Complete weird tales of.., p.580
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 580
“I believe that he was really a great painter, Louis — and have sometimes thought that his character was mediæval at the foundations — with five centuries of civilisation thinly deposited over the bed-rock…. In him there seemed to be something primitive; something untamable, and utterly irreconcilable with, the fundamental characteristics of modern man.
“He was my friend…. Friendship, they say, is a record of misunderstandings; and it was so with us But may I tell you something? José Querida loved me — in his own fashion.
“What kind of a love it was — of what value — I can not tell you. I do not think it was very high in the scale. Only he felt it for me, and for no other woman, I believe.
“It never was a love that I could entirely understand or respect; yet, — it is odd but true — I cared something for it — perhaps because, in spite of its unfamiliar and sometimes repellent disguises — it was love after all.
“And now, as at heart and in mind you and I are one; and as I keep nothing of real importance from you — perhaps can not; I must tell you that José Querida came that day to ask me to marry him.
“I tried to make him understand that I could not think of such a thing; and he lost his head and became violent. That is how the table fell: — I had started toward the door when he sprang back to block me, and the low window-sill caught him under the knees, and he fell outward into the yard.
“I know of course that no blame could rest on me, but it was a terrible and dreadful thing that happened there in one brief second; and somehow it seems to have moved in me depths that have never before been stirred.
“The newspapers, as you know, published it merely as an accident — which it really was. But they might have made it, by innuendo, a horror for me. However, they put it so simply and so unsuspiciously that José Querida might have been any nice man calling on any nice woman.
“Louis, I have never been so lonely in my life as I have been since José Querida died; alas! not because he has gone out of my life forever, but because, somehow, the manner of his death has made me realise how difficult it is for a woman alone to contend with men in a man’s own world.
“Do what she may to maintain her freedom, her integrity, there is always, — sometimes impalpable, sometimes not — a steady, remorseless pressure on her, forcing her unwillingly to take frightened cognisance of men; — take into account their inexorable desire for domination; the subtle cohesion existent among them which, at moments, becomes like a wall of adamant barring, limiting, inclosing and forcing women toward the deep-worn grooves which women have trodden through the sad centuries; — and which they tread still — and will tread perhaps for years to come before the real enfranchisement of mankind begins.
“I do not mean to write bitterly, dear; but, somehow, all this seems to bear significantly, ominously, upon my situation in the world.
“When I first knew you I felt so young, so confident, so free, so scornful of custom, so wholesomely emancipated from silly and unjust conventions, that perhaps I overestimated my own vigour and ability to go my way, unvexed, unfettered in this man’s world, and let the world make its own journey in peace. But it will not.
“Twice, now, within a month, — and not through any conscious fault of mine — this man’s world has shown its teeth at me; I have been menaced by its innate scorn of woman, and have, by chance, escaped a publicity which would have damned me so utterly that I would not have cared to live.
“And dear, for the first time I really begin to understand now what the shelter of a family means; what it is to have law on my side, — and a man who understands his man’s world well enough to fight it with its own weapons; — well enough to protect a woman from things she never dreamed might menace her.
“When that policeman came into my room, — dear, you will think me a perfect coward — but suddenly I seemed to realise what law meant, and that it had power to protect me or destroy me…. And I was frightened, — and the table lay there with the fragments of broken china — and there was that dreadful window — and I — I who knew how he died! — Louis! Louis! guiltless as I was, — blameless in thought and deed — I died a thousand deaths there while the big policeman and the reporters were questioning me.
“If it had not been for what José was generous enough to say, I could never have thought out a lie to tell them; I should have told them how it had really happened…. And what the papers would have printed about him and about me, God only knows.
“Never, never had I needed you as I needed you at that moment…. Well; I lied to them, somehow; I said to them what José had said — that he was seated on the window-ledge, lost his balance, clutched at the table, overturned it, and fell. And they believed me…. It is the first lie since I was a little child, that I have ever knowingly told…. And I know now that I could never contrive to tell another.
“Dear, let me try to think out what is best for us…. And forgive me, Louis, if I can not help a thought or two of self creeping in. I am so terribly alone. Somehow I am beginning to believe that it may sometimes be a weakness to totally ignore one’s self…. Not that I consider myself of importance compared to you, my darling; not that I would fail to set aside any thought of self where your welfare is concerned. You know that, don’t you?
“But I have been wondering how it would be with you if I passed quietly
and absolutely out of your life. That is what I am trying to determine.
Because it must be either that or the tie unrecognised by civilisation.
And which would be better for you? I do not know yet. I ask more time.
Don’t write me. Your silence will accord it.
“You are always in my thoughts.
“VALERIE.”
Ogilvy came into the studio that afternoon, loquacious, in excellent humour, and lighting a pipe, detailed what news he had while Neville tried to hide his own deep perplexity and anxiety under a cordial welcome.
“You know,” said Ogilvy, “that all the time you’ve given me and all your kindness and encouragement has made a corker of that picture of mine.”
“You did it yourself,” said Neville. “It’s good work, Sam.”
“Sure it’s good work — being mostly yours. And what do you think, Kelly; it’s sold!”
“Good for you!”
“Certainly it’s good for me. I need the mazuma. A courteous multi purchased it for his Long Branch cottage — said cottage costing a million. What?”
“Oh, you’re doing very well,” laughed Neville.
“I’ve got to…. I’ve — h’m! — undertaken to assume obligations toward civilisation — h’m! — and certain duties to my — h’m — country—”
“What on earth are you driving at?” asked Neville, eying him.
“Huh! Driving single just at present; practising for tandem — h’m! — and a spike — h’m — some day — I hope — of course—”
“Sam!”
“Hey?”
“Are you trying to say something?”
“Oh, Lord, no! Why, Kelly, did you suspect that I was really attempting to convey anything to you which I was really too damned embarrassed to tell you in the patois of my native city?”
“It sounded that way,” observed Neville, smiling.
“Did it?” Ogilvy considered, head on one side. “Did it sound anything like a — h’m! — a man who was trying to — h’m! — to tell you that he was going to — h’m! — to try to get somebody to try to let him try to tell her that he wanted to — marry her?”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Neville, bewildered, “what do you mean?”
Ogilvy pirouetted, picked up a mahl-stick, and began a lively fencing bout with an imaginary adversary.
“I’m going to get married,” he said amiably.
“What!”
“Sure.”
“To whom?”
“To Hélène d’Enver. Only she doesn’t know it yet.”
“What an infernal idiot you are, Sam!”
“Ya-as, so they say. Some say I’m an ass, others a bally idiot, others merely refer to me as imbecile. And so it goes, Kelly, — so it goes.”
He flourished his mahl-stick, neatly punctured the air, and cried “Hah!” very fiercely.
Then he said:
“I’ve concluded to let Hélène know about it this afternoon.”
“About what? — you monkey?”
“About our marriage. Won’t it surprise her though! Oh, no! But I think I’ll let her into the secret before some suspicious gink gets wind of it and tells her himself.”
Neville looked at the boy, perplexed, undecided, until he caught his eye. And over Sam’s countenance stole a vivid and beauteous blush.
“Sam! I — upon my word I believe you mean it!”
“Sure I do!”
Neville grasped his hand:
“My dear fellow!” he said cordially, “I was slow, not unsympathetic. I’m frightfully glad — I’m perfectly delighted. She’s a charming and sincere woman. Go in and win and God bless you both!”
Ogilvy wrung his hand, then, to relieve his feelings, ran all over the floor like a spider and was pretending to spin a huge web in a corner when Harry Annan and Rita Tevis came in and discovered him.
“Hah!” he exclaimed, “flies! Two nice, silly, appetising flies. Pretend to fall into my web, Rita, and begin to buzz like mad!”
Rita’s dainty nose went up into the air, but Annan succumbed to the alluring suggestion, and presently he was buzzing frantically in a corner while Sam spun an imaginary web all over him.
Rita and Neville looked on for a while.
“Sam never will grow up,” she said disdainfully.
“He’s fortunate,” observed Neville.
“You don’t think so.”
“I wish I knew what I did think, Rita. How is John?”
“I came to tell you. He has gone to Dartford.”
“To see Dr. Ogilvy? Good! I’m glad, Rita. Billy Ogilvy usually makes people do what he tells them to do.”
[Illustration: “Ogilvy … began a lively fencing bout with an imaginary adversary.”]
The girl stood silent, eyes lowered. After a while she looked up at him; and in her unfaltering but sorrowful gaze he read the tragedy which he had long since suspected.
Neither spoke for a moment; he held out both hands; she laid hers in them, and her gaze became remote.
After a while she said in a low voice:
“Let me be with you now and then while he’s away; will you, Kelly?”
“Yes. Would you like to pose for me? I haven’t anything pressing on hand. You might begin now if it suits you.”
“May I?” she asked gratefully.
“Of course, child…. Let me think—” He looked again into her dark blue eyes, absently, then suddenly his attention became riveted upon something which he seemed to be reading in her face.
Long before Sam and Harry had ended their puppy-like scuffling and had retired to woo their respective deputy-muses, Rita was seated on the model-stand, and Neville had already begun that strange and sombre picture afterward so famous, and about which one of the finest of our modern poets wrote:
”Her gold hair, fallen about her face
Made light within that shadowy place,
But on her garments lay the dust
Of many a vanished race.
”Her deep eyes, gazing straight ahead,
Saw years and days and hours long dead,
While strange gems glittered at her feet,
Yellow, and green, and red.
”And ever from the shadows came
Voices to pierce her heart like flame,
The great bats fanned her with their wings,
The voices called her name.
”But yet her look turned not aside
From the black deep where dreams abide,
Where worlds and pageantries lay dead
Beneath that viewless tide.
”Her elbow on her knee was set,
Her strong hand propt her chin, and yet
No man might name that look she wore,
Nor any man forget.”
All day long in the pleasant June weather they worked together over the picture; and if he really knew what he was about, it is uncertain, for his thoughts were of Valerie; and he painted as in a dream, and with a shadowy splendour that seemed even to him unreal.
They scarcely spoke; now and then Rita came silently on sandalled feet to stand behind him and look at what he had done.
The first time she thought to herself, “Querida!” But the second time she remained mute; and when the daylight was waning to a golden gloom in the room she came a third time and stood with one hand on his arm, her eyes fixed upon the dawning mystery on the canvas — spellbound under the sombre magnificence already vaguely shadowed forth from infinite depth of shade.
Gladys came and rubbed and purred around his legs; the most recent progeny toddled after her, ratty tails erect; sportive, casual little optimists frisking unsteadily on wavering legs among the fading sunbeams on the floor.
The sunbeams died out on wall and ceiling; high through the glass roof above, a shoal of rosy clouds paled to saffron, then to a cinder gray. And the first night-hawk, like a huge, erratic swallow, sailed into view, soaring, tumbling aloft, while its short raucous cry sounded incessantly above the roofs and chimneys.
Neville was still seated before his canvas, palette flat across his left arm, the sheaf of wet brushes held loosely.
“I suppose you are dining with Valerie,” he said.
“No.”
He turned and looked at her, inquiringly.
“Valerie has gone away.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, Kelly…. I was not to know.”
“I see.” He picked up a handful of waste and slowly began to clean the brushes, one by one. Then he drove them deep into a bowl of black soap.
“Shall we dine together here, Rita?”
“If you care to have me.”
“Yes, I do.”
He laid aside his palette, rang up the kitchen, gave his order, and slowly returned to where Rita was seated.
Dinner was rather a silent affair. They touched briefly and formally on Querida and his ripening talent prematurely annihilated; they spoke of men they knew who were to come after him — a long, long way after him.
“I don’t know who is to take his place,” mused Neville over his claret.
“You.”
“Not his place, Rita. He thought so; but that place must remain his.”
“Perhaps. But you are carving out your own niche in a higher tier. You are already beginning to do it; and yesterday his niche was the higher…. Yet, after all — after all—”
[Illustration: “Then Rita came silently on sandalled feet to stand behind him and look at what he had done.”]
He nodded. “Yes,” he said, “what does it matter to him, now? A man carves out his resting place as you say, but he carves it out in vain. Those who come after him will either place him in his proper sepulchre … or utterly neglect him…. And neglect or transfer will cause him neither happiness nor pain…. Both are ended for Querida; — let men exalt him above all, or bury him and his work out of sight — what does he care about it now? He has had all that life held for him, and what another life may promise him no man can know. All reward for labour is here, Rita; and the reward lasts only while the pleasure in labour lasts. Creative work — even if well done — loses its savour when it is finished. Happiness in it ends with the final touch. It is like a dead thing to him who created it; men’s praise or blame makes little impression; and the aftertaste of both is either bitter or flat and lasts but a moment.”
“Are you a little morbid, Kelly?”
“Am I?”
“It seems to me so.”
“And you, Rita?”
She shook her pretty head in silence.
After a while Gladys jumped up into her lap, and she lay back in her arm-chair smoothing the creature’s fur, and gazing absently into space.
“Kelly,” she said, “how many, many years ago it seems when you came up to Delaware County to see us.”
“It seems very long ago to me, too.”
She lifted her blue eyes:
“May I speak plainly? I have known you a long while. There is only one man I like better. But there is no woman in the world whom I love as I love Valerie West…. May I speak plainly?”
“Yes.”
“Then — be fair to her, Kelly. Will you?”
“I will try.”
“Try very hard. For after all it is a man’s world, and she doesn’t understand it. Try to be fair to her, Kelly. For — whether or not the laws that govern the world are man-made and unjust — they are, nevertheless, the only laws. Few men can successfully fight them; no woman can — yet…. I am not angering you, am I?”
“No. Go on.”
“I have so little to say — I who feel so deeply — deeply…. And the laws are always there, Kelly, always there — fair or unfair, just or unjust — they are always there to govern the world that framed them. And a woman disobeys them at her peril.”
She moved slightly in her chair and sat supporting her head on one pretty ringless hand.
“Yet,” she said, “although a woman disobeys any law at her peril — laws which a man may often ignore with impunity — there is one law to which no woman should dare subscribe. And it is sometimes known as ‘The Common Law of Marriage.’”
She sat silent for a while, her gaze never leaving his shadowy face.
“That is the only law — if it is truly a law — that a woman must ignore. All others it is best for her to observe. And if the laws of marriage are merely man-made or divine, I do not know. There is a din in the world to-day which drowns the voices preaching old beliefs…. And a girl is deafened by the clamour…. And I don’t know.
“But, it seems to me, that back of the laws men have made — if there be nothing divine in their inspiration — there is another foundation solid enough to carry them. Because it seems to me that the world’s laws — even when unjust — are built on natural laws. And how can a girl say that these natural laws are unjust because they have fashioned her to bear children and feed them from her own body?
