From the LadyHelen Poleto the Countess ofEdgeandRoss.
From the LadyHelen Poleto the Countess ofEdgeandRoss.
Boulder Lake,July 17th
Dear Polly:
THIS afternoon I went over to Mrs. Laurence’s “camp” for tea. She wrote me the most graceful little note with two witticisms in it, and as I had no excuse to offer, I went. Agatha and Bertie were also invited but A. had a headache and B. went fishing, saying the most uncomplimentary things about teas. Mr. Rogers and Mr. Nugent, who went with him, attempted no defence.
Mrs. Laurence has quite the most attractive camp. It is exactly like a doll’s house, tiny but perfect, with two verandas, and it is full of dainty crétonnes and frills and bric-à-brac that no one could have selected but herself. She writes every morning in a doll’s study, fitted up much like a boudoir, in blue the exact shade of her eyes; but in the afternoon she is always rustling about, and you hear her petulant voice and swishing skirts, with only short intervals of relief till bed-time.
She received us in a little clearing between the leafy maples on the right of her camp, and wore the most fetching gown of grass green lawn with a flopping white leghorn trimmed with green feathers. The others were all in the most charming white and flowered muslins and I was glad I had put on a soft white mull myself—Henriette has made me some charming hot weather frocks since we came—and by chance I too have a white leghorn, which I wore. It was trimmed with blue flowers, and my frock with blue ribbons. I did not look as original as Mrs. Laurence but—now I am going to say something nasty—I can stand a strong light and she cannot. To tell you the truth most of these women look rather passée in the sun. Their skins are so very thin and delicate that they line quickly, and so many of them have grey in their hair. However, they made a very charming picture under the trees and I must say for them that they appear to get on together delightfully.
They all greeted me with the utmost cordiality, but Mrs. Laurence rose from behind the tea tableand offered me her cold hand with rather a forced smile.
“Please forgive me, dear Lady Helen, if I am thoroughly unamiable for a few moments,” she pouted. “But I have beensoannoyed.” She swept her hand dramatically in the direction of a newspaper which evidently had been flung into the bushes. I recognised the New York ——.[A]
“Thathas a picture of me, a large libellous photograph, procured, heaven knows how, certainly not from a friend!Whyshould they use my picture?Whyshould they mention my name? What possible interest can their readers—their million vulgar sensational readers—take inme? I don’t suppose they ever heard my name before. Itishard when you have striven to belong to the aristocracy of letters to be flung into a cowshed.”
I could not resist the temptation, although I trembled at my temerity: “I read the ——[A]every morning,” I said. “Now, had I not met you, I should have been quite keen on seeing your picture.”
“How sweet of you—but—Lady Helen—you don’t read the ——.[A]You surely don’t take it?”
I nodded, perfectly delighted at the twelve expressions of shocked amazement. “How is a stranger to master all your subtle distinctions at once? It seems to me very jolly and interesting. My brother is quite devoted to it.”
“Well, I don’t suppose it will do you any actual harm,” said Mrs. Hammond, with an anxious expression, “but I assure you that if you were an American you never would admit that you read it—would not, indeed, have the least desire to read it—and I should really rejoice if you would reprove them by writing and withdrawing your subscription.”
“Oh, I couldn’t think of doing that,” I said lightly. “My brother and I are studying your country, and you have nothing more representative.”
“Representative?” Those carefully modulated voices were quite shrill.
I was in misery and my knees were shaking, but I determined to stand my ground.
“Do not you call a newspaper that a million people read every day, representative?” I answered. “What is it if not representative?”
“Of a certain class—yes,” said Mrs. Chenoweth disgustedly. “But what a class!”
“A million people are not to be despised anywhere.” I longed to ask Mrs. Laurence if she would prohibit—if she could—the ——’s[A]million readers from buying her books, but I didn’t dare. I changed the subject instead by asking for a cup of tea.
But that conversation was nothing to one I took part in later.
I have not told you of Miss Shephard, for she did not come up with the others. She is the editor of a literary monthly magazine, issued by Mr. Rogers’ publishing house. It is charmingly got up and quite a smart readable affair, but, Bertie and I had agreed, rather light and vague in criticism—although very pretentious—as comparedwith our literary weeklies; in fact, not to be taken seriously as criticism at all. The half dozen numbers Mr. Rogers sent us left no impression on my mind whatever beyond a great many pages of clever writing by people who fancied their own opinions mightily. But when Mrs. Hammond told me that Miss Shephard was expected, she added that she was the brilliant editor of The ——,[A]and that probably no one living had a more exact knowledge of what constituted literature, including matter, form, style and perfect English than Miss Shephard. I cannot say that I was very keen to meet her, I am so tired of perfection, but when I saw her I was rather interested, for she does not appear to be more than one—or two-and-thirty. When I expressed some surprise at the position accorded her, I was assured that she had “genius” for criticism, and had, moreover, enjoyed the rare advantage of being the daughter of a Harvard professor and scholar who had been intimate with all the great literary lights of his time. She is a tall thin girlwith dark hair, mal coiffée, thoughtful grey eyes, averyrefined nose and a thin ascetic mouth. Her skin looks worn, and there is an affected—so it strikes me—severity about her dress. But she has a thin sweet voice, and a very nice, if too serene, manner.
She did not sit near me during the tea, which was quite lively. Mrs. Laurence was brilliant as usual and moved about a good deal, particularly after Mr. Rolfs “dropped in” unexpectedly and some of his admirers showed a disposition to hang upon the words which a large piece of cake made even more weighty. Finally he did talk—to make her more jealous, I think—and gave them quite a lecture on celestial botany, as it were. Mrs. Laurence could only get the better of him by capping his melodious paragraphs with scintillating epigrams, which annoyed him excessively. I sincerely wish they would murder each other. Finally I became so bored that I wandered down to the edge of the lake, and in a moment Miss Shephard joined me.
“Like all great writers,” she said apologetically,“he puts his best in his books, and sometimes lacks magnetism and fresh thought in talking.”
For some reason Miss S. antagonises me. Perhaps it is a certain air of omniscience, the result of being a factor in the destinies of so many great and brilliant authors. So I answered with some pleasure:
“I think Mr. Rolfs’ books as dull as his speech. He has his points, but he is not abornauthor, therefore you see the little glittering implements and smell the oil all the time, and of course his stories do notgo.”
“There is some truth in what you say,” she answered sweetly, “but then don’t you think that a man with so great and beautiful a mind should be above being a good story-teller?”
“Shakespeare was not.”
“True, dear Lady Helen, but I need not remind you that we are in neither the times nor the country of Shakespeare. Have you observed how non-imitative, how independent we are? There was a time, of course, when American writersslavishly imitated, and in consequence burlesqued, English literature; the only exceptions were Hawthorne and Poe, and, later, Mark Twain and Bret Harte; but the literature of the last twenty years, which includes so many illustrious names—surely there never has been anything like it in the world.”
“There never has! I suppose I am old-fashioned but it wearies and irritates me—I do not wish to be rude—but—really—I like to read about men and women with human passions.”
“Oh, a discussion without frankness is a poor affair. I am sure that yours is merely a first impression and that our literature will fascinate you in time. Will you permit me a brief explanation? It is our object to produce a literature which shall demonstrate in what ways we are different from all other nations—those differences, peculiarities and so forth which our new and in all things unique country has evolved. Why should we demonstrate—and encourage—the worn out passions that are common to all countries? The refined of ours prefer to forget that such things exist.All well-brought up American girls are taught to ignore this lamentable side of human nature, and never voluntarily to think of it. Without boasting I think I can say that this is the mostrefinedcountry the world has ever known, and that our literature proves it.”
“But occasionally you develop an author of irrepressible virility who gives the world to understand that a certain percentage at least of the United States are very much like the old accepted idea of human nature.”
“They do not count,” she said emphatically, “because we will not admit them to the ranks of literature, and theymustgo to the wall in time. The literary pages of the high-class newspapers, and the weekly and monthly bulletins never paragraph them, never refer to them, except in the reviews which advertising exigencies compel. Then we kill them by sneers, not abuse—which always excites a lamentable current in human nature. They are quietly brushed aside, and the real jewels of American literature forced into even greater prominence.”
“Suppose one of these outsiders equals the elect in literary quality?”
“He cannot, because matter and manner are really one. They are toostrong, too bold and unpleasant, therefore they shatter and deface that fine exquisite thing called style.”
“Your style. Cannot you conceive the possibility of any other standard being as correct?”
“Certainly not. It is a subject to which we have given years of earnest and analytical thought.”
“What of the very different standards of England, France, Germany, Russia? The novels of all countries seem to be issued by your American firms—and, presumably, read.”
“Oh, we are quite willing that each country should have its own standard. Those old states, indeed, could not imitate us, for they have not the same material. Therefore when a successful European novel treats of things that no well-bred American will discuss, we are generous enough not to be hyper-critical of a race which differs from us in every particular. The older nations are naturallycoarse, and allowance should be made for them. But there is not one of our elected authors who would dare or care to treat a subject in the same way. And whyshouldhe deal with nasty passion? He has the brilliant kaleidoscopic surface of American life to treat.”
“And you cannot conceive of a day when the standard will change?”
“Certainly not.”
“The minority of one generation is usually the majority of the next,” I said, now warmed to the theme. “Your people of the world—and I know that you have that class—have chosen as their favourites the very authors you have tabooed, and whose works do not reach, I am told, the great public you instruct. As these few authors set their faces against emasculation they offend your aristocratic middle-class, and as they are not erotic your unspeakable sub-stratum will have none of them; but they deal truthfully with that world which those of your country who have enjoyed superior advantages can stand reading about.”
I had hit her at last. She coloured and drewherself up. “I do not understand your term ‘aristocratic middle-class,’” she said icily. “And I can only assert definitely that we who give our brains and time and culture to the subject are setting and maintaining a standard that always will prevail.”
I turned to go and say good-bye to Mrs. Laurence, but I could not forbear a parting shot. I waved my hand at the company.
“I wonder they marry,” I said. “And I think it positively indecent of them to have children.”
20th July
I am very much alone these days. Bertie is so much better that he spends the entire day fishing or at the Club House, and frequently dines and spends the evening there as well. Agatha has discovered at least twenty neglected correspondents and writes as hard as Mrs. Laurence or Mr. Rolfs, all the morning. I do not mind that, for it keeps her in the house and I can receive any of the men who care to call; buteveryafternoon, Polly, she goes to Mrs. Chenoweth’s and plays whist, and I either have to shut myself up like a nun orwalk in the wood alone. Of course I could defy the dear old soul, but that would be the end of an ideal domestic harmony, and as for Bertie he would be furious. Mr. Rogers is the only person privileged to walk alone with me, and I do not know whether he is flattered or not. I had heard a good deal about the liberty of American girls, but Mrs. Chenoweth assures me that that is all a mistake as far as the upper classes are concerned. Still, I have had a good many conversations with Mr. Nugent, and some day perhaps I’ll relate them to you. He calls in the evening and we wander off the veranda to the edge of the lake and stand there for an hour or so admiring the sunset, and once or twice we have met quite accidentally in the forest. After all, I do not own the trail down the mountain even if it is my favourite one. He certainly is interesting, Polly, although in so different a way from all the men I have ever known or read about that I really do not know whether I like him or not. He fascinates me, but that is his magnetism, the concentration of his preternaturally clever mind uponmyself, the brilliant and unexpected things he says, and the truly delightful little attentions he pays me, when I know that he is full of restlessness and hardness, and ambition and nervous contempt of the details of life. But the moment he comes near me I feel protected and surrounded; I am possessed immediately to drop my shawl or handkerchief or worry about the punkies—dreadful little beasts that he keeps off very effectively with a fan or his hat. Once I made him go down on his knees and tie my shoe, merely because I wanted him to see that my foot was as small as any of his countrywomen’s, in spite of my five ft. seven, and much better shod. On another day I had a headache, and instead of remaining in bed I had Henriette arrange me luxuriously on a divan in the living-room, and received him when he called. I had an uncontrollable desire to see how he would act when I was ill. He was charming, in an abrupt, sincere, and wholly tactless way. I think if I had known others like him or had known him about five years I should almost fall in love with him; but how we cling to ourideals! Independence of thought! We are all creatures of traditions.
I may just as well tell you first as last, Polly, that I am sure both Mr. Rogers and Mr. Nugent have made up their minds to marry me. Agatha is blind and Bertie amused, for he cannot imagine me falling in love with anything un-English and new. You see, Ilookso—well, traditional, few know or suspect that I am impetuous and full of curiosity and love of noveltyinside. Of course, as I said, I am in a way as traditional as I look, but in another I’m not. I don’t know if I have expressed myself clearly.
I am sure that Mr. Rogers and all of them think that he has the better chance, because he is so cold and calm and correct. He really is charming in his way and I think I might have had rather a jolly little flirtation with him if Mr. Nugent had not happened to be a guest of the Club. Buthetalks to me about things that interest me so much more, and he has made me talk to him about myself as I never talked before—even to you. If I could remember all of the nonsense we have talked I’dwrite it to you, but you know I never did have any memory.
The other day a year-old doe mysteriously appeared in our ice-house with my name printed on a card lying on its chest. Iknowthat either Mr. R. or Mr. N. shot it for me, but I do not dare thank one or the other or even hint the subject: the game laws are so severe that it would be like a breach of confidence. But it has made all other meat insipid and we enjoyed it quite enough to compensate the offender for the risk he ran. It was one evening when both were calling that I regretted being obliged to wait till September for the game I like best.
Mr. N’s first name is Luke.
22nd July
Well, I will tell you of one conversation at least between Mr. Nugent and myself. A very celebrated—you may be sure he is in the superlative class—lung specialist came up the other day to visit the Chenoweths. Although Bertie is apparently so much better, the moment this doctorappeared I felt that I must have a verdict. At first I thought of appealing to Mr. Rogers, but finally concluded that as I had talked so much to Mr. Nugent it would be positively unkind to pass him over; besides it is so much easier to speak to him aboutanything. Theonething that keeps me from feeling theperfectfreedom of friendship when I am alone with him is the fear that he suddenly will lose his head and take me in his arms and kiss me. He looks passion incarnate and I know that if he ever did let go he would be like one of these alarming electrical storms that visit us every two or three days. However, I have managed him rather well, so far.
Well, I confided in him, and he engaged to persuade Dr. Soulé and Bertie to meet for examination, and pledged himself to get the truth out of the doctor and tell me every word of it. It was finally agreed—Bertie was a long time being persuaded—that they were to meet this morning in Mr. Nugent’s room and that at four this afternoon Mr. N. and I would meet at a certain spot in the forest, where I should hear the fateful truth—Ithought the appointment was justifiable in the circumstances.
By three I was so nervous that I could not stay in the house and I plunged into the forest, praying that I would meet no one else. Fortunately our camp is alone on our side of the lake and the others prefer the trails behind the Club House and at the north end. I walked far down the mountain to quiet my nerves a little, then returned to the place where we had agreed to meet. It was the rocky brook I told you of, but some distance below the boulder. The opposite bank sloped up gently, its gloom hung with scattered leaves and sun-flecks. I sat down on a rock among the alders, still nervous, my hand, indeed, pressed against my heart, but—what strange tricks the mind plays us—my terrible anxiety crossed by imaginings of what Mr. N. would do and say should he bring me the worst. In a moment, too, my mind was diverted by the dearest sight. A chipmunk—a tiny thing no longer than my finger with a snow white breast and reddish brown back striped with grey and ivory—sat on his hind legson a stone opposite me eating a nut which he held in his front paws. His black restless eyes never left my face as he tore that nut apart with teeth and nail, and he seemed to have made up his little mind that I was quite stationary—he did seem to enjoy that nut so much. His bushy tail stood straight up behind and curled back from his head. It was quite an inch longer than himself, and not a bit of him moved but those tight little arms and those crunching teeth. He ate the entire nut, and when he had finished and dropped the shell, he still sat there on his hind legs, glancing about, his eyes never wandering far from my face, and absorbing my attention so completely that I quite forgot the apprehension that had torn me for the past four hours. But our mutual interest was shattered by a footstep. I sprang to my feet and he scampered into the ferns.
The moment I saw Mr. N.’s face I knew that I was not to hear the worst, at all events; and then, for the life of me, I could not let the subject be broached. I hurriedly commenced to tell him about the chipmunk and he sat down on the stoneit had deserted and listened as if he never had heard of a chipmunk before.
“I’ll try and get you one,” he said. “I think one might be tamed.”
“Oh, I should love it!” I exclaimed. “It would be company for hours at a time. I am sure it has intelligence.”
“I am afraid you have many lonely hours,” he said. “I think you do not like our people here.”
“No,” I said, “they fidget me. I really admire them and I never in all my life believed that so many clever people could be got together in one place. But—that is it—they are not my own sort.”
“No, they are not, and I have a plan to propose to you, that I think might be carried out now that your brother is so much better. I have a number of friends at another lake about ten miles from here. They are very different from these—far more like what you have been used to. They belong to one of the worldly sets in New York, and, while they are quite as clever as our friends here, cleverness is not their métier and they are not so self-conscious about it. They bought Chipmunk Lakeand built cottages there that they might go into camp whenever they felt that they needed rest more than Europe or Newport—Should you like to visit there?”
“Yes, but how?”
“I should have said that my married sister is there and that I have written to her about you. She would be delighted if you would pay her a visit. Of course Lady Agatha will go with you, and the Duke can transfer himself to the Club House for a time.”
“He is there always, anyhow,” I said, and I suspect I pouted. At all events he smiled sympathetically and said,
“I am afraid you have learned already something of the selfishness and ingratitude of man.”
“It is a good preparation for matrimony,” I remarked drily.
“Are you contemplating matrimony?” It is interesting rather to bring some colour into the face of an American.
“I am always afraid I might marry some time when I am unusually bored.”
“It is not so great a risk to bore you, then?”
“Oh, I mean by Circumstances. I should expect the man to descend suddenly into them with the wings of an archangel and bear me off.”
“Are you very much bored here? Have I come too soon?”
“I never have enjoyed myself so much.”
“Nevertheless you are not averse to a change.”
“Oh, as my time is short in the United States and as human nature is the most interesting study in the world, I want to meet as many of your interesting types as possible.”
“Your stay may be longer than you think. Soulé says that the Duke must not think of leaving the Adirondacks for two years.”
He had me at last. “Two years!” I gasped. “Must we stay up here for two years?” The place has lost some of its charm since these people came.
“Not here, for you would be snowed in in winter and uncomfortable in every way. I have suggested to the Duke that he endeavour at once to lease a house at Lake Placid. There you would be close to an express train to New York—whichyou could visit frequently—and undoubtedly could find a house with golf links, tennis court, etc., to say nothing of good trails where you could have daily rides. I know you are longing to be on a horse again.”
“Oh, I am! How did you guess it? That does not sound so hopeless. I suppose our friends would visit us occasionally.”
“I can assert positively that some of them would come as often as they were asked.”
“It would be charity, of course. How kind you and Mr. Rogers have been to think of everything for us.”
Again I had managed to bring the colour into his face. “Rogers is a kind fatherly soul,” he said, tartly. “I don’t pretend to be philanthropic.”
Here I was afraid he would propose to me so I said hurriedly:
“We have forgotten all about Chipmunk Lake. I should like to see some other lakes and some other people. But it is a great deal to ask of your sister.”
“My sister is undoubtedly pining for a newacquaintance. There are only four families at the lake and they soon get talked out. Will you go? I may as well confess that I have already written to and heard from her. Here is her note to you.”
It was such a jolly letter, so direct and natural and unwitty. I felt at home with her at once—her name is Mrs. Van Worden, and I liked her further because she spelt Van with a capital V. I am told that Van in New York is quite an insignia of nobility and I met two of its proud possessors in London who had it printed on their cards with a small v. Considering that it is over every other shop in Holland and Belgium, this certainly is an instance of American progressiveness.
But to return to Mr. Nugent—who is delightfully free of all nonsense, bless him.
“Yes, I do want to go,” I said, “and I hope it can be arranged—if only for the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Van Worden. IfeelI shall get on with her.”
“Yes, you will get on, I am sure. She andher friends at the lake belong to the great world without going in forallits frivolities and vulgarities. Let us go back and arrange it at once,” he said, jumping up. “There is no reason why we should not go to-morrow.”
24th
But we did not go “to-morrow,” Polly, and I have not been really hopeful of going until to-night. Agatha said quietly and impassively that, better or not, nothing would induce her to leave Bertie, that she would never sleep three yards away from him until he was quite well again. That left me without a chaperon, for although Mrs. Van Worden had written her a charming note too, she had not invited any one else at the lake, and I believe she knows several of them. Whether this omission rankled—she appears to be quite a personage—or whether they are all determined I shall marry Mr. Rogers, I don’t know, but I was invited to the Club House to luncheon next day and not less than four women attempted to dissuade me from going. The roadwas “frightful,” quite the worst in the Adirondacks. Life there was unbearably dull. They were worked out society women who took a sort of rest cure in the Adirondacks, eating and sleeping themselves into a condition of recuperating stupidity. There were “no men,” as the fishing was not good, and too many other drawbacks to mention. It was Mrs. Hammond who was commissioned with the final dissuasions. She walked home with me, and as we were crossing the pretty rustic bridge over the lake’s outlet, she put her hand in my arm, and said with a slight blush:
“You must not mind what I am going to say to you, dear Lady Helen, I take such an interest in you. Who could help it?—you are so beautiful and a stranger here. And of course I am nearly ten years older than yourself and a married woman. Idon’twant you to go to those people; they are all rather fast. Mrs. Van Worden has had several stories in circulation about her that have come very close to being scandals——.”
“What!” I cried, “am I really to meet anAmerican woman who has committed adultery? How much at home I shall feel! So many of my friends have, you know.”
“Lady Helen!” Never shall I forget that gasping shriek nor that poor scandalized little face. I almost relented.
“If she will only admit it,” I pursued gloomily, “but they scarcely ever will. I do know one American woman who told me the second time I met her that she had a lover, but she had lived in England fifteen years and cut all her American acquaintances. I cannot understand your reticence.”
“Lady Helen! Do you mean to insinuate that any of us——”
“Oh, dear me, no. You are all shockingly virtuous here.”
She stared at me for a moment longer, then curiosity got the better of her horror. She did not replace her hand within my arm, but she resumed her walk to my camp, evidently determined to understand me.
“Let us have this out, Lady Helen, I imploreyou?” she said. “Do I understand that you countenance immorality?”
“I accept the inevitable. It does not appeal to me personally, but if it does to other women and helps them to dissipate the ennui of life, that is none of my affair.”
“Ah, that is the result of having every good thing in life flung at your feet, of living an idle life of fashion that has no excitement left in it but intrigue.”
“Our lowest class is much worse than our highest, and quite open and unembarrassed about it.”
“I cannot account for it!” The poor little woman’s voice was tragic.
“Why try to account for everything? Facts are facts, that is enough.”
“I never have really believed one tenth of the scandals of fashionable life I have heard—I have trained myself to wait for divorce-court proof——”
“You have tried to dissuade me from visiting Mrs. Van Worden because she is suspected ofhaving loved more frequently than she has married.”
“Oh, but that does not mean that Ibelieveit. I simply do not want you to be identified with a woman who has been talked about. She certainly cannot contaminate you if you hold such extraordinary views. Butdoyou, dear Lady Helen?”
“Yes,” I said impatiently. “Don’t you? Do you pretend to ignore the fact that hundreds of thousands of women have lovers.”
“Iwillnot admit it.”
“But you know it if you know anything at all. Like your literature you blink it, as you blink every other fact connected with real life.”
Again she stopped and stared at me. “You look the incarnation of maiden purity,” she exclaimed, “a tall white royal English lily, as Mr. Rogers calls you. It seems incredible that you can have such a perverted mind. You remind me of that dreadful heroine of Mallock’s——”
“I have not a perverted mind,” I exclaimed angrily, for she really was too silly, “and Ihave nothing in common with that filthy creature——”
“I beg your pardon,” she interrupted hurriedly, “no one on earth would ever accuseyouof being less stainless—really—than you look—I mean your mind—your knowledge——Oh,” she continued desperately, “I can’t make you out. I have heard of the insolent frankness of the English aristocracy—that you hold yourself above all laws—the Duke is terrifyingly coarse at times—and I suppose if you had done anything wrong you wouldn’t pay me the compliment to deny it—but—well—I give it up.”
“My mind is not perverted,” I said, “because I see life as it is. I have lived in the world now for eight years, and all my friends happen to have married long since. I should have been a fool had I not seen and heard what life meant to many people, even if I never had had any confidences made me. But it has not stained my mind in the least, because it is something I never think of when by myself—which is the result of accepting life and human nature as they are not as theyought to be. I will not pretend to say, however, that I do not sympathize with women who are carried away by passion. I do not see how a woman who has any passion——”
“Lady Helen! I cannot let you go any further. I am willing to admit that there is sin in the world, but there are certain standards of refinement in this country that I will not hear violated.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I mean that—well—that I cannot listen to a woman admit that she has passions exactly like a man.”
“Do you mean that you never heard that before?” I asked curiously.
“Never! There are certain obligations—but—Oh, don’t let us talk of it. There is one thing further I feel I must say—and I am hoping you will pardon me, for we are all hoping and longing to keep you among us—you and dear Lady Agatha, although of course we know that we must lose the clever Duke when he is well enough to go home——”
She paused, and I gave her my most encouragingsmile. We were on the veranda now and she sat opposite me, leaning forward alertly.
“It is this,” she said with her anxious smile. “We all do so want you to marry our dear brilliant accomplished Mr. Rogers, and not Mr. Nugent.Heis not really one of us, and, I am afraid he is not too high-principled and has not led an immaculate life—like Mr. Rogers.”
“How can you tell?”
“By their faces. Look at Mr. Rogers’. It is refinement itself, almost ascetic. Mr. Nugent looks—well—of course he is a gentleman and irreproachable in society, but Iknowhe has not led a regular life.”
“I am sure he has not, and it is really none of our business.”
“I believe that men should be as pure as women,” she said setting her lips.
“Perhaps they should, but they are not; you see there are so many women who make a business of tempting them from the time they begin to take notice that it is quite unreasonable to expect them to attain the feminine standard.”
“I am not talking of bad women.”
“Oh, but they count so, you know. They count because they are the positive force. Virtue is too negative to influence any one but those who are virtuous by nature or circumstance. But as I said before, dear Mrs. Hammond, facts are facts. Why not accept them, and without so much mental wear and tear? Every man has the privilege of leading his own life, so long as he keeps within the law. And if he does not think he is doing wrong, if he does not violate his conscience, then he does himself no moral harm so long as he sins like a gentleman. Of course no one wants the coarse sensualist near one; he is repulsive and should herd with his own kind.”
“And you mean to say you extenuate—you would marry a man who had—who had—made love to many women? I am interested in your views, but I must reiterate that I think if social exigencies compel us to meet such men we should at least discourage their kind by refusing to marry them.”
She looked pale and nervous but her eyes were bright with curiosity.
“I will tell you my theory,” I said, “and I can assure you that I did not jump at it. As I told you, I have seen a good deal of the world, the best of it as well as some of its worst. This is my idea—But first: If God is incarnate in good men and the devil in bad why are bad men invariably more fascinating to women—even to pure women—than good men? I am talking of course of the devil which dwells in masculine and able men, not in the silly and ingenuous sensualist. Now the men who are wholly irresistible are those who combine both God and devil, who stimulate and intensify the soul and the imagination as well as the passions. This confounds orthodoxy, but does not to my mind deepen the mystery. Is not this combination, perhaps, the perfect man? And as man is—we believe—made in the divine image—may not God and the devil be one rounded being? Why does the ‘perfect’ man and woman invariably irritate and antagonize, even have a bad influence,—arousing the devil of perversity—whenthe perfection is in the least self-conscious? Is it not because we instinctively feel their failure to achieve the standard we have accepted as divine, and resent the imposition? And can such a one-sided being give happiness? Not any more than the lowest brute. Therefore, I maintain that a man to reach full stature must have room in his soul for God and the devil to jog along peacefully side by side.”
She rose, white and aghast. “I never, never heard anything to approximate that for audacity—and—and—terrible profanity. But I am too nervous to argue with you. I see Mrs. Laurence coming. Please tell her—sheis so brilliant, so gifted. I know she could refute——”
“Please tell her that I have not had a walk to-day! that I shall have a violent headache if I miss it!Pleasebe an angel and don’t tell her I saw her coming—” and I almost ran to the back veranda and plunged into the woods. I had screwed up my courage to the highest pitch and I knew I couldn’t do it a second time. I felt nervous, almost excited, and I wanted a walk and the solitude of the woods.
I walked rapidly down the trail for ten or fifteen minutes, then felt a sudden desire to see that precipitous magnificent avenue made by the roadway. I entered it presently and walked down the logs as rapidly as I could, for the exercise; pausing whenever I reached a ledge—in these woods you cannot walk and admire at the same time unless you care to run the risk of a broken ankle—to drink in that wild yet awesome perspective of the forest. The trees are so high, and often their branches leap across and clasp hands!—and crowding upon the heels of the advance guard is the green, fragrant, ancient army, a million strong. And every now and again the distant mountain beyond the high wild valley.
I suddenly became possessed with a desire to get closer to that mountain, to get away from my own for a little while. I knew that it could not be more than four miles off, and I could easily make the distance and return before dark. I almost felt as if I were running away, and hurried on eagerly.
I passed Mr. Rolfs sitting cross-legged on adamp boulder, communing—presumably—with God. There was a note-book beside him. He looked like an omniscient owl. As I passed he bowed gravely but did not speak. I am positive he cannot endure me.
I went down the mountain as rapidly as I could, but that is saying little. What between picking my way over logs that slipped and stones that cut and feeling for dry land through the grass by the roadside I was fully an hour reaching the valley. It was just a few moments before making the last precipitous descent, when I paused for a moment on a ledge and fanned myself that I became aware how hot and sultry it was. Almost at the same moment I heard the loud familiar rumble of the approaching storm.
It would take me longer to reach home than it had done to pick my way down that beastly road. There was nothing to do but make for the valley and the nearest house, and the sudden brief copper of the sky made me hasten on with all speed. I do not experience any sinking physical fear during a thunder-storm but I have a mental appreciationof the danger and I prefer to be within four walls with the doors and windows closed. The storm was still far off, for the intervals between the flash and the clap were quite long, and its rain was deluging some other mountain miles away.
At last I was free of the woods and stood in the great valley with its irregular masses of mountains on every side, its rivers, its wide peaceful clearings, and alas! its cows. There was no building within a mile except a dilapidated Catholic church, the most mournful object I ever saw in a landscape. Half of the roof was gone, a thousand rains had washed its last coat of paint away, the fence was but a few broken sticks, and the grass and weeds grew high over three or four poor forgotten graves. There was a French colony about here, long since.
It was not an attractive refuge, but the great thunder cloud was pushing its way across the Eastern mountain, forked and torn with fire, and roaring as if it were Hell moving up to Summer quarters.
I was therefore about to make for the ruin when I heard the sound of a sob and of running feet behind me. I turned quickly and saw, running toward me and wringing her hands, a slight pretty girl, with a mass of fluffy hair surmounted by an immense hat covered with blue feathers.
“Oh, please, wait for me,” she cried. “I’m so skaret, and I’ve been runnin’ roun’ like I was crazy. Its a mile to the nearest farm and I dassent go in that spooky church by myself. Oh, my Gawd, ain’t it awful.”
“Why, there are thunder-storms nearly every day,” I said soothingly. “There is really nothing to be afraid of. Let us go into the church, by all means.”
I was glad of her company, to tell you the truth, and led the way rapidly to the ruin. The door was locked! but we picked our way to the back, past those desolate graves, and entered where a wall had fallen in. It was not an easy task to scramble over the mouldering remains of roof and wall, but we accomplished it and ensconcedourselves in a pew in that end of the structure which was still whole enough to afford shelter, although how much of safety was doubtful.
We were none too soon. Almost immediately the rain came down with that furious energy characteristic of storms in these mountains, the thunder was really appalling, and the lightning seemed to have got beyond control of itself—the forks cut its steady blaze. My companion had possessed herself of my hand and cowered against me. Her vernacular as exhibited in a disconnected monologue quite distracted my mind from the storm.
“Oh, my Gawd,” she would mutter; then with a violent start: “Gee whizz! Wat for did I ever come up to these mountains and I alwus so afraid of lightnin’? O-w-w! Oh, Lordy I’ll never do it agin, I vow I won’t. Oh, Jocwhyain’t you here? I’m skaret plum to death. I know I’ll be struck clean to kingdom come, and I ain’t so bad. I really ain’t. Oh, Joc you ain’t treaten’ me right to be safe down there in Noo York and megoin’ to be kilt for ever up on these wicked mountins.”
Fortunately, the electricity had other havoc to accomplish before its force was spent, and passed quickly, leaving only the rain behind it. She recovered herself almost as quickly and sat up and smoothed her hair, then took off her hat and regarded the feathers.
“They ain’t wet, thank heavings,” she said, then readjusted it carefully; after which she turned and regarded me with suspicion. She was a pretty dainty creature, not as common as you would expect, for the national delicacy of feature and sensitiveness of expression seem quite as impartial as democracy could demand.
“Who are you?” she asked. “I ain’t seen you before in these parts.”
“I am on the mountain, at Boulder Lake.”
A light flashed into her damp eyes. “Aw, now, you ain’t that there Lady Helen somethin’, a dook’s sister, what everybody is talkin’ about?”
I bowed in as graceful acknowledgment as I could muster and she pursued delightedly:
“You look like it and I’ve seen a lord as didn’t, but you look just like you might be the heroineof a story in the ‘Family Herald’.”
“I have not the pleasure of the ‘Family Herald’s’ acquaintance,” I said, smiling genially, for she interested me as another variety of the genus American, “but tell me something of yourself. You are not a mountain girl, I infer.”
“Cheese it!” she exclaimed scornfully. “Do I look like these here lumps that is as broad as they is long and wear their hair as slick as a rat’s tail? Naw, I’m a Noo Yorker born and bred, and I’m a sales-lady in ——[A]See?”
“You mean—a—shop girl?”
“Naw. We don’t use that there kind of language in this country. This is the United States of Ameriky and we’re all free and equal.”
“Ah,” I exclaimed eagerly. “Doyoureally hold to that? How refreshing. Then you don’t look down on these mountain girls that usually have to work as servants?”
“Gee!” she exclaimed indignantly, “I guess Ido. Servants is one thing and sales-ladies is another. And I ain’t never goin’ to the mountins agin for vacations—not while there’s cheap hotels at Asbury Park, and Ocean Grove. I ain’t used to settin at table with servants, or ‘hired help’ as they call themselves. But a lady frien’ of mine’s got an aunt up here and she giv me no peace till I come, I was that near dead with work and heat.”
If I were of an hysterical turn I probably should have succumbed. But I maintained a becoming gravity and looked at her with that concentrated interest which forces people to talk about themselves.
“But,” I said diffidently,—“as you have told me you work you won’t mind my alluding to it—suppose you had been less clever than you are or had had less influence than you did have—and had been forced to go out as a servant——”
“I’d ’a been a fluff first—naw, I don’t mean that. But I just wasn’t—that’s all. And I guess I ain’t goin’ to associate with those beneath me when I don’t have to. Wouldn’t I be a fool if I did?”
“You certainly would not be a good American. But if you call yourself ‘sales-lady’ why should not the poor servant be permitted to ease her self-respect by calling herself ‘hired help’?”
“She kin, for all of me, but it don’t make her nothin’ else. I hear somebody comin’”—her voice fell to a terrified whisper. “Oh, lordy, I hope it ain’t a tramp.”
It was Mr. Rogers. His anxious face appeared above the rubbish, and I spoke immediately.
“What a relief!” he exclaimed, as he picked his way toward us. “I heard voices and hoped you might be here.”
“It is good to see you,” I said. “How do you happen to be down in the valley?”
“It was just after the first rumble that I met Rolfs coming out of the forest. He told me you had passed him and I immediately got an umbrella, told the Duke I was going in search of you, and started off. I have been quite alarmed, and am more relieved than I can say.”
I smiled and gave him my hand, when my sales-lady remarked drily:
“Well, as three’s a crowd and it ain’t rainin’ any more I guess I’ll waltz. Pleased to meet you, Lady Helen. I kin alwus see a real flesh and blood Lady of the nobility now when I’m readin’ the ‘Herald’ or —— —— ——’s[A]lovely novels. Good-bye. Hope you’ll git up the mountin O. K.” And she took herself and her feathers out of the ruin.
“I think we had better start for home,” said Mr. Rogers. “Your brother and Lady Agatha will be so anxious.”
“But you must be tired——”
“Not in the least. Do you think no one can walk but the English?” This with a smile and intonation that took all abruptness out of it.
We left the church and in a few moments were climbing the mountain, a doubly difficult task now that the logs were slippery with rain. But the forest was so green and dripping, the sun-flecks glittered in the rain-drops, the depths looked so dark and wet, and full of sweet fragrant mystery! The odour of the balsam came down to us with arush. Mr. Rogers is a pleasant companion at all times, but I like him particularly in the forest. He seems to need it so, to be so grateful for it. I fear I have only a dim inkling of what this brief dip into the wilderness means to the tired nervous practical New Yorker.
“I hear you want to leave us,” he said presently.
“Only for a few days. I am curious to see other lakes and other parts of the forest.”
“And other people? I am afraid you do not like my friends as well as I had hoped.”
“Ah! you are wrong,” I exclaimed with the warmth of insincerity. “They interest me tremendously. They are too clever for me, that is all. I don’t feel up to them.”
“You are far cleverer than any of them,” he replied, turning upon me thatapprovingexpression of which I have written, and smiling a trifle of warmth into his grave face. “Many of them are beginning to admit it quite frankly. The American nature is very generous, I assure you.”
“Mrs. Laurence and Mr. Rolfs never have admittedanything of the sort, I’ll wager,” I cried gaily.
“Well—no; but you see they are rather spoiled.”
“Nor Mr. William Lee Randolph,” I said, alluding to an author who arrived two days ago. “I dreamed all last night of cutting his conceit into little bits and watching them fly together again and cohere as snugly as if nothing had happened.”
“You are a severe critic, dear Lady Helen——”
“Itishorrid of me to criticise your friends. And after your many-sided kindness! I feel a rude little beast.”
“If you were not frank with me about everything I should be greatly disappointed. And—I am quite willing to admit it to you—your frankness is very refreshing to me. I get very tired of all this posing and hero-worship and these everlasting fads. But they are inevitable in all circles where certain of its members have accomplished great things and others feel that their rôle is toadmire extravagantly if they would keep their heads above water and feel in the swim.”
“Doyouthink Mr. Rolfs and Mrs. Laurence and Mr. Randolph great?” I asked pointedly. “Now, you be just as frank as I am for once.”
He hesitated a moment, then said: “I believe there is no admission I would not make to you, if you only gave me sufficient encouragement. Be careful of that mud hole—these stones are better. I do wish you would wear rubbers. Frankly then I do not think that any of my authors are great, but I think it best to convince the world that they are because they are unquestionably on the right track and their success will encourage the younger talent to follow in their footsteps, crowning the achievement of to-day with the richer harvest of a more virile generation. I am quite aware that we lack virility, but when a more full-blooded generation does arrive think of the vast advantage it will have in this skeleton example of flawless art and perfect taste.”
“It seems to me more likely that there will be a violent reaction,” I said. “That they will smashyour porcelain skeleton to smithereens and build a big rude lusty giant in its place.”
“Oh, I hope not,” he said anxiously, “I hope not. Thatwouldbe a life-time thrown away.”
It was the first time I had heard him sigh, and the momentary unconscious appeal to my sympathy touched me sharply.
“Youhavelived for something besides self!” I exclaimed. “I believe you actually have given your best energies, and all your time and much of your fortune to building up an Art in your country that future generations may be benefited by and proud of. I do hope for your sake that it will be a success.”
He turned to me with such a glow on his face that I realized I had gone too far for once, and had a wild desire to pick up my skirts and run headlong into the forest. I must say he looked handsome and most attractive. It seemed to me that I felt something glow and leap beside me, something that I never had admitted the existence of, but which gave him a distinct fascination. I could not run, and heaven knows whatmight have happened next. But at that moment a turn of the road brought us face to face with Mr. Nugent.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “Oh!Whata relief. I knew of course that Rogers would find you—but what might have happened before—Were you in the woods during the storm?”
“I was in the Catholic Church with a sales-lady from New York who demanded so much solace that I had no time to be frightened, myself.” I plunged at once into a description of the adventure, out of kindness to Mr. Rogers as much as to disembarrass the situation. I knew the violent reaction within him—and I hoped he was communing with his soul in good healthy swear words.
When I did not talk, Mr. Nugent did, and Mr. Rogers’ silence was well covered. Not that he did not recover himself almost immediately, and occasionally put in an apt remark.
Finally Mr. Nugent dismissed the subject of sales-ladies with his usual abruptness.
“I think I can say that I have persuaded yourbrother and sister to let you go to-morrow,” he said. “I demonstrated the absurdity of such slavish adherence to the conventions in this wilderness. Your maid is chaperonage enough for a few hours’ trip, to say nothing of the fact that Hunter and another man will carry your trunk behind us down the mountain and that still another man with a buckboard will meet us in the valley.”
My eyes danced. “What a lark!” I exclaimed. “To really go on a trip without Bertie or Agatha. Butwillthey consent?”
“I am sure they will. I told them that if they insisted upon it my sister would come for you, and although of course they would not hear of such a thing I think that clinched them. So be prepared to start to-morrow morning at eight.”
And, Polly, I really believe I am going! My love to you.
Helen.
P. S. I almost apologize to Mr. Rolfs. This evening at the Club House when Mrs. Hammond was sitting forward and monopolizing the conversation,as she always does when Mrs. Laurence does not happen to be present, and delivering her entirely commonplace opinions with a vigour of enunciation and a raptness of expression which convince the unanalytical that she is quite the reverse of the little goose she is, Mr. Rolfs suddenly turned to me with such an expression of ferocious disgust that involuntarily I moved closer to him.
“Thatis what we have to write for!” he exclaimed. “There are thousands, tens of thousands of these damned fool women that we have to write down to and pose to if we want to make our bread and butter.”
I almost gasped. “What on earth do you mean?” I asked.
“Oh, I like you. You’ve got horse sense and see through the whole blamed show. You think I’m an ass, and I am. I have to be. I nearly starved trying to be a man, so I became an emasculated backboneless poseur to please the passionless women and the timid publishers of the United States. To please the sort of American woman who makes the success of a novelist—thefaddist and the gusher—you must tickle her with the idea that she is a superior being because she has no passion and that you are creating a literature which only she can appreciate—she with a refinement and a bleached and laundried set of tastes which have made her a tyrannical middle-class enthusiast for all that is unreal and petty in art!”
“Oh!” I said, “Oh!”
“I wish I had been born an Englishman,” he pursued viciously. “To be great in English literature you’ve only to be dull; but to be great in American literature you’ve got to be a eunuch.”