XIX: Udolpho
It was to me continuously a matter of satisfaction and of interest tosee Hortense disturbed--whether for causes real or imaginary--aboutthe security of her title to her lover John, nor can I say that mymisinterpreted bunch of roses diminished this satisfaction. I shouldhave been glad to know if the accomplished young woman had furtherprobed that question and discovered the truth, but it seemed scarcelikely that she could do this without the help of one of three persons,Eliza and myself who knew all, or John who knew nothing; for theup-country bride, and whatever other people in Kings Port there wereto whom the bride might gayly recite the tale of my roses, were noneof them likely to encounter Miss Rieppe; their paths and hers would notmeet until they met in church at the wedding of Hortense and John. No,she could not have found out the truth; for never in the world wouldshe, at this eleventh hour, risk a conversation with John upon a subjectso full of well-packed explosives; and so she must be simply keepingon both him and Eliza an eye as watchful as lay in her power. As forCharley, what bait, what persuasion, what duress she had been able tofind that took him at an hour so critical from her side to New York, Icould not in the least conjecture. Had she said to the little banker,Go, because I must think it over alone? It did not seem strong enough.Or had she said, Go, and on your return you shall have my answer? Notadequate either, I thought. Or had it been, If you don't go, it shallbe "no," to-day and forever? This last was better; but there was notelling, nor did Beverly Rodgers, to whom I propounded all my theories,have any notion of what was between Hortense and Charley. He only knewthat Charley was quite aware of the existence of John, but had alwaysbeen merely amused at the notion of him.
"So have you been merely amused," I reminded him.
"Not since that look I saw her give him, old chap. I know she wants him,only not why she wants him. And Charley, you know--well, of course, poorCharley's a banker, just a banker and no more; and a banker is merelythe ace in the same pack where the drummer is the two-spot. Our Americancivilization should be called Drummer's Delight--and there's nothing inyour fire-eater to delight a drummer: he's a gentleman, he'll be onlyso-so rich, and he's away back out of the lime-light, while poor oldCharley's a bounder, and worth forty millions anyhow, and right in thecentre of the glare. How should he see any danger in John?"
"I wonder if he hasn't begun to?"
"Well, perhaps. He and Hortense have been 'talking business'; I knowthat. Oh--and why do you think she said he must go to New York? To makea better deal for the fire-eater's phosphates than his fuddling oldtrustee here was going to close with. Charley said that could bearranged by telegram. But she made him go himself! She's extraordinary.He'll arrive in town to-morrow, he'll leave next day, he'll reach hereby the Southern on Saturday night in time for our Sunday yacht picnic,and then something has got to happen, I should think."
Here was another key, unlocking a further piece of knowledge for me. Ihad not been able to guess why Hortense should be keeping Charley "on";but how natural was this policy, when understood clearly! She stillneeded Charley's influence in the world of affairs. Charley's finalservice was to be the increasing of his successful rival's fortune. Iwondered what Charley would do, when the full extent of his usefulnessdawned upon him; and with wonder renewed I thought of General Rieppe,and this daughter he had managed to beget. Surely the mother ofHortense, whoever she may have been, must have been a very richlyendowed character!
"Something has most certainly got to happen and soon," I said to BeverlyRodgers. "Especially if my busy boarding-house bodies are right insaying that the invitations for the wedding are to be out on Monday."
Well, I had Friday, I had Udolpho; and there, while on that excursion,when I should be alone with John Mayrant during many hours, andespecially the hours of deep, confidential night, I swore to myself onoath I would say to the boy the last word, up to the verge of offense,that my wits could devise. Apart from a certain dramatic excitement asof battle--battle between Hortense and me--I truly wished to help himout of the miserable mistake his wrong standard, his chivalry goneperverted, was spurring him on to make; and I had a comic image ofmyself, summoning Miss Josephine, summoning Miss Eliza, summoning Mrs.Gregory and Mrs. Weguelin, and the whole company of aunts and cousins,and handing to them the rescued John with the single but sufficientsyllable: "There!"
He was in apparent spirits, was John, at that hour of our departurefor Udolpho; he pretended so well that I was for a while altogetherdeceived. He had wished to call for me with the conveyance in which heshould drive us out into the lonely country through the sunny afternoon;but instead, I chose to walk round to where he lived, and where Ifound him stuffing beneath the seats of the vehicle the baskets and theparcels which contained the provisions for our ample supper.
"I have never seen you drink hearty yet, and now I purpose to," saidJohn.
As the packing was finishing Miss Josephine St. Michael came by; and thesight of the erect old lady reminded me that of all Kings Port figuresknown to me and seen in the garden paying their visit of ceremony toHortense, she alone--she and Eliza La Heu--had been absent. Eliza'sdeclining to share in that was well-nigh inevitable, but Miss Josephinewas another matter. Perhaps she had considered her sister's going thereto be enough; at any rate, she had not been party to the surrender,and this gave me whimsical satisfaction. Moreover, it had evidentlyoccasioned no ruffle in the affectionate relations between herself andJohn.
"John," said she, "as you drive by, do get me a plumber."
"Much better get a burglar, Aunt Josephine. Cheaper in the end, andneater work."
It was thus, at the outset, that I came to believe John's spirits werehigh; and this illusion he successfully kept up until after we had leftthe plumber and Kings Port several sordid miles behind us; theapproach to Kings Port this way lies through dirtiest Africa. Johnwas loquacious; John discoursed upon the Replacers; Mrs. Weguelin St.Michael had quite evidently expressed to her own circle what she thoughtof them; and the town in consequence, although it did not see them ortheir automobiles, because it appeared they were gone some twenty milesinland upon an excursion to a resort where was a large hotel, and alittle variety in the way of some tourists of the Replacer stripe,--thetown kept them well in its mind's eye. The automobiles would havesufficed to bring them into disrepute, but Kings Port had a betterreason in their conduct in the church; and John found many things tosay to me, as we drove along, about Bohm and Charley and Kitty. Gazza heforgot, although, as shall appear in its place, Gazza was likely to livea long while in his memory. Beverly Rodgers he, of course, recognizedas being a gentleman--it was clear that Beverly met with Kings Port'sapproval--and, from his Newport experiences, John was able to make outquite as well as if he had heard Beverly explain it himself the wholewise philosophic system of joining with the Replacers in order that yoube not replaced yourself.
"In his shoes mightn't I do the same?" he surmised. "I fear I'm not asSpartan as my aunts--only pray don't mention it to them!"
And then, because I had been answering him with single syllables, orwith nods, or not at all, he taxed me with my taciturnity; he even wentso far as to ask me what thoughts kept me so silent--which I did nottell him.
"I am wondering," I told him instead, "how much they steal every week."
"Those financiers?"
"Yes. Bohm is president of an insurance company, and Charley's adirector, and reorganizes railroads."
"Well, if other people share your pleasant opinion of them, how do theyget elected?"
"Other people share their pleasant spoils--senators, vestrymen--youcan't be sure who you're sitting next to at dinner any more. Come liveNorth. You'll find the only safe way is never to know anybody worth morethan five millions--if you wish to keep the criminal classes off yourvisiting list."
This made him merry. "Put 'em in jail, then!"
"Ah, the jail!" I returned. "It's the great American joke. It reversesthe rule of our smart society. Only those who have no incomes areadmitted."
"But
what do you have laws and lawyers for?"
"To keep the rich out of jail. It's called 'professional etiquette.'"
"Your picture flatters!"
"You flatter me; it's only a photograph. Come North and see."
"One might think, from your account, the American had rather be bad thangood."
"O dear, no! The American had much rather be good than bad!"
"Your admission amazes me!"
"But also the American had rather be rich than good. And he is havinghis wish. And money's golden hand is tightening on the throat of libertywhile the labor union stabs liberty in the back--for trusts and unionsare both trying to kill liberty. And the soul of Uncle Sam has turnedinto a dollar-inside his great, big, strong, triumphant flesh; so thateven his new religion, his own special invention, his last offering tothe creeds of the world, his gatherer of converted hordes, his ChristianScience, is based upon physical benefit."
John touched the horses. "You're particularly cheerful to-day!"
"No. I merely summarize what I'm seeing."
"Well, a moral awakening will come," he declared.
"Inevitably. To-morrow, perhaps. The flesh has had a good, long,prosperous day, and the hour of the spirit must be near striking. Andthe moral awakening will be followed by a moral slumber, since, inthe uncomprehended scheme of things, slumber seems necessary; and youneedn't pull so long a face, Mr. Mayrant, because the slumber will befollowed by another moral awakening. The alcoholic society girlyou don't like will very probably give birth to a water-drinkingdaughter--who in her turn may produce a bibulous progeny: how often mustI tell you that nothing is final?"
John Mayrant gave the horses a somewhat vicious lash after these lastwords of mine; and, as he made no retort to them, we journeyed somelittle distance in silence through the mild, enchanting light of thesun. My deliberate allusion to alcoholic girls had made plain what Ihad begun to suspect. I could now discern that his cloak of gayetyhad fallen from him, leaving bare the same harassed spirit, the samerestless mood, which had been his upon the last occasion when we hadtalked at length together upon some of the present social and politicalphases of our republic--that day of the New Bridge and the advent ofHortense. Only, upon that day, he had by his manner in some subtlefashion conveyed to me a greater security in my discretion than I felthim now to entertain. His many observations about the Replacers, withalways the significant and conspicuous omission of Hortense, proved moreand more, as I thought it over, that his state was unsteady. Even now,he did not long endure silence between us; yet the eagerness which hethrew into our discussions did not, it seemed to me, so much proceedfrom present interest in their subjects (though interest there was attimes) as from anxiety lest one particular subject, ever present withhim, should creep in unawares. So much I, at any rate, concluded, andbided my time for the creeping in unawares, content meanwhile toparry some of the reproaches which he now and again cast at me with anearnestness real or feigned.
We had made now considerable progress, and were come to a space of sandand cabins and intersecting railroad tracks, where freight cars andlocomotives stood, and negroes of all shapes, but of one lowering andragged appearance, lounged and stared.
"There used to be a murder here about once a day," said John, "beforethe dispensary system. Now, it is about once a week."
"That law is of benefit, then?" I inquired.
"To those who drink the whiskey, possibly; certainly to those who sellit!" And he condensed for me the long story of the state dispensary,which in brief appeared to be that South Carolina had gone into theliquor business. The profits were to pay for compulsory education; theliquor was to be pure; society and sobriety were to be advanced: suchhad been the threefold promise, of which the threefold fulfillmentwas--defeat of the compulsory education bill, a political monopolyenriching favored distillers, "and lately," said John, "a thoroughlydemocratic whiskey for the plain people. Pay ten cents for a bottle ofX, if you're curious. It may not poison you--but the murders are comingup again."
"What a delightful example of government ownership!" I exclaimed.
But John in Kings Port was not in the way of hearing that cure-allpolicy discussed, and I therefore explained it to him. He did not seemto grasp my explanation.
"I don't see how it would change anything," he remarked, "beyondswitching the stealing from one set of hands to another."
I put on a face of concern. "What? You don't believe in our patentAmerican short-cuts?"
"Short-cuts?"
"Certainly. Short-cuts to universal happiness, universal honesty,universal everything. For instance: Don't make a boy study four yearsfor a college degree; just cut the time in half, and you've got ashort-cut to education. Write it down that man is equal. That settlesit. You'll notice how equal he is at once. Write it down that the negroshall vote. You'll observe how instantly he is fit for the suffrage.Now they want it written down that government shall take all the wickedcorporations, because then corruption will disappear from the face ofthe earth. You'll find the farmers presently having it written down thatall hens must hatch their eggs in a week, and next, a league of earnestwomen will advocate a Constitutional amendment that men only shall bringforth children. Oh, we Americans are very thorough!" And I laughed.
But John's face was not gay. "Well," he mused, "South Carolina took ashort-cut to pure liquor and sober citizens--and reached instead a newden of thieves. Is the whole country sick?"
"Sick to the marrow, my friend; but young and vigorous still. A nationin its long life has many illnesses before the one it dies of. But weshall need some strong medicine if we do not get well soon."
"What kind?"
"Ah, that's beyond any one! And we have several things the matter withus--as bad a case, for example, of complacency as I've met in history.Complacency's a very dangerous disease, seldom got rid of without thepurge of a great calamity. And worse, where does our dishonesty begin,and where end? The boy goes to college, and there in football it awaitshim; he graduates, and in the down-town office it smirks at him; herises into the confidence of his superiors, the town's chief citizens,and finds their gray hairs crowned with it,--the very men he has lookedup to, believed in, his ideals, his examples, the merchant prince,the railroad magnate, the president of insurance companies--all dirtyrascals! Presently he faces worldly success or failure, and then, inthe new ocean of mind that has swallowed morals up, he sinks with hisisolated honesty, like a fool, or swims to respectability with hisbrother knaves. And into this mess the immigrant sewage of Europe issteadily pouring. Such is our continent to-day, with all its fair windsand tides and fields favorable to us, and only our shallow, complacent,dishonest selves against us! But don't let these considerations make yougloomy; for (I must say it again) nothing is final; and even if we rotbefore we ripen--which would be a wholly novel phenomenon--we shall havemade our contribution to mankind in demonstrating by our collapse thatthe sow's ear belongs with the rest of the animal, and not in the votingbooth or the legislature, and that the doctrine of universal suffrageshould have waited until men were born honest and equal. That in itselfwould be a memorable service to have rendered."
We had come into the divine, sad stillness of the woods, where the warmsunlight shone through the gray moss, lighting the curtained solitudesaway and away into the depths of the golden afternoon; and somewhereamid the miles of sleeping wilderness sounded the hoarse honk of theautomobile. The Replacers were abroad, enjoying what they could in thiscountry where they did not belong, and which did not as yet belong tothem. Once again we heard their honk off to our left, from a fartherdistance, and I am glad to say that we did not see them at all.
"If," said John Mayrant, "what you have said is true, the nation hadbetter get on its knees and pray God to give it grace."
I looked at the boy and saw that his countenance had grown very fine."The act," I said, "would bring grace, wherever it comes from."
"Yes," he assented. "If in the stars and awfulness of space there'snothing, that does not troub
le me; for my greater self is inside me,safe. And our country has a greater self somewhere. Think!"
"I do not have to think," I replied, "when I know the nobleness we haverisen to at times."
"And I," he pursued, "happen to believe it is not all only stars andspace; and that God, as much as any ship-builder, rejoices to watchevery tiniest boat meet and brave the storm."
Out of his troubles he had brought such mood, sweetness instead ofbitterness; he was saying as plainly as if his actual words said it,"Misfortune has come to me, and I am going to make the best of it." Hisnobleness, his moral elegance, compelled him to this, and I envied him,not sure if I myself, thus placed, would acquit myself so well. Andthere was in his sweetness a contagion that strangely reconciled me tothe troubled aspects of our national hour. I thought, "Invisible amongour eighty millions there is a quiet legion living untainted in thedepths, while the yellow rich, the prismatic scum and bubbles, boil onthe surface." Yes, he had accidentally helped me, and I wished doublythat I might help him. It was well enough he should feel he must notshirk his duty, but how much better if he could be led to see thatmarrying where he did not love was no duty of his.
I knew what I had to say to him, but lacked the beginning of it; andof this beginning I was in search as we drove up among the live-oaks ofUdolpho to the little club-house, or hunting lodge, where a negro andhis wife received us, and took the baskets and set about preparingsupper. My beginning sat so heavily upon my attention that I tookscant notice of Udolpho as we walked about its adjacent grounds in thetwilight before supper, and John Mayrant pointed out to me its fine oldtrees, its placid stream, and bade me admire the snug character of thehunting lodge, buried away for bachelors' delights deep in the heart ofthe pleasant forest. I heard him indulging in memories and anecdotes ofdate sittings after long hunts; but I was myself always on a hunt for mybeginning, and none of his words clearly reached my intelligence until Iwas aware of his reciting an excellently pertinent couplet:--
"If you would hold your father's land, You must wash your throat before your hand--"
and found myself standing by the lodge table, upon which he had set twoglasses, containing, I soon ascertained, gin, vermouth, orange bitters,and a cherry at the bottom--all which he had very skillfully mingledhimself in the happiest proportions.
"The poetry," he remarked, "is hereditary in my family;" and settingdown the empty glasses we also washed our hands. A moon half-grownlooked in at the window from the filmy darkness, and John, catchingsight of it, paused with the wet soap in his hand and stared out at thedimly visible trees. "Oh, the times, the times!" he murmured to himself,gazing long; and then with a sort of start he returned to the presentmoment, and rinsed and dried his hands. Presently we were sitting at thetable, pledging each other in well-cooled champagne; and it was not longafter this that not only the negro who waited on us was plainly revelingin John's remarks, but also the cook, with her bandannaed ebony headpoked round the corner of the kitchen door, was doing her utmost to loseno word of this entertainment. For John, taking up the young and theold, the quick and the dead, of masculine Kings Port, proceeded tonarrate their private exploits, until by coffee-time he had unrolled forme the richest tapestry of gayeties that I remember, and I sat withoutbreath, tearful and aching, while the two negroes had retired far intothe kitchen to muffle their emotions.
"Tom, oh Tom! you Tom!" called John Mayrant; and after the man had comefrom the kitchen: "You may put the punch-bowl and things on the table,and clear away and go to bed. My Great-uncle Marston Chartain," hecontinued to me, "was of eccentric taste, and for the last twenty yearsof his life never had anybody to dinner but the undertaker." He pausedat this point to mix the punch, and then resumed: "But for all that, heappears to have been a lively old gentleman to the end, and left us hisversion of a saying which is considered by some people an improvement onthe original, 'Cherchez la femme.' Uncle Marston had it, 'Hunt the otherwoman.' Don't go too fast with that punch; it isn't as gentle as itseems."
But John and his Uncle Marston had between them given me my beginning,and, as I sat sipping my punch, I ceased to hear the anecdotes whichfollowed. I sat sipping and smoking, and was presently aware of thedeepening silence of the night, and of John no longer at the table, butby the window, looking out into the forest, and muttering once more,"Oh, the times, the times!"
"It's always a triangle," I began.
He turned round from his window. "Triangle?" He looked at my glass ofpunch, and then at me. "Go easy with the Bombo," he repeated.
"Bombo?" I echoed. "You call this Bombo? You don't know how remarkablethat is, but that's because you don't know Aunt Carola, who is veryremarkable, too. Well, never mind her now. Point is, it's always atriangle."
"I haven't a doubt of it," he replied.
"There you're right. And so was your uncle. He knew. Triangle." Here Ifound myself nodding portentously at John, and beating the table with myfinger very solemnly.
He stood by his window seeming to wait for me. And now everything inthe universe grew perfectly clear to me; I rose on mastering tides ofthought, and all problems lay disposed of at my feet, while deliciousstrength and calm floated in my brain and being. Nothing was difficultfor me. But I was getting away from the triangle, and there was Johnwaiting at the window, and I mustn't say too much, mustn't say too much.My will reached out and caught the triangle and brought it close, and Isaw it all perfectly clear again.
"What are they all," I said, "the old romances? You take Paris and Helenand Menelaus. What's that? You take Launcelot and Arthur and Guinevere.You take Paola and Francesca and her husband, what's-his-name, orTristram and Iseult and Mark. Two men, one woman. Triangle and trouble.Other way around you get Tannhauser and Venus and Elizabeth; two women,one man; more triangle and more trouble. Yes." And I nodded at himagain. The tide of my thought was pulling me hard away from this toother important world-problems, but my will held, struggling, and I keptto it.
"You wait," I told him. "I know what I mean. Trouble is, so hard toadvise him right."
"Advise who right?" inquired John Mayrant.
It helped me wonderfully. My will gripped my floating thoughts and heldthem to it. "Friend of mine in trouble; though why he asks me when I'mnot married--I'd be married now, you know, but afraid of only one wife.Man doesn't love twice; loves thrice, four, six, lots of times; but theysay only one wife. Ought to be two, anyhow. Much easier for man to marrythen."
"Wouldn't it be rather immoral?" John asked.
"Morality is queer thing. Like kaleidoscope. New patterns all the time.Abraham and wives--perfectly respectable. You take Pharaohs--or kings ofthat sort--married own sisters. All right then. Perfectly horrible now,of course. But you ask men about two wives. They'd say something to besaid for that idea. Only there are the women, you know. They'd never.But I'm going to tell my friend he's doing wrong. Going to write himto-night. Where's ink?"
"It won't go to-night," said John. "What are you going to tell him?"
"Going to tell him, since only one wife, wicked not to break hisengagement."
John looked at me very hard, as he stood by the window, leaning on thesill. But my will was getting all the while a stronger hold, and mythoughts were less and less inclined to stray to other world-problems;moreover, below the confusion that still a little reigned in them wasthe primal cunning of the old Adam, the native man, quite untroubled andalert--it saw John's look at me and it prompted my course.
"Yes," I said. "He wants the truth from me. Where's his letter? No harmreading you without names." And I fumbled in my pocket.
"Letter gone. Never mind. Facts are: friend's asked girl. Girl's saidyes. Now he thinks he's bound by that."
"He thinks right," said John.
"Not a bit of it. You take Tannhauser. Engagement to Venus all amistake. Perfectly proper to break it. Much more than proper. Onlyhonorable thing he could do. I'm going to write it to him. Where's ink?"And I got up.
John came from his window and sat dow
n at the table. His glass wasempty, his cigar gone out, and he looked at me. But I looked round theroom for the ink, noting in my search the big fireplace, simple, wooden,unornamented, but generous, and the plain plaster walls of the lodge,whereon hung two or three old prints of gamebirds; and all the while Isaw John out of the corner of my eye, looking at me.
He spoke first. "Your friend has given his word to a lady; he must standby it like a gentleman.
"Lot of difference," I returned, still looking round the room, "betweenspirit and letter. If his heart has broken the word, his lips can't makehim a gentleman."
John brought his fist down on the table. "He had no business to getengaged to her! He must take the consequences."
That blow of the fist on the table brought my thoughts wholly clear andfixed on the one subject; my will had no longer to struggle with them,they worked of themselves in just the way that I wanted them to do.
"If he's a gentleman, he must stand to his word," John repeated, "unlessshe releases him."
I fumbled again for my letter. "That's just about what he says himself,"I rejoined, sitting down. "He thinks he ought to take the consequences."
"Of course!" John Mayrant's face was very stern as he sat in judgment onhimself.
"But why should she take the consequences?" I asked.
"What consequences?"
"Being married to a man who doesn't want her, all her life, untildeath them do part. How's that? Having the daily humiliation of hisindifference, and the world's knowledge of his indifference. How's that?Perhaps having the further humiliation of knowing that his heart belongsto another woman. How's that? That's not what a girl bargains for. Hisstanding to his word is not an act of honor, but a deception. And intalking about 'taking the consequences,' he's patting his personalsacrifice on the back and forgetting all about her and the sacrificehe's putting her to. What's the brief suffering of a broken engagementto that? No: the true consequences that a man should shoulder for makingsuch a mistake is the poor opinion that society holds of him for placinga woman in such a position; and to free her is the most honorable thinghe can do. Her dignity suffers less so than if she were a wife chaineddown to perpetual disregard."
John, after a silence, said: "That is a very curious view."
"That is the view I shall give my friend," I answered. "I shall tell himthat in keeping on he is not at bottom honestly thinking of the girl andher welfare, but of himself and the public opinion he's afraid of, ifhe breaks his engagement. And I shall tell him that if I'm in churchand they come to the place where they ask if any man knows just cause orimpediment, I shall probably call out, 'He does! His heart's not init. This is not marriage that he's committing. You're pronouncing yourblessing upon a fraud.'"
John sat now a long time silent, holding his extinct cigar. The lampwas almost burned dry; we had blown out the expiring candles some whilesince. "That is a very curious view," he repeated. "I should like tohear what your friend says in answer."
This finished our late sitting. We opened the door and went out for abrief space into the night to get its pure breath into our lungs, andlook to the distant place where the moon had sailed. Then we went tobed, or rather, I did; for the last thing that I remembered was John,standing by the window of our bedroom still dressed, looking out intothe forest.