with laughter. “Yes, I am that. I’m interested in too many things, not people. So much I want to do! I’ve no time for—for marriage and so forth, and that’s what this girl wants.”

  “Is she in love with you?”

  “She says so.”

  “And you?”

  “I? When I’m with her, I’m normal enough to feel the stir, you know! But the old part of me knows better. ‘You’ll be bored with her.’ That’s what it tells me—am I mad?”

  “No. Only wise.”

  “I could do with less wisdom.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s given to you as a tool for accomplishment.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of whatever it is that you want to accomplish.”

  “To penetrate the secrets of the universe!”

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes shining into hers, and she felt comforted, even elated, for some vague reason she did not wish to comprehend.

  “I must leave early tomorrow morning,” he said abruptly, and as abruptly went to the piano and began to play.

  Snow fell upon snow, in silence and chill. It began as he left the house the next morning, the sky gray and the mountain clouded in mist. Winter settled over the eastern coast. In Philadelphia, too, it was snowing, her radio had announced.

  “I hate to leave this warm house,” he said.

  He stood at the door, wrapped in his rough, outdoor coat, its cap falling back.

  “You are leaving your skis in the cellar. That means you will be back,” she said.

  “Yes, but I mean this morning.”

  “This morning,” she echoed.

  She could not tell him what she was thinking, what she always thought when snow was falling. Arnold, lying under the snow! Of course she was accustomed by now, if she was ever to be accustomed, that is, and why should it be the snow? In the spring she could contemplate his grave without agony, and in the autumn the bright leaves falling from a maple tree near his grave made the city churchyard almost cheerful. But the snow? The realization of his death, desolate and final, had come at the first snowfall and she was alone here in this house. She had stood at the wide window, biting the knuckles of her clenched right hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. O Arnold, you lying alone under the snow!

  Something of that desolation fell upon her now. The house had been full today of this presence, young and strange, yet he was no longer a stranger to her, nor ever had been or could be. Something they shared, something more than music, but what? He had been very gay this morning, almost as though he were glad to go, until at this moment when he stood tall above her, and she saw a look in his eyes, startled and unbelieving.

  “Yes, I like you,” he said and so suddenly, as though he had made a discovery, that she laughed.

  “Delightful to hear,” she said gaily, “and of course you’ll come back. The only question is when.”

  “I’ll let you know.” He stood looking at her and then abruptly he turned and left her, closing the door firmly behind him. She lingered for an instant, gazing at that closed door. The house was silent about her, and empty.

  …“The sunsets are always finest when you are here,” Edwin said.

  She was sitting by the small round table in the bay window of his great square living room. In the distance mountain ranges lifted sharp peaks against a glowing western sky. It was her usual place when she was in this vast old house in the evening, and she seldom missed the sunset when the sky was clear. Today, the second day of her visit, had been very clear. She had spent the hours with “your old philosopher” as he called himself until, an hour ago, he was overcome with one of his fits of weariness and had gone upstairs to sleep. Now he had waked and had come to find her.

  “The sunset is always finest after snow,” she replied.

  She felt his hands on her shoulders, his cheek gently pressing her hair.

  “The unutterable comfort of you, of having you in my house,” he murmured.

  “I am always happy here,” she replied, motionless, her gaze upon the sky.

  The colors were changing now, the violence of crimson and gold subdued to rose and pale yellow.

  “Don’t move,” he said as she was about to rise. “I have something to ask of you.”

  “Yes, Edwin?”

  He was standing behind her and thus out of her sight, his hands still on her shoulders. In the silence she turned her head and saw an unusual tenderness suffusing his face as he looked down into her eyes.

  “Is it something outrageous?” she asked, smiling.

  “I am wondering if you will so consider it. But no—you will understand. I think so. In your own way you are an artist, with an artist’s honesty.”

  “Perhaps you had better prepare me.”

  He came from behind her then and sat down opposite her at the small table. His head, the white hair and clipped white mustache, the fair, healthy skin and bright blue eyes, made him a handsome portrait against the fading sky.

  “How you can look as you do!” she exclaimed.

  “How do I look?” he demanded.

  “I shan’t tell you. You’
re vain enough already.”

  “That is to say—I’m lovable? For you, I mean?”

  “Of course. You know that. Every time you ask me I tell you so.”

  “Ah, but I have to ask,” he complained.

  “So that I have courage to confess!”

  They were bantering on the edge of truth again and beyond it they had never ventured. Or perhaps she was not ready for truth, and perhaps would never be. What she felt for him was an emotion altogether different from the willing love she had given Arnold. But that love had ended, stopped by death, and suddenly, for a while, there was no one to love. In the long months when she knew he must die she had wondered about love. Would it go on living after the beloved was dead? Could so strong a force continue to feed only upon memory? She knew now that it could not. The habit of love became a necessity to love and remained alive in her being, like a river dammed. Now it was flowing again, not in fullness, not inevitably, but tentatively and gently toward this man who sat facing her, his back to the sunset. He began to speak in his thoughtful, philosophizing mood, his eyes, so piercing in their blue, upon her face.

  “The need to love and be loved lasts until we draw our final breath and from the need comes the power. It is in you, it is in me. How can this be, you may ask. Because, my child, my dear and only One, love sustains the spirit and the spirit sustains life. If love is mutual, then the two concerned can live long. Yet even if it is one-sided, the one who loves is sustained. It is sweet to be loved, but to be able to love is to possess the life force. I love you. Therefore I am strong. Whatever my age, I am sustained by my own power to love. How fortunate am I to have someone I can love! For I am fastidious, my darling! It is not every woman who is to be loved—at least by me.”

  She felt an embarrassment entirely new to her, for at this instant there was something new about him. Whether it was the light of the sky beyond him, or a light shining from within him, he was for the moment transfigured, his face younger by years, his eyes bright, a faint flush on his cheeks. He leaned toward her impulsively.

  “Let us have no reserves! I want you wholly. I want to give myself wholly.”

  “What do you mean, Edwin?” she asked.

  She was imprisoned by his gaze into her eyes, by his hands seizing upon hers with unexpected strength.

  “May I come to your room tonight?” he asked abruptly, as though he struck down a barrier with one blow.

  The question hung between them, unbelievable, yet an entity. He had spoken. There could be no doubt that he had spoken, and question demanded answer. She was compelled by his unchanging gaze. In her silence he spoke again, this time gently, as to a child.

  “We inhabit these bodies, my darling. They are our only means of conveying love. We speak, of course, but words are only words. We kiss, yes, but a kiss is only a touch of the lips. There is the whole body through which the sacred message can be exchanged. And for what do we nurture the body with food and drink and sleep and exercise except for the conveyance of love?”

  When she hesitated, transfixed by sudden shyness, he laughed, but gently.

  “Don’t be afraid, my child! I have been quite impotent these ten years. I wish only to lie quietly at your side in the darkness of the night, and know that finally we are one, never again to be separate, however far apart we may be.”

  She was able to speak at last. She heard herself say words as unbelievable as those he had spoken. Yet she spoke them.

  “Why not?” she said. “Why not?”

  …They parted as usual after the usual late dinner. In the presence of Henry the butler they said good night formally and so wholly as usual that she half wondered whether she had not imagined the sunset scene. And knew she had not, for with an instinct, long dead, now in her own room she searched among her garments until she found a lace-trimmed nightgown. She wore plain suits by day, their simplicity becoming her classic face, but secretly, at night, ever since she had been alone, she bought and wore, now that Arnold was dead, those fragile exquisite confections that he had disliked. Pajamas suited her better, he had said, and so she had worn them until he was gone. Then, and who could possibly understand this, the very day after his funeral she had gone to the finest shop in the city, and had bought a dozen nightgowns, wisps of lace and silk and, quite alone, she decked herself nightly for sleep.

  Thus she decked herself now, after her scented bath, and standing before the mirror she brushed her long fair hair and braided it as usual and climbed into the high old bed as though nothing were about to happen, and lay there, her heart beating in expectant alarm that was also reluctantly pleasurable. Should she sleep—could she sleep? Debating it, she fell into a light slumber without being aware that she did so. She was wakened by his voice. He was bending over her, a lit candle in his hand.

  “I knocked, you know, darling, but there was no answer. And so I came in, hoping to see you beautiful in sleep as I have been doing these last five minutes. Now I know what sleep does to your dear face. You were almost smiling,”

  He put the candlestick on the bedside table, he lay down beside her as though it were already habit and, slipping his right arm beneath her head, he lifted her to his shoulder.

  “Now then, we’re comfortable, aren’t we? And we are as we should be, man and woman lying side by side in mutual trust. I shan’t ask you to marry me, my love. It wouldn’t be fair to you. I’m too old.”

  “What if I ask you?” she inquired. Comfort, sweet and profound, flowed into her blood.

  “Ah, that would be a question,” he replied.

  But no, she thought, she would never ask it. Marriage? She had no wish for it. Marriage would make her think of Arnold. Let her explore this relationship with Edwin quite free of memories!

  Suddenly he threw back the covers and sat up to survey her. “What’s this lovely thing you have on, this gossamer garment, this silver cobweb?”

  She lay smiling in enjoyment of his pleasure. “You like it?”

  “Very much, but—”

  He broke off and she felt his hands dexterously slipping the lace from her shoulders, from her breasts, her waist and thighs, until the garment that had covered her lay in a soft heap at her feet.

  “Blessed be our bodies, for they are the means of love!” he whispered.

  She did not reply, choosing to allow him to lead where he would, watchful only for distaste in herself. But there was no distaste. Nothing she had ever known prepared her now for his grace, his delicacy, the sureness of his touch. The philosophy of love! The phrase sprang into her mind. This was more than, physical, whatever it was. Then he put aside the robe he wore and lay beside her again.

  “Now we know each other,” he said. “We can never be strange to each other from this hour on.”

  There in the night they lay in each other’s arms, passionate and passionless. The moon rose high and shone through the wide window and she saw his body, beautiful even in age, the shoulders straight, the chest smooth, the legs slender and strong. He had given his body respectful care, and was rewarded even now. And how many women had loved this body? Impossible that so powerful a beauty of mind and body had not combined often in the act of love! But she felt no jealousy. This was her hour, her night. And it was true that, knowing themselves as they were, they could never again be far apart.

  “Yes,” she said clearly and aloud.

  “Yes, what, my sweet?”

  “Yes, I love you.”

  He gave a long sigh and drew her against him. “I thank God,” he said. “Whom I have not seen, I thank. Once more, before the end, to love and be loved! What more can I ask!”

  With this he fell into light sleep. But she lay awake, still in his arms, awake and thinking of the strangeness, that she lay in Edwin’s arms, in this room, in his house. She was not in the least regretful. What he had said was true, it was right, but strange, nevertheless. And suddenly she forgot where she was, and fell to thinking instead of Jared Barnow. Would he ever come back again? And why should he come agai
n, and indeed she did not care now whether he did or did not. In the moonlight Edwin’s profile was marble white, pure and perfect. She felt new reverence for the beauty of this body and the splendor of this mind. It was honorable to be chosen for love by this man, this famous man, visited even now by great men and women from everywhere in the world. And if her quiet love could add a day to his life, words to his thoughts, strength to his-frame, was not this, too, a sort of joy?

  …She returned to her mountain house the next day and waited for the weekend. Snow fell and continued to fall day and night until on the north side of the house it drifted almost to the eaves. Sam, bringing logs, tunneled his way into the back door.

  “How can people come for the weekend even to ski?” she demanded.

  He grinned. “They’ll come because the roads ’ull be open. Folks here know that snow is their bread and butter.”

  Reassured, she waited for the weekend. Then he would come. Jared Barnow—she spoke his name to herself and was shocked. How could she think of him after what had happened with Edwin? She searched her heart, her mind, to discover memories, not so much of guilt as of distaste. There were none. Could it be possible that she sought further completion of some sort? Of what sort? And what had Edwin to do with Jared? And why ask questions, especially when she wished no answers? Let life lead her where it would! She felt herself floating, passive, waiting for whom, for what, she did not know, she would not ask.

  …“I don’t see you here in this house, you know,” Jared said.

  He had come on Friday night, exactly as though she expected him, which she did and did not, hoping that he would come and again that he would not.

  “You’ll have to be careful for the first year or so,” Amelia had said—Amelia, her old childhood friend, whose house was in Philadelphia next door to her own childhood home and who was still there, unmarried and living alone in a houseful of inherited servants. It was less than a week after Arnold died, and she had not been able even to speak his name aloud, but Amelia was without tact and said whatever she liked and at all times. They were in the upstairs sitting room, where she and Amelia had cut out paper dolls, had accumulated records, had designed frocks, had met for a last moment before her wedding and now were meeting after Arnold’s death.