CHAPTER XIXSELDEN TAKES AN INVENTORY
“I HOPE to find love some day!”
Those words were in Selden’s mind when he went to sleep that night and when he awoke next morning, and he lay for a long time thinking of the woman who had uttered them and of the story she had told him. To find love some day—there was a fit ambition for every human heart! But how often it was pushed aside by greed, by cynicism, by selfishness, by fear—by any number of cold and worldly things!
As it had been with himself. He could not but admit it. Perhaps in some thin and far-off fashion, he still hoped to find love some day; there had been moments haunted by a vision of himself seated cosily before a glowing hearth, and not alone; but somehow, as the years passed, that figure sitting there in slippered ease had grown older and older, grey haired, even a little stiff in the joints from long campaigning. It had remained himself, indeed, but always himself thirty years hence.
For it is not only true that a rolling stone gathers no moss, but wishes to gather none; as time goes on, even grows to fear moss, or anything else that mars the hard smoothness which enables it to keep on rolling.
Selden had been rolling, now, for many years. It was his first assignment to foreign work, to cover one of the Balkan wars, which had enabled him to cast loose his anchors, and he had never been seriously tempted to pick them up again. He had come to love rolling for its own sake. The wandering life of the special writer was congenial to his blood. It was of intense interest, for it enabled him to get past the fire-lines at every holocaust, and it gave him a prestige, a sense of power, impossible to any sedentary job. The thought of being chained to a desk—of being chained even to a house—revolted him. He wanted always to be able to throw his things into a bag and take the road at a moment’s notice, without the necessity of explanations to any one, or anything to hold him back.
For a long time he had told himself that it was his career he was jealous of—that nothing should touch that. It should be his task to interpret Europe to America and America to Europe—to labour night and day to bring the peoples of the old and the new worlds to a mutual comprehension and a common interest. But of late, questionings had crept in, whispered doubts. Was he really accomplishing anything, was he really going ahead?
As he lay there that morning thinking it over, taking such inventory of himself as he could, he realized that it was no longer any thought for his career which drove him on, but merely the force of habit. He had reverted to type. The stone had been rolling so long that rolling had become a second nature.
For in spite of the convention which women sedulouslyfoster and even sometimes believe, man is not by nature a domestic animal. He has been partially tamed by centuries of restraint, his spirit has been broken by the manifold burdens laid upon him; for generation after generation, all the pillars of society have struggled to convince him that the greatest blessings he can hope to win in this world are a wife and children and that his highest privilege is to labour to support them; all the forces of law, of civilization, of public opinion, have conspired to hobble, shackle and coerce him. And yet, in spite of everything, he sometimes manages to break loose; while few women suspect what moments of desperation often overwhelm even the meekest father of a family.
Selden had broken loose. Now, at last, he was beginning to wonder whether freedom was worth the price.
As for his career, he had reached its apex. He could go on writing specials, yes; he could go on casting a feeble light into the dark corners of the earth, dissecting the motives of public men, perhaps influencing public opinion a little—a very little; but he would never be any more powerful, any better known, than he was at that moment. Indeed, his influence and his fame must both diminish—imperceptibly for a while perhaps, but none the less surely, for he could not hope that the future would by any possibility bring such opportunities as the past six years had brought. From this point onward his career could be only a descent.
Besides, he was himself growing weary of the game. The world had gone stale, had gone cold and sceptical. The fine enthusiasms, the wide sympathies,the common brotherhood of war days had waned and vanished. And his own enthusiasms had vanished too. He remembered bitterly the ardour with which he had gone to work to combat the traducers of the League of Nations, and with what certainty of success. He had felt sure of his country, of her generous soul, her instinct for right, her jealousy of her honour, and he had never recovered from the shock when she denied the League. It had left him stunned and incredulous.
He had buckled on his armour again and laboured to set her right, but, so far as he could see, with absolutely no result. He had simply wasted his time. The doctrine of world effort, of world helpfulness, of world responsibility, which he had preached with such conviction, had fallen upon deaf or hostile ears. So he preached it no longer. He was worn out.
But what remained? Nothing that seemed to him worth while. Oh, he could still bring some food to Austria’s starving children; he could still help or hinder the plans of a petty king; he could still take France’s part in her struggle against isolation. But other men could do that just as well as he.
Perhaps it would be better worth while if he could make a woman happy; a woman whom no other man could make happy....
But how imbecile to suppose there was such a woman! And if there were, what had he to offer her? To drag her down with him on his long descent? No—that was a journey which he would make alone!
And at this point he threw off the covers, boundedout of bed, rang for breakfast, and plunged into his bath, which he made much colder than usual.
He needed bracing. He was getting soft.
After breakfast he settled resolutely to work on the last of his Austrian articles—a summary of the situation, not half so desperate as certain financiers had pictured it, for nothing could deprive Vienna of her position at the very centre of the system along which flowed the trade of central Europe. He kept doggedly at work until it was finished, and as he read it over he decided that it was the best of the lot. At least, he told himself, he had not forgotten how to write!
So it was to a composed and apparently normal Selden that the card of Mr. Charles Wharton Davis was presently handed in, with that young gentleman close behind it. It seemed to Selden, as he greeted him, that his air was unusually subdued.
“You didn’t wait for me last night,” Davis began, accusingly.
“No—did you finally break the bank?”
“Damn the bank! I want to talk to you seriously.”
“All right; fire ahead. But sit down, won’t you?”
Davis sat down and looked about the room for a moment, as though trying to find a place to begin.
“I had another talk with mother this morning,” he said finally.
“About Miss Fayard?”
“Yes. She got quite violent—says she has other plans for me—that she’ll tie up all my money.”
“I know,” said Selden, smiling. “She wants you to marry the Princess Anna.”
“My God!” groaned Davis, his face turning pale with horror. “That—that—why, she’s got a moustache, Selden! No; I won’t do it! Look here, you’ve got to help me. I’ve done my part.”
“Suppose you tell me about that first,” Selden suggested.
“Oh, it was just as I thought,” said Davis, disgustedly. “Sis knew all about it. She fired up and told me to mind my own business. None of my family takes me seriously. Mother thinks this is just a boy and girl affair. It’s not—I’m a man and I’m going to be treated as a man!”
“Wait a minute,” said Selden; “you’re getting ahead of your story. Tell me exactly what you said to your sister.”
“I asked her if she knew that Danilo had a morganatic wife, because if she didn’t know it, I thought it was my duty to tell her so.”
“Yes; and what did she say?”
“She said of course she knew it; that that was all arranged, and that she wished I would attend to my own affairs, which certainly required my attention! I said yes, I knew they did, and that if she wanted to be a real sister to me, she’d help me out—that I’d fallen in love with the sweetest girl on earth....”
“Go ahead,” Selden encouraged, as Davis paused. “What did she say to that?”
“She said ‘Piffle!’ or something like that; and then I got mad, and told her that she couldn’t fool me—that I had seen through her from the start—all that fol-de-rol about helping that little stinking country out there—when her whole object was justto get even with Jeneski because he had thrown her over....”
“Wait a minute!” Selden interrupted, sitting bolt upright. “What do you mean by that? Do you mean that Jeneski and your sister were engaged to be married?”
“Oh, no; I was just laying it on a little heavy. But Jeneski and father were always chewing the rag in the library of evenings, and sis used to hang around and pretend she understood, and all she could talk about was Jeneski and the wonderful things he was going to do. She was certainly crazy about him. And then all at once she shut up, and after a while I learned that Jeneski had pulled out for Europe—so I just put two and two together. But I may be all wrong.”
“What did your sister say when you made this—er—accusation?”
“Oh,” said Davis, with a grin; “the door slammed about then.”
Selden sat for a moment looking at him. Could this be the key to Myra Davis’s conduct? It fitted certainly, or seemed to—and yet....
“So, since I couldn’t get any sympathy at home, I came over here,” Davis concluded.
“Well, you are not going to get much here,” said Selden. “If you want to be treated like a man you’ve got to act like one, and a man doesn’t drink too much champagne whenever he gets the chance, nor fool away his time at a roulette table, nor live off of money somebody else has earned. I think it is a good thing your money is tied up—maybe you willhave to go to work. And I’ll never ask your mother to turn it over to you—not till you have proved there is something in you. Imightask her to allow you something to live on till you can find a job, and Imightpoint out to her that Miss Fayard is a darn sight too good for you, but not till you promise to brace up!”
Davis’s face had darkened a little at the beginning of this tirade, but it was radiant before Selden finished.
“I’ll do anything you say,” he protested. “I know I’ve been a good deal of a rotter. Just give me a chance!”
“All right,” said Selden. “That’s exactly what I’m proposing to do.”
“Then I’ll go tell Cicette it’s all settled,” and Davis jumped to his feet.
“How do you mean settled?” Selden demanded.
“I’m going to reform, and you’re going to see Mother. That’s the bargain, isn’t it?”
“I’m going to see your motherafteryou have reformed.”
“Well, this is after,” Davis pointed out with a grin. “I reformed fully five minutes ago. Look here, old man,” he went on more seriously, “don’t think I’m not eternally grateful—I am.”
“Shut up and get out!” Selden ordered. He was beginning really to like the boy.
“Come and have lunch with me,” Davis suggested. “Maybe Madame Ghita will let me take Cicette, if you’re along.”
“Good Lord! I’ve an engagement for lunch!”and Selden jerked out his watch. “I can just make it. Get out of here!”
“All right,” said Davis. “But remember, my fate is in your hands!”
Half an hour later, Selden and Scott sat down together at a little table on the terrace of Amirauté’s, among the olive trees, high above the sea, and attacked a great dish of tiny sole, browned to a crisp and unbelievably sweet and delicate, which Scott had ordered. And after that there were tournados garnished with slices of foie gras. And finally there was a basket of fruit and nuts—figs from the oases of the Sahara, grapes from Malaga, oranges from Morocco, paper-shelled almonds and walnuts from the Aurès....
They had talked of desultory things, of old experiences, during the meal; but with the coffee and cigars, Scott brought the talk abruptly back to the present.
“Anything new about the restoration?” he asked.
“No—except that I heard last night Jeneski is on his way here.”
Scott whistled softly.
“What do you suppose he expects to do?”
“Heaven knows.”
“He will stir up some excitement, anyway,” said Scott. “I met him once—he’s an electric sort of fellow; you can almost see the sparks flying when he gets excited. And he will be excited all right—but it seems to me the person to be pitied most in this affair isn’t Jeneski or Miss Davis, but Danilo.”
“Why do you pity him?”
“Well, if it was me,” said Scott slowly, “I wouldn’t give up a woman like Madame Ghita—not for any throne on earth. And neither would you,” Scott added, looking at him.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Selden agreed, gazing out across the water; “not if she loved me.”
“You mean she doesn’t love the prince? Well, I suppose not. She is a very extraordinary woman. She got me to talking about you last night,” he added in another tone; “she wanted to know all about you.”
“Yes,” said Selden; “she told me you had been blowing off. I could see what you were trying to do. I appreciate it, old man.”
Scott nodded curtly.
“It is finished, then—her affair with the prince?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fine!” said Scott, and nodded again. “What are you going to do, now you have finished your Balkan stuff?” he asked, after a moment.
“I don’t know. I was thinking about it this morning. The fact is, Scott, I have lost my edge. I’m beginning to go downhill.”
“Nonsense!” Scott protested. “Downhill! You make me tired!” But there was a certain anxiety in his eyes as he looked at Selden.
“It is true, though. You know what I have been working for and how I have failed. The League is dead so far as America is concerned.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Anyway, my people have intimated that I might as well quit writing about it—nobody wants to read that sort of stuff any more, it seems.”
Scott puffed his cigar reflectively for a moment.
“I’m inclined to think you are right, old man, in a certain sense,” he said at last. “As a special correspondent, you have reached the summit—you can’t go any higher because there is no higher place to go to. But that doesn’t mean you are going to give up fighting for the things you believe in. You have a following—I don’t think you realize how large it is; and right now is the time for you to strike out for something bigger.”
“Such as what?” asked Selden sceptically.
“I haven’t thought it out—but what I see at this moment is a great liberal weekly, with you as editor-in-chief and the strongest kind of a staff—the kind you could get together better than any other man I know. I have thought for a long time that the day of the literary monthly—the Scribner, Harper, Century type—is about over, and that the time is ripe for the liberal weekly, dealing in a large way with world affairs and social progress and politics—and art and literature too, of course. I know there are already three or four, but they are all handicapped by some sort of mental bias or astigmatism or spiritual dyspepsia. Now is the time for the real thing. And you are the man to start it.”
Selden laughed a little bitterly.
“I didn’t know you were such a dreamer, Scott!”
“It isn’t a dream.”
“Yes, it is. Apart from all question of myself, where is the money to come from? You don’t imagine it would be self-supporting?”
“Of course not—not for a long time. It musthave financial backing—the right sort—strong enough to make it independent in every way.”
“But how can a liberal paper hope to get financial backing? How can any paper get financial backing without mortgaging its opinions? It can’t be done.”
“Yes, it can,” said Scott. “At least, I believe it can. There must be one disinterested millionaire somewhere in the world! I’ll take a look for him. Meanwhile, there is another thing you want to do: get married—to the right woman.”
“I suppose you’ve already got her picked out for me,” remarked Selden, with irony.
“As it happens, I have,” said Scott coolly. “I was talking to her last night.”
Selden stared at him, all his blood in his face.
“Do you mean Madame Ghita?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” Scott answered curtly.
“But look here,” Selden stammered, “you’re joking, of course! Do you suppose I’d have the nerve ... I’m not good enough for her ... I’m not big enough....”
“Of course you’re not,” broke in Scott impatiently. “But that doesn’t matter, if you can make her happy. Think what it would mean to live with a woman like that!”
“Yes,” said Selden, between set teeth; “I have thought....”
“And she could make any man big—if she loved him!”
“Ah, yes,” agreed Selden hoarsely, “if she loved him! She couldn’t love me!”
“I don’t know,” retorted Scott; “women do strange things sometimes. Why not ask her?”
And he threw away his cigar and called for the bill.