Sylvia's Marriage

by Upton Sinclair

see me upon her return to New York.

  "There is much that has happened that I do not understand," she

  added. "For the present, however, I shall try to dismiss it from my

  mind. I am sure you will agree that it is right for me to give a

  year to being a mother; as I wish you to feel perfectly at peace in

  the meantime, I mention that it is my intention to be a mother only,

  and not a wife. I am showing this letter to my husband before I mail

  it, so that he may know exactly what I am doing, and what I have

  decided to do in the future."

  "Of course," he said, after reading this, "you may send the letter,

  if you insist--but you must realize that you are only putting off

  the issue."

  She made no reply; and at last he asked, "You mean you intend to

  defy me in this matter?"

  "I mean," she replied, quietly, "that for the sake of my baby I

  intend to put off all discussion for a year."

  7. I figured that I should hear from Claire Lepage about two days

  after I reached New York; and sure enough, she called me on the

  'phone. "I want to see you at once," she declared; and her voice

  showed the excitement under which she was labouring.

  "Very well," I said, "come down."

  She entered my little living-room. It was the first time she had

  ever visited me, but she did not stop for a glance about her; she

  did not even stop to sit down. "Why didn't you tell me that you knew

  Sylvia Castleman?" she cried.

  "My dear woman," I replied, "I was not under the least obligation to

  tell you."

  "You have betrayed me!" she exclaimed, wildly.

  "Come, Claire," I said, after I had looked her in the eye a bit to

  calm her. "You know quite well that I was under no bond of secrecy.

  And, besides, I haven't done you any harm."

  "Why did you do it?" I regret to add that she swore.

  "I never once mentioned your name, Claire."

  "How much good do you imagine that does me? They have managed to

  find out everything. They caught me in a trap."

  I reminded myself that it would not do to show any pity for her.

  "Sit down, Claire," I said. "Tell me about it."

  She cried, in a last burst of anger, "I don't want to talk to you!"

  "All right," I answered. "But then, why did you come?"

  There was no reply to that. She sat down. "They were too much for

  me!" she lamented. "If I'd had the least hint, I might have held my

  own. As it was--I let them make a fool of me."

  "You are talking hieroglyphics to me. Who are 'they'?"

  "Douglas, and that old fox, Rossiter Torrance."

  "Rossiter Torrance?" I repeated the name, and then suddenly

  remembered. The thin-lipped old family lawyer!

  "He sent up his card, and said he'd been sent to see me by Mary

  Abbot. Of course, I had no suspicion--I fell right into the trap. We

  talked about you for a while--he even got me to tell him where you

  lived; and then at last he told me that he hadn't come from you at

  all, but had merely wanted to find out if I knew you, and how

  intimate we were. He had been sent by Douglas; and he wanted to know

  right away how much I had told you about Douglas, and why I had done

  it. Of course, I denied that I had told anything. Heavens, what a

  time he gave me!"

  Claire paused. "Mary, how could you have played such a trick upon

  me?"

  "I had no thought of doing you any harm," I replied. "I was simply

  trying to help Sylvia."

  "To help her at any expense!"

  "Tell me, what will come of it? Are you afraid they'll cut off your

  allowance?"

  "That's the threat."

  "But will they carry it out?"

  She sat, gazing at me resentfully. "I don't know whether I ought to

  trust you any more," she said.

  "Do what you please about that," I replied. "I don't want to urge

  you."

  She hesitated a bit longer, and then decided to throw herself upon

  my mercy. They would not dare to carry out their threat, so long as

  Sylvia had not found out the whole truth. So now she had come to beg

  me to tell no more than I had already told. She was utterly abject

  about it. I had pretended to be her friend, I had won her confidence

  and listened to her confessions; how did I wish to ruin her utterly,

  to have her cast out on the street?

  Poor Claire! I said in the early part of my story that she

  understood the language of idealism; but I wonder what I have told

  about her that justifies this. The truth is, she was going down so

  fast that already she seemed a different person; and she had been

  frightened by the thin-lipped old family lawyer, so that she was

  incapable of even a decent pretence.

  "Claire," I said, "there is no need for you to go on like this. I

  have not the slightest intention of telling Sylvia about you. I

  cannot imagine the circumstances that would make me want to tell

  her. Even if I should do it, I would tell her in confidence, so that

  her husband would never have any idea----"

  She went almost wild at this. To imagine that a woman would keep

  such a confidence! As if she would not throw it at her husband's

  head the first time they quarreled! Besides, if Sylvia knew this

  truth, she might leave him; and if she left him, Claire's hold on

  his money would be gone.

  Over this money we had a long and lachrymose interview. And at the

  end of it, there she sat gazing into space, baffled and bewildered.

  What kind of a woman was I? How had I got to be the friend of Sylvia

  van Tuiver? What had she seen in me, and what did I expect to get

  out of her? I answered briefly; and suddenly Claire was overwhelmed

  by a rush of curiosity--plain human curiosity. What was Sylvia like?

  Was she as clever as they said? What was the baby like, and how was

  Sylvia taking the misfortune? Could it really be true that I had

  been visiting the van Tuivers in Florida, as old Rossiter Torrance

  had implied?

  Needless to say, I did not answer these questions freely. And I

  really think my visitor was more pained by my uncommunicativeness

  than she was by my betrayal of her. It was interesting also to

  notice a subtle difference in her treatment of me. Gone was the

  slight touch of condescension, gone was most of the familiarity! I

  had become a personage, a treasurer of high state secrets, an

  intimate of the great ones! There must be something more to me than

  Claire had realized before!

  Poor Claire! She passes here from this story. For years thereafter I

  used to catch a glimpse of her now and then, in the haunts of the

  birds of gorgeous plumage; but I never got a chance to speak to her,

  nor did she ever call on me again. So I do not know if Douglas van

  Tuiver still continues her eight thousand a year. All I can say is

  that when I saw her, her plumage was as gorgeous as ever, and its

  style duly certified to the world that it had not been held over

  from a previous season of prosperity. Twice I thought she had been

  drinking too much; but then--so had many of the other ladies with

  the little glasses of bright-coloured l
iquids before them.

  8. For the rest of that year I knew nothing about Sylvia except what

  I read in the "society" column of my newspaper--that she was

  spending the late summer in her husband's castle in Scotland. I

  myself was suffering from the strain of what I had been through, and

  had to take a vacation. I went West; and when I came back in the

  fall, to plunge again into my work, I read that the van Tuivers, in

  their yacht, the "Triton," were in the Mediterranean, and were

  planning to spend the winter in Japan.

  And then one day in January, like a bolt from the blue, came a

  cablegram from Sylvia, dated Cairo: "Sailing for New York, Steamship

  'Atlantic,' are you there, answer."

  Of course I answered. And I consulted the sailing-lists, and waited,

  wild with impatience. She sent me a wireless, two days out, and so I

  was at the pier when the great vessel docked. Yes, there she was,

  waving her handkerchief to me; and there by her side stood her

  husband.

  It was a long, cold ordeal, while the ship was warped in. We could

  only gaze at each other across the distance, and stamp our feet and

  beat our hands. There were other friends waiting for the van

  Tuivers, I saw, and so I held myself in the background, full of a

  thousand wild speculations. How incredible that Sylvia, arriving

  with her husband, should have summoned me to meet her!

  At last the gangway was let down, and the stream of passengers began

  to flow. In time came the van Tuivers, and their friends gathered to

  welcome them. I waited; and at last Sylvia came to me--outwardly

  calm--but with her emotions in the pressure of her two hands. "Oh,

  Mary, Mary!" she murmured. "I'm so glad to see you! I'm so glad to

  see you!"

  "What has happened?" I asked.

  Her voice went to a whisper. "I am leaving my husband."

  "Leaving your husband!" I stood, dumbfounded.

  "Leaving him for ever, Mary."

  "But--but----" I could not finish the sentence. My eyes moved to

  where he stood, calmly chatting with his friends.

  "He insisted on coming back with me, to preserve appearances. He is

  terrified of the gossip. He is going all the way home, and then

  leave me."

  "Sylvia! What does it mean?" I whispered.

  "I can't tell you here. I want to come and see you. Are you living

  at the same place?"

  I answered in the affirmative.

  "It's a long story," she added. "I must apologise for asking you to

  come here, where we can't talk. But I did it for an important

  reason. I can't make my husband really believe that I mean what I

  say; and you are my Declaration of Independence!" And she laughed,

  but a trifle wildly, and looking at her suddenly, I realized that

  she was keyed almost to the breaking point.

  "You poor dear!" I murmured.

  "I wanted to show him that I meant what I said. I wanted him to see

  us meet. You see, he's going home, thinking that with the help of my

  people he can make me change my mind."

  "But why do you go home? Why not stay here with me? There's an

  apartment vacant next to mine."

  "And with a baby?"

  "There are lots of babies in our tenement," I said. But to tell the

  truth, I had almost forgotten the baby in the excitement of the

  moment. "How is she," I asked.

  "Come and see," said Sylvia; and when I glanced enquiringly at the

  tall gentleman who was chatting with his friends, she added, "She's

  _my_ baby, and I have a right to show her."

  The nurse, a rosy-cheeked English girl in a blue dress and a bonnet

  with long streamers, stood apart, holding an armful of white silk

  and lace. Sylvia turned back the coverings; and again I beheld the

  vision which had so thrilled me--the comical little miniature of

  herself--her nose, her lips, her golden hair. But oh, the pitiful

  little eyes, that did not move! I looked at my friend, uncertain

  what I should say; I was startled to see her whole being aglow with

  mother-pride. "Isn't she a dear?" she whispered. "And, Mary, she's

  learning so fast, and growing--you couldn't believe it!" Oh, the

  marvel of mother-love, I thought--that is blinder than any child it

  ever bore!

  We turned away; and Sylvia said, "I'll come to you as soon as I've

  got the baby settled. Our train starts for the South to-night, so I

  shan't waste any time."

  "God bless you, dear," I whispered; and she gave my hand a squeeze,

  and turned away. I stood for a few moments watching, and saw her

  approach her husband, and exchange a few smiling words with him in

  the presence of their friends. I, knowing the agony that was in the

  hearts of that desperate young couple, marvelled anew at the

  discipline of caste.

  9. She sat in my big arm-chair; and how proud I was of her, and how

  thrilled by her courage. Above all, however, I was devoured by

  curiosity. "Tell me!" I exclaimed.

  "There's so much," she said.

  "Tell me why you are leaving him."

  "Mary, because I don't love him. That's the one reason. I have

  thought it out--I have thought of little else for the last year. I

  have come to see that it is wrong for a woman to live with a man she

  does not love. It is the supreme crime a woman can commit."

  "Ah, yes!" I said. "If you have got that far!"

  "I have got that far. Other things have contributed, but they are

  not the real things--they might have been forgiven. The fact that he

  had this disease, and made my child blind----"

  "Oh! You found out that?"

  "Yes, I found it out."

  "How?"

  "It came to me little by little. In the end, he grew tired of

  pretending, I think." She paused for a moment, then went on, "The

  trouble was over the question of my obligations as a wife. You see,

  I had told him at the outset that I was going to live for my baby,

  and for her alone. That was the ground upon which he had persuaded

  me not to see you or read any of your letters. I was to ask no

  questions, and be nice and bovine--and I agreed. But then, a few

  months ago, my husband came to me with the story of his needs. He

  said that the doctors had given their sanction to our reunion. Of

  course, I was stunned. I knew that he had understood me before we

  left Florida."

  She stopped. "Yes, dear," I said, gently.

  "Well, he said now the doctors were agreed there was no danger to

  either of us. We could take precautions and not have children. I

  could only plead that the whole subject was distressing to me. He

  had asked me to put off my problems till my baby was weaned; now I

  asked him to put off his. But that would not do, it seemed. He took

  to arguing with me. It was an unnatural way to live, and he could

  not endure it. I was a woman, and I couldn't understand this. It

  seemed utterly impossible to make him realize what I felt. I suppose

  he has always had what he wanted, and he simply does not know what

  it is to be denied. It wasn't only a physical thing, I think; it was

  an affront to his pride, a denial of his authority." She st
opped,

  and I saw her shudder.

  "I have been through it all," I said.

  "He wanted to know how long I expected to withhold myself. I said,

  'Until I have got this disease out of my mind, as well as out of my

  body; until I know that there is no possibility of either of us

  having it, to give to the other.' But then, after I had taken a

  little more time to think it over, I said, 'Douglas, I must be

  honest with you. I shall never be able to live with you again. It is

  no longer a question of your wishes or mine--it is a question of

  right or wrong. I do not love you. I know now that it can never

  under any circumstances be right for a woman to give herself in the

  intimacy of the sex-relation without love. When she does it, she is

  violating the deepest instinct of her nature, the very voice of God

  in her soul.'

  "His reply was, 'Why didn't you know that before you married?'

  "I answered, 'I did not know what marriage meant; and I let myself

  be persuaded by others.'

  "'By your own mother!' he declared.

  "I said, 'A mother who permits her daughter to commit such an

  offence is either a slave-dealer, or else a slave.' Of course, he

  thought I was out of my mind at that. He argued about the duties of

  marriage, the preserving of the home, wives submitting themselves to

  their husbands, and so on. He would not give me any peace----"

  And suddenly she started up. I saw in her eyes the light of old

  battles. "Oh, it was a horror!" she cried, beginning to pace the

  floor. "It seemed to me that I was living the agony of all the

  loveless marriages of the world. I felt myself pursued, not merely

  by the importunate desires of one man--I suffered with all the

  millions of women who give themselves night after night without

  love! He came to seem like some monster to me; I could not meet him

  unexpectedly without starting. I forbade him to mention the subject

  to me again, and for a long time he obeyed. But several weeks ago he

  brought it up afresh, and I lost my self-control completely.

  'Douglas,' I said, 'I can stand it no longer! It is not only the

  tragedy of my blind child--it's that you have driven me to hate you.

  You have crushed all the life and joy and youth out of me! You've

  been to me like a terrible black cloud, constantly pressing down on

  me, smothering me. You stalk around me like a grim, sepulchral

  figure, closing me up in the circle of your narrow ideas. But now I

  can endure it no longer. I was a proud, high-spirited girl, you've

  made of me a colourless social automaton, a slave of your stupid

  worldly traditions. I'm turning into a feeble, complaining,

  discontented wife! And I refuse to be it. I'm going home--where at

  least there's some human spontaneity left in people; I'm going back

  to my father!'--And I went and looked up the next steamer!"

  She stopped. She stood before me, with the fire of her wild Southern

  blood shining in her cheeks and in her eyes.

  I sat waiting, and finally she went on, "I won't repeat all his

  protests. When he found that I was really going, he offered to take

  me in the yacht, but I wouldn't go in the yacht. I had got to be

  really afraid of him--sometimes, you know, his obstinacy seems to be

  abnormal, almost insane. So then he decided he would have to go in

  the steamer with me to preserve appearances. I had a letter saying

  that papa was not well, and he said that would serve for an excuse.

  He is going to Castleman County, and after he has stayed a week or

  so, he is going off on a hunting-trip, and not return."

  "And will he do it?"

  "I don't think he expects to do it at present. I feel sure he has

  the idea of starting mamma to quoting the Bible to me, and dragging

  me down with her tears. But I have done all I can to make clear to