A Prologue to Love

by Taylor Caldwell

  “I did. But I gave you the first opportunity.”

  “You don’t understand, John. I couldn’t have done it. The poor South!”

  “Your ‘poor South’ killed your husband in Georgia,” he said with contempt. “Your husband, George Winslow.”

  “It was stupid of him to apply for a commission and go to war,” said Cynthia, and her lovely eyes flashed. “I tried to dissuade him. But it was all bugles and drums and brass buttons and patriotism! Why didn’t Congress do as Lincoln first suggested: pay the southern plantation people for their slaves, then free them? Think of the tens of thousands of lives that would have been saved, and the money, and the calamity, and the ruin and destruction! Think of the sorrow that would have been spared, and the bitterness, and the crimes of the Reconstruction, and the undying enmity and hate, and the burned cities, and the widows and the orphaned children!”

  John Ames did not speak. Cynthia’s eyes were full upon him. “You made a lot of money out of that war, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “You never applied for a commission yourself, John.”

  “No. I was not a fool like your husband.”

  She put down her glass. “Let us talk of something else,” she said in a strained voice. “But first I wish to say this: I was offered a good pension by the government. I refused it. To me it was blood money.”

  “A silly gesture.”

  “The world, thank God, is full of what you call ‘silly gestures’, John.”

  “And it can’t afford them. It is just an expensive pose.”

  “I can’t afford expensive poses, John, either. I have exactly $23,598.13 left; I received my banker’s statement this morning. Aren’t you stunned?”

  He was. Cynthia, like Ann, had inherited two hundred thousand dollars from her father, wisely invested so that even the War between the States had not depreciated it too radically. After the war her stock had risen in the general prosperity which always seemed to come like a fat beast after all wars, surfeited with dead flesh and blood and dead hearts. Her husband, George Winslow, had been a solid member of a solid law firm, and a Bostonian of a most impeccable if not wealthy family. He had probably left Cynthia at least fifty thousand dollars.

  “How did you spend all that money?” exclaimed John Ames, completely aghast. He stared at her as though she were a murderess.

  “I spent it — living. Something you would not understand,” she answered. She waved her hand about the room. “I buy precious things; I adorn life. I have four servants, and I pay them well. I spend a fortune on my clothing and jewels. I give expensive parties. I travel. Do you see that carafe, for instance? I paid two hundred dollars for it. I have fine pictures, originals. I go to New York and have a suite in the best hotels and enjoy the opera and invite friends to dine with me. I adore champagne, and champagne is expensive. Do you know what this dress cost me? It is actually silver thread and was made in France. My wardrobe is full of such dresses, and sables. My perfume, of which I use considerable, costs fifty dollars a vial.” She was becoming excited; she looked at him as if she hated him. “I imported an Italian bedroom set, seventeenth-century, and it cost three thousand dollars, not to mention the charges for shipping, which were enormous. I have lived as I wished to live, John, since the war. This is my house; George and I lived in a very ugly old barn which his parents left him; I loathed it. I paid twenty thousand dollars for this wonderful place.”

  He could not believe this profligacy, even from Cynthia. He had known she was extravagant. But this was beyond belief. His hands clenched on the arms of his chair. She began to laugh at him, full of delight and gaiety.

  “You resemble a waxwork of yourself!” she cried with genuine mirth. “Now you won’t be tormenting me all the time to marry you, dear John! A penniless woman!”

  “And how long do you think what you have left will last you, Cynthia?”

  She made a light gesture. “A year, at the most.”

  “You have a son. Timothy. He is ten years old.”

  “And what will become of him? I do not worry. For before the last of my fortune has run out I will marry. It may surprise you, John, but I have many suitors, and I’ll marry the richest and live as I like to live.”

  “Marry me, Cynthia,” he said, and leaned toward her.

  Her face became very strange, and she looked at him in silence for a long time. When she spoke her voice was quiet. “John, I did you an injustice. I thought that at least part of the reason for your marrying Ann was her money.”

  “It was. I am not a liar except when it will serve my purpose. But I loved Ann too. Not as I am now afraid I love you, but still I loved her.”

  His cold blue eyes had lost their mercilessness. He even stretched out a hand to her pleadingly. “Cynthia, I want you. Why? I don’t know. But, seeing you now, I understand that what I felt for Ann was as nothing to what I feel for you. You — you are a lightness in my life; I can’t put you out of my mind. You are reckless and frivolous; you are also intelligent, which Ann was not. Do you know what my life has been?” His voice suddenly took on icy violence. “I tell you, it has been unbearable — ”

  “Even with Ann?” she asked gently. “Oh, even with Ann?”

  “I had Ann for four years. Only four years. Before that, and since, there has been nothing for me.”

  He pressed his lips together. “I never told anyone; I never told Ann. I shall not tell you. I need you to make me forget.”

  She pitied him for the first time and was astonished at her pity. Who could feel compassion for John Ames? She laced her fingers together and looked down at them reflectively.

  “You’re very mysterious, John. You always were. I think that’s part of your fascination.”

  “Then I’ll continue to be fascinating; I’ll never tell you. Well, Cynthia?”

  She shook her head slowly. “John, I’ve told you a thousand times. Your way of life is abhorrent to me. I have no objection to your money; I suppose some of the gentlemen who want to marry me have smears on their cash, too, one way or another.

  “Our individual ways of life, John, are incompatible. I love my life and detest yours. Ann and I were brought up in a gracious and comfortable household, with every warm luxury possible, and laughter and dancing and many affectionate friends. Then you and Ann were married. She went to live in those appalling houses of yours, and her life became stringent and arduous, in spite of old Kate’s efforts to relieve the physical misery. I asked Ann one time how she could endure it. And she said, poor darling, that it was the kind of life you wished and that it made you happy, and so it was her wish and her happiness. I’m not like that, John. Perhaps I’m more selfish than Ann, but I shudder at the thought of living as Ann lived. It is possible I don’t — love — you as Ann loved you. But I love you enough not to make you miserable. And you’d be miserable with me, with my house, my friends, my way of life, and my appetites. Isn’t this house beautiful? But you never thought it was. You were frank enough to tell me it was meaningless, decadent, and expensive. To me, money is to be spent to make existence joyous and charming, to lift us above the level of animals, to surround us with beauty, which is the most precious thing in the world. To you, money is desirable for its own sake and should not be spent except in investments to make more money. I don’t understand that at all! It sounds like gibberish, and dangerous gibberish, to me. Yes, yes, I know you’ve tried to explain, but the more you explain, the more baffled I become. We could never understand each other, and that would be tragic, and we’d finally come to hatred. I don’t want that to happen.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “John, you dress very fine; you’ve told me that you do this only to make an impression on those who can assist you in adding to your fortune. You’ve even told me that if I marry you, you will be content to live here, in my house. But I know what would happen; over the years the servants, one by one, would be dismissed and not replaced. The house would never be repaired, never added to, and would deca
y. Slowly I would be squeezed and smothered to death. No, no. I don’t love money for the reasons you do. John, it’s your fear, translated into investments and businesses and bank accounts.”

  “Don’t talk like a fool, Cynthia!”

  “I don’t know what you’re afraid of, John,” she continued, as if he had not spoken. “You were very, very poor once, so Ann told me. You were almost penniless until ten years before you married her. But I know many men who were as poor as you were and who are now rich, and it is a joy to them to spend their hard-earned money. In fact, they’re more extravagant than those who inherited money. It’s as if they can’t get enough of what they had been deprived of in their youth.” She paused. “And they don’t hate people, as you hate them.”

  He stood up and began to pace the room, his hands thrust in his pockets. “You are talking gibberish, Cynthia,” he said.

  She threw out her hands hopelessly. “You see? We can never understand each other. Again, you find your meaning in life, and your pleasure, in having money. I find the meaning and pleasure in spending it. And when I marry, which I will after all my fortune is gone, I’ll marry a very, very rich man whose fortune I cannot exhaust and who loves life and beauty as I love them and will deny me nothing.”

  “You’d sell yourself,” John Ames said. “Like a strumpet.”

  She was not offended; she even smiled. “Oh no. I have three gentlemen in mind; I like them all. I’ll be a good wife, I will produce more children, I’ll be a charming hostess; I’ll embellish life for the man I marry; I’ll be devoted to him. We’ll be happy together.”

  Her face became meditative. “Yes, I’ll want more children. Timothy is a disappointment to me. He has a generous allowance; he saves almost all of it, though he’s only ten years old and should have a child’s eager appetites. I want more normal children, John.”

  He stopped before her. “You are thinking of Carrie, Cynthia,” he said accusingly. “You aren’t fond of her, though she’s your sister’s child.”

  She replied candidly, “How could one be fond of Carrie? It is not her appearance at all, though you have tried to say it was. It’s something else; she is very queer, for a child. She makes me uncomfortable; she is wretched when she visits me. But imagine Caroline in this house! One has to think of children too. She would be absolutely miserable. What have you done to Caroline, John? Why do you hate her so, the poor thing?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Cynthia, you’ll never have to see Caroline. I won’t bring her here.”

  Now she stood up in one swift and rustling movement, and her eyes blazed at him. “How can you say that, when she adores you so? Have you no natural feelings for your own child, the only child you have? You are a cruel and terrible man, John!”

  They faced each other like hating antagonists. John said, deliberately and coldly, “I don’t consider myself cruel and terrible. I admit I detest Caroline, but you’ll never know the reason. When I look at her I — ” An expression of complete revulsion stood in his eyes. “I didn’t deserve Caroline. But I do my duty by her. I don’t want her to be like — There’s a weakness in her, a deadly weakness. I’m doing my best to eradicate it; I must eradicate it!”

  “You’ll kill her, John, you’ll kill her.” Cynthia spoke with bitter emphasis. “That’s what you really want, isn’t it? If you can’t change her to what you want, then you’ll destroy her.”

  “I’ll change her,” he said.

  Cynthia shrugged helplessly and half turned away. John looked at her profile, at the gloss and sheen of her hair, at her exquisite figure. He caught her arm and swung her to him. “Cynthia, look at me! I love you. I can’t live without you.” He pulled her into his arms and rested his cheek on the top of her head. She stood quietly and did not move. Then after a long moment she turned her head and gave him her lips, and there were tears on her cheeks.

  “Oh, Cynthia,” he murmured.

  Finally she gently disengaged herself and sat down as if exhausted. Her shoulders and head drooped, and she shook her head over and over.

  “The answer is still no, John.”

  “Cynthia, you can’t marry anyone else.” He sat down near her and tried to take her hand, but she drew it away.

  She did not answer. She put her hands to her wet cheeks and sighed. Then she dropped her hands and looked at him. “John, I was fond of George. I’ve not been inconsolable. I am a normal woman, and I delight in everything pleasant in life. Do you understand me?”

  He stared at her with anger and outrage. He said slowly, “Yes, I think I do. You’re quite shameless, aren’t you, Cynthia?”

  “Perhaps. I told you I love life. But I could have married those men, John. They ask me, always. You see, I am not a liar.”

  “I wish you were, Cynthia! I wish I could believe that you’ve told me this so that I’ll go away and never come back.”

  “Yes, it is the truth. And I don’t want you to go away and never come back.”

  “What in God’s name, then, do you want?”

  “Don’t say ‘God’, John. You never believed in Him; you’ve told me that. I’ll tell you what I want, and as usual I’ll be frank.”

  Her great eyes looked at him with much seriousness.

  “I can marry tomorrow if I wish. But I prefer to be free for one more year. Then I’ll make my choice. Unless — ”

  “Unless, what?”

  “Unless we can come to terms satisfactory to both of us.”

  “Cynthia!”

  “I’ll make a bargain with you, John. I love you. I didn’t know how much until today. You will settle twenty-five thousand dollars a year on me for life; we’ll go to my lawyers and it will be put in writing. For life.”

  He drew back a little, coloring. “As my wife, Cynthia — ”

  “I don’t intend to marry you, John.”

  He dropped her hand. “What are you saying?” he exclaimed.

  “You understand very well. Take your choice, John. I can’t live your life, and you can’t live mine. We’ll compromise. Do you know the sacrifice I am making? I don’t like Timothy’s character; I wanted more children. I am willing, with you, not to have them. If I married another man, I’d not only have much more than twenty-five thousand dollars a year for life, but I’d have a congenial existence, respectable and pleasant. I am prepared to give that all up — for you.”

  He stood up. Cynthia smiled sadly.

  “Are you going, John? You refuse?”

  He stopped, his back to her. “How can I refuse?”

  She laughed softly. “Even though it means twenty-five thousand dollars a year?”

  “Even that.”

  She stood up and went to him and put her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek against his. But he stood stiffly. “I really am a fool,” she murmured. “I am giving up a great deal for you.”

  “And for twenty-five thousand dollars a year,” he said dryly.

  “Only for twenty-five thousand dollars a year. You see, we look at things differently. We’ll go to my lawyers tomorrow. And they’ll be astonished, knowing you. For here you are, out of the generosity of your heart, willing to settle all that money on me, as your dead wife’s sister, and in view of the fact that I am a lone widow who is almost bankrupt! What wonderful family feeling you really have! To give me a trust fund!”

  Now he held her to him and began to kiss her. But she finally pulled herself away, gasping a little. She laughed. “Ah, no. You’ll get no free sample of what you’re buying, John!”

  She smoothed the disheveled silver fabric over her breast and exclaimed with mirth that he had broken two buttons, and she shook back her disordered hair and opened her pink mouth as if to catch a breath. Then she looked at him curiously, and he thought that her expression was calculating and that she was thinking of the trust fund he had agreed to and he was angry.

  Chapter 3

  Mr. Carlton Bothwell, Cynthia’s lawyer, neatly rearranged the papers John Ames and Cynthia had signed. His ruddy face, under
its eaves of white hair, was inscrutable. He loved Cynthia and he had been a close friend of her father’s. He knew all about John Ames. Extraordinary that such a man could have settled so much money, for life, on dear little Cynthia, who was only his dead wife’s sister! Mr. Bothwell was happy for Cynthia; he was also inquisitive. He thought of his son Harper, his partner, who was a widower and doing excellently. The Bothwells of Boston always did excellently; they had the Midas touch, the older Bothwell thought, quite without originality. But it was not the sort of incredible Midas touch which Ames possessed. He looked down at the papers on his large mahogany desk and scratched his chin delicately. Harper, like several other gentlemen in Boston, was in love with Cynthia Winslow. This trust fund would not expire on Cynthia’s marriage. Mr. Bothwell smiled genially.