In Pace Conquiescare
Toward midnight, Paul Duval emerged from 355 McDougal Street, quietly closed the battered door behind him, and descended the steps. He slouched along the street, with the brim of his felt hat, which dangled over his ears, flapping up and down to the rhythm of his stride. Probably, he thought, some one would take him for a murderer or a burglar—although, to be sure, such people use automobiles in this twentieth century. Paul was especially conscious that the policeman leaning against a post of the elevated railway, did peer at him searchingly, whistled something, and twirled his stick meditatively. But perhaps all this was fancy, aided by the dim light of the arcs.
It was, however, likely that Paul carried with him a remnant of the atmosphere of the death-chamber he had just left—the green-walled room in the rear of 355 where Hanaré Tierens had died—and that the remembrance of this most recent experience created in his mind a marked sensitiveness to ghostly things such as policemen and Greenwich Village arc-lights. That calm, livid face, with its peculiarly French nose, had passed through some experience of which Paul, at least, knew nothing. He still felt the pressure of Hanaré’s hand, which he had held until the last moment. It had relaxed and become dead. What a world of truth and wonder was there in that moment, that relaxation!
Few men, Paul thought, had ever passed through emotions such as his own had been. It was bad enough to see one’s old friend and adviser die; to feel a hand relax, the way Hanaré’s had; to realize that it belonged no longer to a friend or an adviser. This, Paul reflected, was bad enough. But there had also been a girl—Hanaré’s daughter; a girl whom Paul had passionately loved for the last five years; a girl whose drawn, white face stood out now in his memory, like a ghost, to aggravate the torture in his heart. These two had sat facing each other during the last hours, when the doctor had gone, and the rest of the house was asleep. They had not exchanged a word. The tragedy had been heightened by the silence. Paul had expressed his love too often for her tobe able to forget, even at this time, the intensity of his passion. And once, when their eyes met, he knew that in her young heart one more sorrow had thus been added to her present burden—a sympathy for him, and a feeling of almost shame that she could not respond to his love.
Then there had been a frightful kind of mental telepathy which carried even his most involuntary thoughts over to her. How could he help thinking that since she was now alone, without her father, she might accept him as a lover and a protector? How could he avoid extending his sympathy for her distress into a conviction that, since she needed comfort, some overt expression of his love was justified? Indeed, once when she had laid her head in despair upon the dying man’s breast, Paul had stretched out his hand and stroked her hair. She had, then, taken his hand in hers, pressed it, and released it. The situation only seemed to strengthen the barrier between them, and to make them even more intensely conscious of it.
These thoughts flowed slowly through Paul’s mind, now that he was out on the street, walking toward his apartment. He cursed himself for his selfishness and for bringing into a death-chamber such passions and emotions, thereby to heighten a young girl’s distress. What if they were the passions of a lifetime! What if they had caused him inexpressible suffering! He was none the less a selfish brute, immersed in his own selfishness.
Upon passing a quick-lunch room, he decided to enliven his tired mind by indulging in some coffee and doughnuts. He opened the door, walked past the shiny, white-topped tables, and approached the counter. Here he was at once surprised by the beauty of the girl’s face, which confronted him, and which stood out against the background of coffee containers, cups, saucers, shredded wheat boxes, and the like, as though an inhabitant of his dreams had been transposed to this earthly environment. Paul, who was sleepy and dazed, stared at her until she was forced to drop her lashes and hide from him the blue depths of her eyes.
“I am Paul Duval,” he said, in his absent-minded way, “and I should like some coffee.”
The girl turned and drew it from the container. Paul watched her—the slim back and the delicate, white skin which showed through her fine blouse.
“A strange world,” he sighed as she turned toward him with the coffee. “Isn’t it?”
He had not meant it offensively. And as she gazed into his vague, grey eyes, saw the sallow cheeks and the whimsical expression on the mouth, she divined that he was not talking about the world but about himself.
“Do you think so?” she smiled.
“Don’t you?”
“I think you are a strange person!” she laughed, turned on her heel gayly, and pretended to busy herself with something below the counter. Paul noticed that her voice was quite cultured.
“Do you work here—always?” he asked.
“One week,” she passed nonchalantly from one little task to another. “This is my first night’s work—my last, too—Fred was sick.”
“Who’s Fred?” Paul found it difficult to keep up with her.
“Night-man. Did you want anything else?” She leaned across the counter, exposing her slim arms, and a pair of delicate hands. She looked up at him, laughing.
Stupidly he remembered that he had come there to drink coffee. He fumbled for his cup.
“No,” he said, “—eh—that is—I’d like some doughnuts.”
She procured the doughnuts, and Paul reluctantly shambled off to a nearby table, where he sat down, facing the counter. It was indeed strange that this girl should exert so much attraction over him. He had seen beautiful women before during his twenty-six years of varied existence. However, he remembered with a smile that since women had meant anything to him at all, he had been in love: first with a stolidly serious young lady, who was now married to a man much older than herself, and then with Marie Tierens. This latter affair had been going on for the past five or six years. It had become his ideal. It had given Paul the conviction that if a man is going to marry a decent woman,—well—the least he can do is to be decent himself. At the heart of civilization, he thought, lay the unitary standard. And thus he had crossed in safety numerous pitfalls which present themselves to the average hack-writer—the small dealer in ideas.
But to-night, ah, well—even one’s deepest ideals are shatteredat times. The excruciating emotions of the past few hours had left him like a rudderless ship, adrift in a sea of bewildering passions. Hanaré was gone now. Without Hanaré life could never be the same. And Hanaré’s daughter had changed. She had become an independent woman. There was defiance in her eyes, instead of that ancient girlishness which had always kept hope alive in Paul’s heart. Indeed, the world had changed. For better or for worse, Paul, too, had changed.
In those intense moments of a man’s lifetime, wherein the past, together with the ideals which epitomize the past, are relinquished and a new method of life undertaken—in those moments a man is not fully conscious of all that he is doing. He moves in response to the predominant feeling in his heart. And there opens up before him new and unexplored vistas of life, at the other end of which he hopes to find some sort of Eldorado. To-night Paul was craving for beauty. Beauty to alleviate the coarseness of the death-chamber. Beauty to help him forget the face and the eyes of a girl who could no longer truly be called “his” girl.
He was awakened from his short reverie by a voice close beside him. “Good-night,” it said cheeringly. Paul looked up to behold the girl of the counter, in a blue serge dress, with a dark blue hat slanted to one side of her head. She waved to him as she passed. Paul gathered his queer legs together, and arose.
“Eh—are you going?”
The girl turned. “Yes,” she said, “I’m only on duty until one o’clock.”
“Really? Is itthat late?” He felt for his watch, but could not find it.
“Good-night,” said the girl again.
“I say,” said Paul, as though he were embarrassed, “perhaps—well—wouldn’t it be rather nice if I were to take you home? We could—eh—go somewhere—dance—first.”
“Dance! At one o’clock?” she laughed. “I don’t think we could.”
“Of course.”
She made no move to go, nor did Paul, who was standing close to her. At length she took hold of his arm.
“Well, are you coming?”
They walked out of the restaurant and down the deserted street together.
The night spent itself. Some sort of a dawn crept across the city and touched the edges of the windows in the rear of 355 McDougal Street. As the grey light penetrated the room on the third floor, a girl, who had been lying across the body of a dead man, arose, looked stupidly about her, rubbed her eyes, and went over to the window where she gazed across the damp Greenwich Village roofs. She thought, perhaps, that she was going mad, with this silence which penetrated her whole nature, like the cold dawn that had just penetrated the night. But, strangely enough, it was not altogether her own loneliness, nor yet the painful sense of loss at the death of her father, nor even the ghostliness of his figure on the bed, that was thus driving her toward insanity. Rather, it was the remembrance of Paul’s face, the knowledge of his suffering for her, and the feeling that, although she could never love him—really love him, as she had pictured love in her girlhood dreams—still, the death of her father had removed the last tangible excuse which she had to offer him. She felt that it was not right to add to his sorrow for Hanaré’s death, a still larger grief caused by her own selfishness.
She smiled tearfully as she gazed out of the window. Why, she was making it appear like a case of duty!—and, of course, no one ought to marry for duty. Actually, it was not altogether a case of duty. Actually, she was alone—and afraid of her own loneliness. Indeed, the image of Paul came to her like a light shining through the darkness. He was forced upon her, by the strength of circumstances. Hanaré was gone now. Without Hanaré life could never be the same. Paul had become essential to her very existence. Love him or not, he was essential to her existence.
As the sun rose and the day wore on, and she went about her necessary tasks, it seemed to her almost as though she loved Paul. She had never had a feeling quite so compelling as this. Before her father’s death, she had never wished to marry. She had contemplated some sort of a career, with her painting and her sculpture, which she inherited from Hanaré. Besides, her father had needed her. He had been a solitary man, with few friends,a dreamy personality, and so absent-minded that he required her constant attention. Thus life had seemed to her best, close to her father’s side, managing the little household, and doing her art at her leisure. The thought of children to take care of revolted her. And as yet no passion had entered her life, sufficiently powerful to make this secluded existence seem trivial or repulsive. Nor was there anything about Paul Duval to attract her strongly. He was the nicest and kindest man in the world, and he loved Hanaré; but for a husband—well—what was the use of a husband, anyway?
She felt differently now. She wanted Paul. Yet all day he stayed away.
Toward evening there came to her again the sensation that she was going mad. It was simply inhuman of Paul to leave her alone like this. There had been, of course, the neighbors, who offered their sympathetic assistance, and who tried to comfort this strange, silent girl, whom none of them understood. But because of her yearning for Paul, the neighbors only aggravated her nervous sorrow. And although she had consented to sleep with an elderly woman in another part of the house, until her father should be buried, nevertheless, late that night, she felt herself irresistibly drawn to Hanaré’s stiff corpse; and she crept into the ghostly room, in her night-gown, to appease that unnatural craving. This was about ten o’clock. She sat for some minutes on the edge of the bed, but could find no consolation. Suddenly she jumped up with the wild resolve to go to Paul’s apartment and find out what had happened to him.
She reflected, as she slipped on her clothes, that this was a most unwomanly course of action. She was impelled toward it by the almost inhuman nature of her circumstances. She hoped Paul would understand. She hoped nothing had happened to him. Perhaps she could even be of some comfort to him, in this recent sorrow which so obviously depressed him.
In fact, as she made her away along the winding streets of Greenwich Village, Marie began to feel almost exultant. A new joy entered her heart, because she was relieving herself of intolerable burdens, and because, too, she was bringing to Paul a surprise-present for which he had been waiting many years. She began timidly to picture to herself Paul’s expression, first uponseeing her, and later—perhaps even days later—when he should realize what this new resolve of hers meant to both of them. She found herself immensely relieved at the thought of transferring her small belongings from her present dreary apartment to his own. Her collection of books, her pictures, yes, and even her paints and her sculptor’s tools—all these she would show to Paul as belonging to both of them together. In his eyes and in his mouth would come that look of appreciation for things which were such precious possessions. It would be inexpressible relief! A happy life! They were both dreamers—
She arrived, a trifle breathless, at his apartment, which was four stories up in a brick building that boasted of no elevator. She knocked several times on the thin, wooden door, but no one answered. So she tried the door knob, found that it was unlatched, opened the door timidly, and gazed in. There was a vestibule leading into the sitting-room, and since the latter was lighted, she proceeded on tip-toe toward it. Upon entering she perceived a long, narrow room, hazy with tobacco smoke and heavy with the odor of stale whiskey. The bric-a-brac and furniture were in a state of disorder. There were a couple of empty bottles on the table—glasses and books. She perceived a thin, sallow figure, sprawled out in the morris chair, staring at her in a glazed way, like a dead man.
“Paul!” she cried.
Paul moved slowly, blinked his eyes, shuddered. “Eh?”
“Paul!”
“I should not have wished you to see me like this,” he said, as though her coming were the most natural thing in the world.
“Are you—all right?”
“Yes, a little dazed.”
“Why have you been drinking?”
He sighed and bowed his head, in a tired way, until his chin touched his disordered bow-tie. But he did not answer.
Impulsively Marie ran over to his side and knelt there, with her arms upon the chair.
“Are—are you drunk, Paul?” She had rarely seen drunken men.
He raised his head then and looked into her eyes, which were so close to his. “No,” he said. “I have been drinking, but I amnot drunk. I am merely dazed, by death, and by life—but mostly by life. Life is so strange. Have you never thought that?”
“Yes.”
“No—no—no! Not the way I have thought it. You only know the half of life—Hanaré’s half. You have inherited, now, Hanaré’s domain. Innocent, childish Hanaré! You are the mistress of his innocence and his naïveté. But it will never—never—never be the same again.”
“Paul! What do you mean?”
“O Welt du bist so nichtig!Du bist so klein, O Rom!”
“O Welt du bist so nichtig!Du bist so klein, O Rom!”
“O Welt du bist so nichtig!Du bist so klein, O Rom!”
“O Welt du bist so nichtig!
Du bist so klein, O Rom!”
They lapsed into silence then, for Marie saw that he was in one of those unintelligible moods, which had often come upon him, but which she had never seen so pronounced.
“Why did you stay away all day?” she asked.
“Have I been away all day? I had forgotten.”
“I have been lonely and miserable, Paul.”
“I am sorry. I have forgotten.”
“How could you forget?”
“How? There are plenty of ways to forget.” He arose and strode up and down the room restlessly.
“How couldIforget?” She looked at him as though he had wounded her.
“I don’t know.”
They were silent while Paul continued to walk up and down. At length he proceeded.
“Certainly my being there wouldn’t have helped much, would it? It isn’t as though you had ever allowed me to love you or comfort you! God knows, I’ve been ready to do so—any time. I thought you hated me. Do you?”
“Yes,” she replied, “at this moment I hate you intensely.”
“Why did you come here, then—if you hate me?”
“O Paul, Paul! Because I needed you!”
He stared at her. This woman! “I didn’t suppose anybody needed me now, except the devil.”
He saw then that she was crying and that he had hurt her tremendously. He saw distinctly that he had been unjust. But his mind could not piece together the broken fragments of thesituation. He, too, had been unjustly treated: it was not fair for a woman to allow a man to love her for six years, and to hold herself away from him merely for the sake of her own career—her own whimsical happiness. He felt that in the hour of need Marie had not been with him. He felt this even more keenly than his own cruelty toward her now.
“My God!” he exclaimed, in the midst of his meditation. “What twenty-four hours will do!”
There was undisguised bitterness in his words; a bitterness which Marie, conscious of the unprecedence of her behavior, construed as an expression of his scorn for what she called her “unwomanliness”. Her excited mind only served to intensify the horrid picture which she had drawn of herself. To think that she had come this way to Paul, of all people! Even the awful atmosphere of her father’s death-chamber could not excuse her for doing so. She wished that she could hide herself away. She was ashamed of her body—her very existence.
But Paul was not thinking of these things. He was merely astounded at the change that the night had wrought in himself.
“I wish to hell Hanaré hadn’t died,” he exclaimed suddenly, and without any reason for it. “Life is nothing but a constant attempt to adjust ourselves to the tragedy of existence. Since we cannot tell to-day what will happen to-morrow, we never quite succeeded in our adjustments: and so, there’s always a tragedy. We go on and on—like that!”
He felt master of himself now. But Marie supposed that he was lecturing her. There was an element of brutality in it.
“If we were automatons,” Paul proceeded, as though the sound of his own voice helped to drive away the real tragedy behind—“if we were all automatons, who acted out one day the same as any other, incapable of making fools out of ourselves,—why then, life might be worth living. But some fool of a God—afoolGod—gave us this power to make mistakes. Marie, for the past six years both our lives have been mistakes. And now just see what you have done—and whatIhave done.”
Marie stood facing him, and clenched her fists.
“Paul Duval, you are undoubtedly the most unfeeling man in the world—the most pitiless—the most un—unreasonable. I know I’m a little fool! Do you suppose I have no sensibilities?Do you sup—? Oh, heaven!” She fell back again into the armchair, weeping.
The situation between them had changed tremendously in one night, because his ideals had become incompatible with her ideals, his life had lost that simplicity and innocence which they had once shared together. Paul found that his love for her, just yesterday so vivid and passionate, had changed, and had converted itself into a red and golden derelict of the past, which he still loved, though in a different way. Like Dante, his love for a face and a living body had transformed itself into an intellectual remembrance—an ideal—a hope which, while it might later be fulfilled in some immortal existence, had lost, once and forever, its earthly potency. Just as the death of Beatrice had forced Dante to relinquish the earthly passion, so the death of Hanaré, which brought the confusing emotions of last night, had led Paul to reconceive Marie and transform her into a vanished reality, an ideal, rather than a living being. He had tasted, now, that side of life which does not permit of the more refined loves.
Indeed it was a strange position to be in: and the tragedy of it lay in the fact that he could never make it clear to Marie why he had done as he had, and why the relationship between them was now changed. Tremendous, this change!—almost infinite in character. Especially, she would never understand how it had come about so quickly. He sighed. “With questions like this,” he said, “of life and death—time has little, if anything, to do.”
He began to reflect that the course he had taken was an evil one. And although the forces which had led him along this course were still potent, nevertheless the sudden apparition of Marie into the midst of them recalled his old life with her, if nothing else. And this feeling, that he had better go back, repent, and, if possible, forget the slight digression of the night before, grew upon him, just as a glimmer of light, which increases in intensity, turns at last into a ball of fire. He even came to the conclusion that it was his duty to marry her. He felt that he had no right to add to her sorrow for Hanaré’s death, a still larger grief caused by his own selfishness.
He smiled then. He was making it out to be a wretched case of duty—and of course no one ought to marry for duty. Actually it was not altogether a case of duty. Actually he was alone in anew sea of conflicting passions, lost ideals, and hopelessness,—and he was afraid of his own loneliness. Indeed, the picture of Marie sitting there came to him as a light shining through the darkness. He no longer loved her. True. But he felt that in her he could find some salvation from the horrible destiny which immediately confronted him, and a relief from his present wretchedness.
“Marie,” he said suddenly. “You know that I have loved you!”
“Yes. You have said so. I believe it.”
“Last night there came into my life something which you could not understand—which I cannot explain now—which some day I hope to forget.”
She looked up at him, anxiously, as though fearing unknown things.
“Ah, don’t look at me that way. Let the past take care of the past. You shall know some day. I will tell you.”
“Why don’t you tell me now?”
“Because you would not understand—you would not appreciate—nor could I tell it as it is.”
“You only arouse my worst fears by talking this way,” she said. “I came to you as a friend, for consolation. I came in order to forget that horrible room. I wanted your companionship—perhaps for always. But you have only succeeded in making me more disturbed. I do not understand you.”
He went over to her chair, and sat down beside her, and put his arm around her.
“Come,” he said. “You and I must escape the tragedy of our existence. Together we will fly away from it. You will forget that room, and I—I shall forget myself.”
She drew away from him a little—from his impetuosity. “I don’t love you, that way,” she said.
“Great heaven! Nor do I love youthatway, any more. You are too idealistic, Marie. Marriage, for you and me, is no longer an ideal, but a necessity. We will escape, that way. We will rest in peace and Hanaré’s death will be forgotten.”
She made no reply, but sat there as though meditating. Suddenly, from far out in the city, came the boom of a clock—a lonelything beating the hour of midnight. It awoke Paul to realities. And, although he had so far been master of the situation, he now lost control of himself, and cried: “Twelve o’clock! You must go now, you must go!” And as she stared at him, mystified, he cried again, “You must go, you must go!”
He took her arm, and she arose. They stood facing each other.
“Promise me,” he said, “that you will marry me—to-morrow.”
She dropped her eyes. Impulsively he took her in his arms and kissed her—not passionately, but as he would a little child. And then he led her toward the vestibule.
Even then there was a knock at the door. He did not answer. He looked at Marie, and she at him.
“Who is that?” she asked.
He turned bitterly away. “Nobody! Fate!”
The door opened, since he had given no answer. There was a moment of suspense while the visitor was hidden in the vestibule. Then the girl of the counter, looking extraordinarily pretty, came toward them. She started imperceptibly upon seeing Marie, but regained her composure.
“Good evening,” she said.
“Good evening,” Paul replied, but did not move.
The girl proceeded to take off her hat in front of the mirror, and to make herself at home, adjusting her brown hair prettily and helping herself to a cigarette from the box on the table. “You look tired,” she said “And the room’s a mess. Is there no one to clean up for you?”
Paul did not answer.
Marie could do nothing but stare. She stared at the girl and then at Paul. Suddenly she ran toward the door and was gone.
“Who was that?” asked the girl.
“That is Hanaré Tierens’ daughter. Why did you come?”
“You told me to come at twelve.”
Paul sat down and put his hands over his face. “You have ruined everything,” he said.
“So you told me last night.”
“Did I? I had forgotten.”
“You said an old friend had died—and that you were in love with his daughter.”
“Really? I was quite frank, wasn’t I?” Her reference to Marie exasperated him.
“Don’t be cross.” She came up close to him and put her hand upon his shoulder.
“I am not going to kiss you,” said Paul, anticipating her.
“I haven’t asked you to, have I?”
“No; but I’m going to marry Ma—Hanaré’s daughter.”
“There! I knew you had something like that in your mind! You look so—so determined,” she laughed, in spite of her obvious vexation.
“Iamdetermined.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
He started. “You? You aren’t going to make a fuss about it, are you?”
“That’s impudent!” She turned away from him and sat down upon the sofa restlessly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you needn’t be! Last night you let me know well enough what you thought of me. But I don’t mind, because I know that is what I am. I can’t remember ever being anything else; though, of course, if one is to be a man’s mistress, one has the right of choosing the man. I prefer education to ignorance, and a decent amount of politeness to mere brutality.”
“I am not merely brutal!” He stood up and faced her as he said it. “It’s you who are brutal—or at least you will be before you have done with me. Women are all cruel, because they understand men so well. Our souls are torn first by one and then by the other. I should like to make you see, however, that I have a duty to perform.”
“Duty?” She arose from the sofa, and came to stand beside him again.
“A duty to myself and—to some one else.”
“There’s a difference between duty and love, isn’t there?” This time she appeared to have no scruples, for she put her arms around him, frankly, and stood looking up at him. He held himself rigidly away from her.
“I am not going to kiss you,” he said again. That appeared to be his last defense in any case.
She made no answer to that, except to deny it with her eyes.
“You’re a witch!” he cried, drawing away from her suddenly. “A positive instrument of the devil. Leave me alone!”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I am going to marry Marie. Because, for Hanaré’s sake, I’m going to forget you. I was a fool last night.”
“Last night you said you’d rather be a fool than a wise man. I suppose you have forgottenthatalso.”
He cringed. “No,” he said, “I have not forgotten that.” He began wandering about the room as though hunting for something, picking up piles of papers, looking underneath the tables and chairs.
“What are you hunting for?” she asked.
“My hat.”
“Do you want to go out?”
“I’m going out. You can do as you please. I’m going over to see Marie.”
“Marie? At this time of night?”
He found his hat behind the sofa. He put it on, pulling the soft brim far down over his eyes.
“Good-night,” he said casually, as he walked out of the room. He was not fully conscious that there was anybody else there. He had one determination. In view of that everything else was forgotten.
Vain resolve! The windows at 355 McDougal Street were brilliantly lighted, policemen were in front of the door, people stared, and there was general confusion. Some one had been killed. Paul learned, finally, that Marie had committed suicide.
He felt, rather, that he had committed murder.
Thus, when he return to his own apartment and found the girl still there, he was glad to forget Hanaré’s death that way instead.
RUSSELL WHEELER DAVENPORT.