Sylvia's Marriage

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by Upton Sinclair

and Mrs. Allison, and the rest. He hopes that if I go away, I may

  quiet down and come to my senses. We have a good excuse. I have to

  think of my health just now---"

  She stopped, and looked away from my eyes. I saw the colour

  spreading in a slow wave over her cheeks; it was like those tints of

  early dawn that are so ravishing to the souls of poets. "In four or

  five months from now---" And she stopped again.

  I put my big hand gently over her small one. "I have three children

  of my own," I said.

  "So," she went on, "it won't seem so unreasonable. Some people know,

  and the rest will guess, and there won't be any talk--I mean, such

  as there would be if it was rumoured that Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver

  had got interested in Socialism, and refused to spend her husband's

  money."

  "I understand," I replied. "It's quite the most sensible thing, and

  I'm glad you've found a way out. I shall miss you, of course, but we

  can write each other long letters. Where are you going?"

  "I'm not absolutely sure. Douglas suggests a cruise in the West

  Indies, but I think I should rather be settled in one place. He has

  a lovely house in the mountains of North Carolina, and wants me to

  go there; but it's a show-place, with rich homes all round, and I

  know I'd soon be in a social whirl. I thought of the camp in the

  Adirondacks. It would be glorious to see the real woods in winter;

  but I lose my nerve when I think of the cold--I was brought up in a

  warm place."

  "A 'camp' sounds rather primitive for one in your condition," I

  suggested.

  "That's because you haven't been there. In reality it's a big house,

  with twenty-five rooms, and steam-heat and electric lights, and half

  a dozen men to take care of it when it's empty--as it has been for

  several years."

  I smiled--for I could read her thought. "Are you going to be unhappy

  because you can't occupy all your husband's homes?"

  "There's one other I prefer," she continued, unwilling to be made to

  smile. "They call it a 'fishing lodge,' and it's down in the Florida

  Keys. They're putting a railroad through there, but meantime you can

  only get to it by a launch. From the pictures, it's the most

  heavenly spot imaginable. Fancy running about those wonderful green

  waters in a motor-boat!"

  "It sounds quite alluring," I replied. "But isn't it remote for

  you?"

  "We're not so very far from Key West; and my husband means to have a

  physician with us in any case. The advantage of being in a small

  place is that we couldn't entertain if we wanted to. I can have my

  Aunt Varina come to stay with me, a dear, sweet soul who loves me

  devotedly; and then if I find I have to have some new ideas, perhaps

  you can come---"

  "I don't think your husband would favour that," I said.

  She put her hand out to me in a quick gesture. "I don't mean to give

  up our friendship! I want you to understand, I intend to go on

  studying and growing. I am doing what he asked me--it's right that I

  should think of his wishes, and of the health of my child. But the

  child will be growing up, and sooner or later my husband must grant

  me the right to think, to have a life of my own. You must stand by

  me and help me, whatever happens."

  I gave her my hand on that, and so we parted--for some time, as it

  proved. I went up to Albany once more, in a last futile effort to

  save our precious bill; and while I was there I got a note from her,

  saying that she was leaving for the Florida Keys.

  BOOK II

  SYLVIA AS MOTHER

  For three months after this I had nothing but letters from Sylvia.

  She proved to be an excellent letter-writer, full of verve and

  colour. I would not say that she poured out her soul to me, but she

  gave me glimpses of her states of mind, and the progress of her

  domestic drama.

  First, she described the place to which she had come; a ravishing

  spot, where any woman ought to be happy. It was a little island,

  fringed with a border of cocoanut-palms, which rustled and

  whispered day and night in the breeze. It was covered with tropical

  foliage, and there was a long, rambling bungalow, with screened

  "galleries," and a beach of hard white sand in front. The water was

  blue, dazzling with sunshine, and dotted with distant green islands;

  all of it, air, water, and islands, were warm. "I don't realize till

  I get here," she said, "I am never really happy in the North. I wrap

  myself against the assaults of a cruel enemy. But here I am at home;

  I cast off my furs, I stretch out my arms, I bloom. I believe I

  shall quite cease to think for a while--I shall forget all storms

  and troubles, and bask on the sand like a lizard.

  "And the water! Mary, you cannot imagine such water; why should it

  be blue on top, and green when you look down into it? I have a

  little skiff of my own in which I drift, and I have been happy for

  hours, studying the bottom; you see every colour of the rainbow, and

  all as clear as in an aquarium. I have been fishing, too, and have

  caught a tarpon. That is supposed to be a great adventure, and it

  really is quite thrilling to feel the monstrous creature struggling

  with you--though, of course, my arms soon gave out, and I had to

  turn him over to my husband. This is one of the famous

  fishing-grounds of the world, and I am glad of that, because it will

  keep the men happy while I enjoy the sunshine.

  "I have discovered a fascinating diversion," she wrote, in a second

  letter. "I make them take me in the launch to one of the loneliest

  of the keys; they go off to fish, and I have the whole day to

  myself, and am as happy as a child on a picnic! I roam the beach, I

  take off my shoes and stockings--there are no newspaper reporters

  snapping pictures. I dare not go far in, for there are huge black

  creatures with dangerous stinging tails; they rush away in a cloud

  of sand when I approach, but the thought of stepping upon one by

  accident is terrifying. However, I let the little wavelets wash

  round my toes, and I try to grab little fish, and I pick up lovely

  shells; and then I go on, and I see a huge turtle waddling to the

  water, and I dash up, and would stop him if I dared, and then I find

  his eggs--such an adventure!

  "I am the prey of strange appetites and cravings. I have a delicious

  luncheon with me, but suddenly the one thing in the world I want to

  eat is turtle-eggs. I have no matches with me, and I do not know how

  to build a fire like the Indians, so I have to hide the eggs back in

  the sand until to-morrow. I hope the turtle does not move them--and

  that I have not lost my craving in the meantime!

  "Then I go exploring inland. These islands were once the haunts of

  pirates, so I may imagine all sorts of romantic things. What I find

  are lemon-trees. I do not know if they are wild, or if the key was

  once cultivated; the lemons are huge in size, and nearly all skin,

  but the flavour is delicious. Turtle-eggs with wild lemon-juice! And

  then I go o
n and come to a mangrove-swamp--dark and forbidding, a

  grisly place; you imagine the trees are in torment, with limbs and

  roots tangled like writhing serpents. I tiptoe in a little way, and

  then get frightened, and run back to the beach.

  "I see on the sand a mysterious little yellow creature, running like

  the wind; I make a dash, and get between him and his hole; and so he

  stands, crouching on guard, staring at me, and I at him. He is some

  sort of crab, but he stands on two legs like a caricature of a man;

  he has two big weapons upraised for battle, and staring black eyes

  stuck out on long tubes. He is an uncanny thing to look at; but then

  suddenly the idea comes, How do I seem to him? I realize that he is

  alive; a tiny mite of hunger for life, of fear and resolution. I

  think, How lonely he must be! And I want to tell him that I love

  him, and would not hurt him for the world; but I have no way to make

  him understand me, and all I can do is to go away and leave him. I

  go, thinking what a strange place the world is, with so many living

  things, each shut away apart by himself, unable to understand the

  others or make the others understand him. This is what is called

  philosophy, is it not? Tell me some books where these things are

  explained....

  "I am reading all you sent me. When I grew tired of exploring the

  key, I lay down in the shade of a palm-tree, and read--guess what?

  'Number Five John Street'! So all this loveliness vanished, and I

  was back in the world's nightmare. An extraordinary book! I decided

  that it would be good for my husband, so I read him a few

  paragraphs; but I found that it only irritated him. He wants me to

  rest, he says--he can't see why I've come away to the Florida Keys

  to read about the slums of London.

  "My hope of gradually influencing his mind has led to a rather

  appalling discovery--that he has the same intention as regards me!

  He too has brought a selection of books, and reads to me a few pages

  every day, and explains what they mean. He calls _this_ resting! I

  am no match for him, of course--I never realized more keenly the

  worthlessness of my education. But I see in a general way where his

  arguments tend--that life is something that has grown, and is not in

  the power of men to change; but even if he could convince me of

  this, I should not find it a source of joy. I have a feeling always

  that if you were here, you would know something to answer.

  "The truth is that I am so pained by the conflict between us that I

  cannot argue at all. I find myself wondering what our marriage would

  have been like if we had discovered that we had the same ideas and

  interests. There are days and nights at a time when I tell myself

  that I ought to believe what my husband believes, that I ought never

  have allowed myself to think of anything else. But that really won't

  do as a life-programme; I tried it years ago with my dear mother and

  father. Did I ever tell you that my mother is firmly convinced in

  her heart that I am to suffer eternally in a real hell of fire

  because I do not believe certain things about the Bible? She still

  has visions of it--though not so bad since she turned me over to a

  husband!

  "Now it is my husband who is worried about my ideas. He is reading a

  book by Burke, a well-known old writer. The book deals with English

  history, which I don't know much about, but I see that it resents

  modern changes, and the whole spirit of change. And Mary, why can't

  I feel that way? I really ought to love those old and stately

  things, I ought to be reverent to the past; I was brought up that

  way. Sometimes I tremble when I realize how very flippant and

  cynical I am. I seem to see the wrong side of everything, so that I

  couldn't believe in it if I wanted to!"

  2. Her letters were full of the wonders of Nature about her. There

  was a snow-white egret who made his home upon her island; she

  watched his fishing operations, and meant to find his nest, so as to

  watch his young. The men made a trip into the Everglades, and

  brought back wonder-tales of flocks of flamingoes making scarlet

  clouds in the sky, huge colonies of birds' nests crowded like a

  city. They had brought home a young one, which screamed all day to

  be stuffed with fish.

  A cousin of Sylvia's, Harley Chilton, had come to visit her. He had

  taken van Tuiver on hunting-trips during the latter's courtship

  days, and now was a good fishing-companion. He was not allowed to

  discover the state of affairs between Sylvia and her husband, but he

  saw his cousin reading serious books, and his contribution to the

  problem was to tell her that she would get wrinkles in her face, and

  that even her feet would grow big, like those of the ladies in New

  England.

  Also, there was the young physician who kept watch over Sylvia's

  health; a dapper little man with pink and white complexion, and a

  brown moustache from which he could not keep his fingers. He had a

  bungalow to himself, but sometimes he went along on the

  launch-trips, and Sylvia thought she observed wrinkles of amusement

  round his eyes whenever she differed from her husband on the subject

  of Burke. She suspected this young man of not telling all his ideas

  to his multi-millionaire patients, and she was entertained by the

  prospect of probing him.

  Then came Mrs. Varina Tuis; who since the tragic cutting of her own

  domestic knot, had given her life to the service of the happier

  members of the Castleman line. She was now to be companion and

  counsellor to Sylvia; and on the very day of her arrival she

  discovered the chasm that was yawning in her niece's life.

  "It's wonderful," wrote Sylvia, "the intuition of the Castleman

  women. We were in the launch, passing one of the viaducts of the new

  railroad, and Aunt Varina exclaimed, 'What a wonderful piece of

  work!' 'Yes,' put in my husband, 'but don't let Sylvia hear you say

  it.' 'Why not?' she asked; and he replied, 'She'll tell you how many

  hours a day the poor Dagoes have to work.' That was all; but I saw

  Aunt Varina give a quick glance at me, and I saw that she was not

  fooled by my efforts to make conversation. It was rather horrid of

  Douglas, for he knows that I love these old people, and do not want

  them to know about my trouble. But it is characteristic of him--when

  he is annoyed he seldom tries to spare others.

  "As soon as we were alone, Aunt Varina began, 'Sylvia, my dear, what

  does it mean? What have you done to worry your husband?'

  "You would be entertained if I could remember the conversation. I

  tried to dodge the trouble by answering off-hand, 'Douglas had eaten

  too many turtle-eggs for luncheon '--this being a man-like thing,

  that any dear old lady would understand. But she was too shrewd. I

  had to explain to her that I was learning to think, and this sent

  her into a perfect panic.

  "'You actually mean, my child, that you are thinking about subjects

  to which your husband objects, and you refuse to stop when he asks

  you to
? Surely you must know that he has some good reason for

  objecting.'

  "'I suppose so,' I said, 'but he has not made that reason clear to

  me; and certainly I have a right--'

  "She would not hear any more than that. 'Right, Sylvia? Right? Are

  you claiming the right to drive your husband from you?'

  "'But surely I can't regulate all my thinking by the fear of driving

  my husband from me!'

  "'Sylvia, you take my breath away. Where did you get such ideas?'

  "'But answer me, Aunt Varina--can I?'

  "'What thinking is as important to a woman as thinking how to please

  a good, kind husband? What would become of her family if she no

  longer tried to do this?'

  "So you see, we opened up a large subject. I know you consider me a

  backward person, and you may be interested to learn that there are

  some to whom I seem a terrifying rebel. Picture poor Aunt Varina,

  her old face full of concern, repeating over and over, 'My child, my

  child, I hope I have come in time! Don't scorn the advice of a woman

  who has paid bitterly for her mistakes. You have a good husband, a

  man who loves you devotedly; you are one of the most fortunate of

  women--now do not throw your happiness away!'

  "'Aunt Varina,' I said (I forget if I ever told you that her husband

  gambled and drank, and finally committed suicide) 'Aunt Varina, do

  you really believe that every man is so anxious to get away from his

  wife that it must take her whole stock of energy, her skill in

  diplomacy, to keep him?'

  "'Sylvia,' she answered, "you put things so strangely, you use such

  horribly crude language, I don't know how to talk to you!' (That

  must be your fault, Mary. I never heard such a charge before.) 'I

  can only tell you this--that the wife who permits herself to think

  about other things than her duty to her husband and her children is

  taking a frightful risk. She is playing with fire, Sylvia--she will

  realize too late what it means to set aside the wisdom of her sex,

  the experience of other women for ages and ages!'

  "So there you are, Mary! I am studying another unwritten book, the

  Maxims of Aunt Varina!

  "She has found the remedy for my troubles, the cure for my disease

  of thought--I am to sew! I tell her that I have more clothes than I

  can wear in a dozen seasons, and she answers, in an awesome voice,

  'There is the little stranger!' When I point out that the little

  stranger will be expected to have a 'layette' costing many thousands

  of dollars, she replies, 'They will surely permit him to wear some

  of the things his mother's hands have made.' So, behold me, seated

  on the gallery, learning fancy stitches--and with Kautsky on the

  Social Revolution hidden away in the bottom of my sewing-bag!"

  3. The weeks passed. The legislature at Albany adjourned, without

  regard to our wishes; and so, like the patient spider whose web is

  destroyed, we set to work upon a new one. So much money must be

  raised, so many articles must be written, so many speeches

  delivered, so many people seized upon and harried and wrought to a

  state of mind where they were dangerous to the future career of

  legislators. Such is the process of social reform under the private

  property r�gime; a process which the pure and simple reformers

  imagine we shall tolerate for ever--God save us!

  Sylvia asked me for the news, and I told it to her--how we had

  failed, and what we had to do next. So pretty soon there came by

  registered mail a little box, in which I found a diamond ring. "I

  cannot ask him for money just now," she explained, "but here is

  something that has been mine from girlhood. It cost about four

  hundred dollars--this for your guidance in selling it. Not a day

  passes that I do not see many times that much wasted; so take it for

  the cause." Queen Isabella and her jewels!

  In this letter she told me of a talk she had had with her husband on

 

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