 Section 1 of International Women's Literature Collection. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Aisbeerin. First Love by Emilia Barradorasan. How old was I then? Eleven or twelve years? More probably thirteen, for before then is too early to be seriously in love. But I won't venture to be certain, considering that in southern countries the heart endures early, if that organ is to blame for such perturbations. If I do not remember well when, I can at least say exactly how, my first love revealed itself. I was very fond, as soon as my aunt had gone to church to perform her evening devotions, of slipping into her bedroom and remarging her jest of jaws which she kept in admirable order. Those jaws were to me a museum. In them I always came across something rare or antique, which exhaled an archaic and mysterious scent, the aroma of the sandalwood fans which perfumed her white linen, pin cushions of satin now faded, knitted mittens carefully wrapped in tissue paper, prints of saints suing materials, a reticule of blue velvet embroidered it with bugles, an amber and silver rosary would appear from the corners. I used to ponder over them and return them to their place. But one day, I remember as well as if it were today, in the corner of the top drawer and lying on some collars of old lace, I saw something gold glittering. I put in my hand unwittingly crumpled the lace and drew out a portrait, an ivory miniature, about three inches long in a frame of gold. I was struck at first sight. A sunbeam streamed through the window and fell upon the alluring form which seemed to wish to step out of its dark background and come towards me. It was the most lovely creature, such as I had never seen except in the dreams of my adolescence. The lady of the portrait must have been some twenty odd years. She was no simple maiden, no half-open rosebud, but a woman on the full resplendency of her beauty. Her face was oval, but not too long. Her lips full, half open and smiling. Her eyes cast a languishing side glance and she had a dimple on her chin as if formed by the tip of Cupid's playful finger. Her headdress was strange but elegant, a compact group of curds plastered cone-wise run over the other carved-through temples and a basket of braided hair rose on the top of her head. This old-fashioned hat-dress, which was trussed up from the nape of her neck, disclosed all the softness of her fresh young throat, on which the dimple of her chin was redupically added more vaguely and delicately. As for the dress, I do not venture to consider whether our grandmothers were less modest than our wise are or if the confessors of pastimes were more indulgent than those of the present. Hymen climbed to think the latter for seventy years ago women pride it themselves upon being Christian-like and devout and would not have disobeyed the director of their conscience in so grave and important a matter. What is undeniable is that if in the present day any lady were to present herself in the garb of the Lady of the Portrait there would be a scandal, for from her waist, which began at her armpits, upwards she was only veiled by light falls of diaffinous gauze, which marked out rather than covered two mountains of snow, between which meandered a thread of pearls. With further lack of modesty she stretched out two rounded arms worthy of Juno ending in finely moulded hands. When I say hands, I am not exact, for strictly speaking only one hand could be seen in that held a richly embroidered handkerchief. Even today I am astonished at the startling effect which the contemplation of that miniature produced upon me and how I have remained in ecstasy scarcely breathing devouring the portrait with my eyes. I had already seen here and there prints representing beautiful women. It often happened that in the illustrated papers in the mythological engravings of our dining room or in a shop window that a beautiful face or a harmonious and graceful figure attracted my precociously artistic gaze. But the miniature encountered in my art and straw, apart from its great beauty, appeared to me as if animated by subtle and vital breath. You could see it was not the caprice of a painter, but the image of a real and actual person of flesh and blood. The warm and rich tone of the tints made you surmise that the blood was tepid beneath that mother of pearl skin. The lips were slightly parted to disclose the enameled teeth and to complete the illusion there ran round the frame a border of natural hair, chestnut in colour, wavy and silky which had grown on the templates of the original. As I have said, it was more than a copy. It was the reflection of a living person from whom I was only separated by a ball of glass. I seized it, breathed upon it, and it seemed to me that the warmth of the mysterious deity communicated itself to my lips and circulated through my veins. At this moment I heard footsteps in the corridor. It was my aunt returning from her prayers. I heard her asthmatic cuff and the dragging of her goat's feet. I had only dust-time to put the miniature into the drawer, shut it, and approached the window, adopting an innocent and indifferent attitude. My aunt entered noisily. For the cool of the church had exasperated her guitar, now chronic. Upon seeing me, her wrinkled eyes brightened and, giving me a friendly tap with her withered hand, she asked me if I had been turning over her drawers as usual. Then with a chuckle, Wait a bit, wait a bit, she added. I have something for you, something you will like. And she pulled out of her vast pocket a paper bag and out of the bag three or four gun lozenges sticking together in a cake, which gave me a feeling of new zeal. My aunt's appearance did not invite one to open one's mouth and devour these sweets. The course of years, her loss of teeth, her eyes dimmed to an unusual degree, the scratching of a moustache or bristles on her sunken-in mouth, which were three inches wide, a dull gray lock sluttering above her sallow temples, a neck flaxed and livid in the crest of the turkey when in a good temper. In short, I did not take the lozenges, a feeling of indignation and manly protest rose in me and I said forcibly, I do not want it, I don't want it. You don't want it? What a wonder, you who are greedier than a cat. I am not a little boy, I exclaimed, drawing myself up and standing on tiptoes. I don't care for sweets. My aunt looked at me half good humanly and half ironically and at last, giving way to the feeling of amusement I caused her burst out laughing by which she disfigured herself and exposed the horrible anatomy of her jaws. She laughed so hotly that her gin and nose met, hiding her lips and emphasising two wrinkles or rather two deep furrows and more than a dozen lines on her cheeks and eyelids at the same time her head and body shook with a laughter until at last her cough began to interrupt the bursts and between laughing and coughing the old lady involuntarily spluttered all over my face. Humiliated and full of disgust, I escaped rapidly thence to my mother's room but I washed myself with soap and water and began to muse on the lady of the portrait and from that day and hour I could not keep my thoughts from her. As soon as my aunt went out to slip into her room open the door, bring out the miniature and lose myself in contemplation was the work of a minute. By dint of looking at it I fancied that her languishing eyes through the voluptuous veiling of her eyelashes but fixed in mine and that her white bosom heaved. I became ashamed to kiss her imagining she would be annoyed at my audacity and only pressed her to my heart or held her against my cheek. All my actions and thoughts referred to the lady. I behaved towards her with the most extraordinary refinement and super delicacy. Before entering my aunt's room and opening the longed-for drawer I washed, combed my hair and tidied myself as I have seen since as usually done before repairing to a love appointment. I often happened to meet in the street other boys of my age very proud of their slip of a sweetheart who would exultingly show me love letters, photographs and flowers and to ask me if I had in a sweetheart with whom to correspond. A feeling of inexplicable bashfulness tied my tongue and I only replied with an enigmatic and haughty smile and when they questioned me as to what I thought of the beauty of their little maidens I would shrug my shoulders and disdainfully call them ugly mugs. One Sunday I went to play in the house of some little girl cousins really very pretty the eldest of whom was not yet fifteen. We were amusing ourselves looking into a stereo scub when suddenly one of the little girls the youngest who counted twelve sums at most secretly seized my hand and in some confusion and blushing as red as a brazier whispered in my ear. At the same time I felt in the palm of my hand something soft and fresh and saw that it was a rosebud with its green foliage. The little girl ran away smiling and casting the sight glance at me but I, with the puritanism worthy of Joseph cried out in my turn take this and I threw the rosebud at her nose a reed-buff which made her tearful and petish with me the whole afternoon and for which she is not pardoned me even now though she is married and has three children. The two or three hours which my aunt spent morning and evening together at church being too short for my admiration of the entrancing portrait left at last to keep the miniature in my pocket and went about all day hiding myself from people just as if I had committed some crime. I fancied that the portrait from the depth of its prison of cloth could see all my actions and I arrived at such a ridiculous extremity that if I wanted to scratch myself pull out my sock or do anything else not in keeping with the idealism of my chaste love I first drew out the miniature and started in a safe place and then considered myself free to do whatever I wanted in fact since I had accomplished a theft there was no limit to my vagaries at night I hid it under the pillow and slept in an attitude of defence the portrait remained near the wall I outside and I woke a thousand times feeling somebody would come to bereave me of my treasure at last I drew it from beneath the pillow and slipped it between my natural and left breast on which the following day could be seen the imprint of the chasing of the frame the contact of the dear miniature gave me delicious dreams the lady of the portrait, not an effigy but in her natural size and proportions alive, graceful, affable, beautiful would come towards me to conduct me to her palace by a rapid and flying train with sweet authority she would make me sit on a stool at her feet and would pass her a beautifully moulded hand over my head caressing my brow, my eyes and loose curls I've read to her out of a big missile or plate the loot and she deemed it a smile thanking me for the pleasure which my reading and songs gave her at last romantic reminiscences overflowed in my brain and sometimes I was a page and sometimes a troubadour with all these fanciful ideas the fact is that I began to grow thin quite perceptibly which was observed with great disquietude in my parents and my aunt in this dangerous and critical age of development everything is alarming said my father who used to read books of medicine and anxiously studied my dark eyelids my contracted and pale lips and above all the complete lack of appetite which had taken possession of me playboy, eatboy he would say to me and I replied to him dejectedly I don't feel inclined they began to talk of distractions offered to take me to the theatre stopped my studies and gave me foaming new milk to drink afterwards they poured cold water over my head and I had and back to fortify my nerves and I noticed that my father at table or in the morning when I went to his bedroom to bid him good morning would gaze at me fixedly for some little time and would sometimes pass his hand down my spine feeling the vertebra I hypocritically lowered my eyes resolved to die rather than confess my crime as soon as I was free from the affectionate solitude of my family I found myself alone with my lady of the portrait at last to get nearer to her I thought I would do away with the cold crystal I trembled upon putting this into execution but at last my love prevailed over the vague fear with which such a profanation filled me and with skilful cunning I succeeded in pulling away the glass and exposing the ivory plate as I pressed my lips to the painting I could scent the slight fragrance of the border of hair I imagined to myself even more realistically that it was a leaving person and I was grasping with my trembling hands a feeling of faintness overpowered me and I fell unconscious on the sofa tightly holding the miniature when I came to my senses I saw my father my mother and my aunt all bending anxiously over me I read their terror and alarm in their faces my father was feeling my pulse shaking his head and murmuring his pulse is nothing but a flutter you can scarcely feel it my aunt with her claw-like fingers was trying to take the portrait from me and I was mechanically hiding it and grasping it more firmly but my dear boy let go you're spoiling it she exclaimed don't you see you're smudging it I'm not scolding you my dear I will show it to you as often as you like but don't destroy it let go you're injuring it let him have it back my mother the boy's not well of all things to ask replied the old maid let him have it and who will paint another like this as I was then today nobody paints miniatures it is a thing of the past and I also am a thing of the past and I am not what is represented there my eyes dilated with horror my fingers released their hold on the picture I don't know how I was able to articulate you that the portrait is you don't you think I'm as pretty now boy but one is better looking at 23 than at I don't know what for I have forgotten how old I am my heart drooped and I almost fainted again anyway my father lifted me and his arms onto the bed and made me swallow some tablespoon falls of port I recovered very quickly and never wished to enter my answer again End of Section 1 Recording by Ice Birn from Austria Have a look at my blog green-life-online.blogspot.com The Reckoning by Edith Wharton This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Bologna Times The Reckoning by Edith Wharton For the International Women's Literature Collection The marriage law of the new dispensation will be thou shall not be unfaithful to thyself A discreet murmur of approval filled the studio and through the haze of cigarette smoke Mrs. Clement Westall as her husband descended from his improvised platform saw him merged in a congratulatory group of ladies Westall's informal talks on the new ethics had drawn about him an eager following of the mentally unemployed those who, as he had once phrased it, like to have their brain food cut up for them The talks had begun by accident Westall's ideas were known to be advanced, but hitherto their advance had not been in the direction of publicity He had been, in his wife's opinion, almost pusillanimously careful not to let his personal views endager his professional standing Of late, however, he had shown a puzzling tendency to dogmatize to throw down the gauntlet to flaunt his private code in the face of society and in the relation of the sexes being a topic always sure of an audience had persuaded him to give his after-dinner opinions a larger circulation by summing them up in a series of talks at the Venn-Siderin Studio The Herbert Venn-Siderin's were a couple who subsisted socially on the fact that they had a studio Venn-Siderin's pictures were chiefly valuable as accessories to the Missin scene which differentiated his wife's afternoons from the gliding functions in long New York drawing-rooms and permitted her to offer their friends whiskey and soda instead of tea. Mrs. Venn-Siderin, for her part, was skilled in making the most of the kind of atmosphere which a lay figure and an easel create, and if at times she found the illusion hard to maintain and lost courage to the extent of almost wishing that Herbert could paint, she promptly overcame such moments by calling in some fresh talent, some extraneous reinforcement of the artistic impression. It was in quest of such aid that she had seized on Westall coaxing him somewhat to his wife's surprise into a flattered participation in her fraud. It was vaguely felt in the Venn-Siderin circle that all the audacities were artistic and that a teacher who pronounced marriage immoral was somehow as distinguished as a painter who depicted purple grass and a green sky. The Venn-Siderin set were tired of the conventional color scheme in art and conduct. Julie Westall had long had her own views on the immorality of marriage. She might indeed have claimed her husband as a disciple. In the early days of their union she had secretly resented his disinclination to proclaim himself a follower of the New Creed. Had been inclined to tax him with moral cowardice, with a failure to live up to the convictions for which their marriage was supposed to stand. That was in the first burst of propagandism when woman-like she wanted to turn her disobedience into a law. Now she felt differently. She could hardly account for the change yet being a woman who never allowed men and women to remain unaccounted for. She tried to do so by saying that she did not care to have the articles of her faith misinterpreted by the vulgar. In this connection she was beginning to think that almost everyone was vulgar. Certainly there were few to whom she would have cared to entrust the defense of so esoteric a doctrine. And it was precisely at this point that Westall, discarding his unspoken principles, had chosen from the heights of privacy and stand hawking his convictions at the street corner. It was Una van Sitteren who, on this occasion unconsciously focused upon herself Mrs. Westall's wandering resentment. In the first place, the girl had no business to be there. It was Horrid Mrs. Westall found herself slipping back into the old feminine vocabulary, simply Horrid to think of a young girl's being allowed to listen to such talk. The fact that Una smoked cigarettes and sipped an occasional cocktail did not in the least tarnish a certain radiant innustancy which made her appear the victim rather than the accomplice of her parent's vulgarities. Julia Westall felt in a hot helpless way that something ought to be done, that someone ought to speak to the girl's mother. And just then Una glided up. Oh, Mrs. Westall, how beautiful it was! Una fixed her with large limpid eyes. You believe it all, I suppose? She asked with seraphic gravity. Oh, what, my dear child? The girl shone on her. About the higher life. The freer expansion of the individual, the law of fidelity to oneself, she glibly recited. Mrs. Westall, to her own wonder, blushed a deep and burning blush. My dear Una, she said, you don't in the least understand what it's all about. Miss Ben Sitterin stared with a slowly answering blush. Don't you, then? She murmured. Mrs. Westall laughed. Not always, or altogether, but I should like some tea, please. Una led her to the corner where innocent beverages were dispensed. As Julie received her cup, she scrutinized the girl more carefully. It was not such a girlish face, after all. Definite lines were forming under the rosy haze of youth. She reflected that Una must be six and twenty, and wondered why she had not married. A nice stock of ideas she would have as her dower if they were to be part of the modern girl's trousseau. Mrs. Westall caught herself right. It was as though someone else had been speaking, a stranger who had borrowed her own voice. She felt herself the dupe of some fantastic mental ventriloquism. Concluding suddenly that the room was stifling and Una's tea too sweet, she sat down her cup and looked about for Westall to meet his eyes had long been her refuge from every uncertainty. She met them now, but only as she felt in transit. She met her parenthetically in a larger flight. She followed the flight and it carried her to a corner in which Una had withdrawn one of the palmy nooks to which Mrs. Vence Sitterin attributed the success of her Saturdays. Westall, a moment later, had overtaken his look and found a place at the girl's side. She bent forward, speaking eagerly. He leaned back, listening acted as a filter to flattery, enabling him to swallow the strongest doses without apparent grossness of appetite. Julia wenced at her own definition of the smile. On the way home, in the deserted winter dusk, Westall surprised his wife by a sudden boyish pressure of her arm. Did I open their eyes a bit? Did I tell them what you wanted me to? He asked gaily. Almost unconsciously, her arm slipped from his. What I wanted? Why, haven't you, all this time? She caught the honest wonder of his tongue. I somehow fancied you'd rather blame me for not talking more openly before. You've made me fail at times that I was sacrificing principles to expediency. She paused a moment over her reply. Then she asked quietly, what made you decide not to hurt her? She felt again the vibration of a faint surprise. Why, the wish to please you, he answered, almost too simply. I wish you would not go on then, she said abruptly. He stopped in his quick walk and she felt his stare through the darkness. Not go on. Call a handsome, please. I'm tired, broke from her with a sudden rush of physical wariness. Incidentally his solicitude enveloped her. The room had been infernally hot and then that confounded cigarette smoke he had noticed once or twice that she looked pale she mustn't come to another Saturday. She felt herself yielding as she always did to the warm influence of his concern for her, the feminine in her leaning on the man in him with a conscious intensity of abandonment. She felt a sudden vibration and her hand stole into his in the darkness. A tear or two rose and she let them fall. It was so delicious to cry over imaginary troubles. That evening after dinner he surprised her by reverting to the subject of his talk. He combined a man's dislike of uncomfortable questions with an almost feminine skill in eluding them to the subject. He must have some special reason for doing so. You seem not to have cared for what I said this afternoon. Did I put the case badly? No, you put it very well. Then what did you mean by saying that you would rather not have me go on with it? She glanced at him nervously, her ignorance of his intention deepening in her sense of helplessness. I don't understand you," he exclaimed, again the feeling that his surprise was genuine gave an air of obliquity to her own attitude. She was not sure that she understood herself. Won't you explain, he said, with a tinge of impatience. Her eyes wandered about the familiar drawing-room which had been the scene of so many of their evening confidences. The shaded lamps, the quiet-colored walls, the pales-o-tents, the pale spring-flowers scattered here and there and Venice-glasses and bowls of old Severus. Recalled, she hardly knew why the apartment in which the evenings of her first marriage had been passed. A wilderness of rosewood and a poultry with a picture of a Roman peasant above the mantelpiece and a Greek slave in statuary marble the room with which she had never been able to establish any closer relation than that between a traveller and a railway station. And now, as she looked about at the surroundings which stood for her deepest affinities the room for which she had left that other room. She was startled by the same sense of strangeness and unfamiliarity. The prints, the flowers, the subdued tones of the old porcelains seemed to typify a superficial refinement that had no relation to the deeper significance of life. Suddenly she heard her husband repeating his question. I don't know that I can explain, she faltered. He drew his armchair forward so that he faced her across the hearth. The light of a reading lamp fell on his finally drawn face which had a kind of surface-sensitiveness akin to the surface refinement of its setting. Is it that you no longer believe in our ideas? he asked. The ideas I am trying to teach the ideas you and I are supposed to stand for. He paused a moment. The ideas on which our marriage was founded. The blood rushed to her face. He had his reasons then. She was sure now that he had his reasons. In the ten years of their marriage how often had either of them stopped or considered the ideas on which it was founded? How often does a man dig about the basement of his house to examine its foundation? The foundation is there, of course. The house rests on it, but one lives above stairs and not in the cellar. It was she, indeed, who in the beginning had insisted on reviewing the situation now and then, on recapitulating the reasons which justified her course on proclaiming, from time to time, the adherence to the religion of personal independence. But she had had long since ceased to feel the need of any such ideal standards and had accepted her marriage as frankly and naturally as though it had been based on the primitive needs of the heart and needed no special sanction to explain or justify it. Of course I still believe in our ideas, she exclaimed. Then I repeat and it was a part of your theory that the greatest possible publicity should be given to our view of marriage. Have you changed your mind in that respect? She hesitated. It depends on circumstances. On the public one is addressing. The set of people that the Vensitterans get about them don't care for the truth or falseness of a doctrine. They are attracted simply by its novelty. It was in just such a set of people that you and I met and learned the truth from each other. That was different. In what way? I was not a young girl to begin with. It is perfectly unfitting that young girls should be present at such times. Should hear such things discussed. I thought you considered it one of the deepest social wrongs that such things never are discussed before young girls. But that is beside the point. For I don't remember seeing any young girl in my audience today. Except one of Vensitteran he turned slightly and pushed back the lamp at its elbow. Oh, Miss Sitteran, naturally. Why naturally? The daughter of the house. Would you have had sent her out with her governess? If I had a daughter I should not allow such things to go on in my house. Westall, stroking his mustache, leaned back with a faint smile. I fancy Miss Vensitteran is quite capable of taking care of herself. No girl knows how to take care of herself till it's too late. And yet you would deliberately deny her the surest means of self-defense. What do you call the surest means of self-defense? Some preliminary knowledge of human nature in its relation to the marriage tie. She made an impatient gesture. How should you like to marry that kind of a girl? Immensely if she were my kind of girl in other respects. She took up the argument at another point. You are quite mistaken if you think such talk does not affect young girls. Una was in a state of the most absurd exultation. She broke off, wondering why she had spoken. Westall reopened a magazine which he had laid aside at the beginning of their discussion. What you tell me is immensely flattering to my oratorical talent, but I fear you overrate its effect. I can assure you that Miss Vensitteran doesn't have to have her thinking done for her. She's quite capable of doing it herself. You seem very familiar with her mental processes, flashed unguardedly from his wife. He looked up quietly from the pages. He was cutting. I should like to be," he answered. She interests me. Part 2 If there be a distinction in being misunderstood, it was one denied to Julia Westall when she left her first husband. Everyone was ready to excuse and even to defend her. The world she adorned was that John Armand was impossible, and hostesses gave a sigh of relief at the thought that it would no longer be necessary to ask him to die. There had been no scandal connected with the divorce. Neither side had accused the other of the offence euphemistically described as statutory. The Armands had indeed been obliged to transfer their allegiance to a state which recognized desertion for divorce, and constricted the term so liberally that the seeds of desertions were shown to exist in every union. Even Mrs. Armand's second marriage did not make traditional morality stir in its sleep. It was known that she had not met her second husband till after she had parted from the first, and she had, moreover, replaced a rich man by a poor one. Though Clement Westall was acknowledged as the arising lawyer, it was generally felt that his fortunes would not rise as rapidly as his reputation. The Westalls would probably always have to live quietly and go out to dinner in cabs. Could there be better evidence of Mrs. Armand's complete disinterestedness? If the reasoning by which her friends justified her course was somewhat cruder and less complex than her own elucidation of the matter, both explanations led to the same conclusion. John Armand was impossible. The only difference was that, to his wife, his impossibility was something deeper than a social disqualification. She had once said, in an ironical defense of her marriage, that it had at least preserved her from the necessity of sitting next to him at dinner. But she had not then realized at what cost the immunity was purchased. John Armand was impossible, but the sting of his impossibility lay in the fact that he made it impossible for those about him to be other than himself. By an unconscious process of elimination, he had excluded from the world everything of which he did not feel a personal need. Had become, as it were, a climate in which only his requirements survived. This might seem to imply a deliberate selfishness, but there was nothing deliberate about Armand. He was as instinctive as an animal or a child. It was this childish element in his nature which, sometimes, for a moment unsettled his wife's estimate of him. Was it possible that he was simply undeveloped, that he had delayed, somewhat longer than as usual, the laborious process of growing up? He had the kind of sporadic shrewdness which causes it to be said of a dull man that he is no fool, and it was this quality that his wife found most trying. Even to the naturalist it is annoying to have his deductions disturbed by some unforeseen aberrancy of form or function, and how much more so to the wife whose estimate of herself is inevitably bound up with her judgment of her husband. Armand's shrewdness did not indeed imply any latent intellectual power. It suggested, rather, potentialities of feeling, of suffering, perhaps, in a blind rudimentary way on which Julia's sensibilities naturally declined to linger. She so fully understood her own reasons for leaving him that she disliked to think they were not as comprehensible to her husband. She was haunted in her analytic complexity to an articulate for words with which he had acquiesced to her explanations. These moments were rare with her, however. Her marriage had been too concrete a misery to be surveyed philosophically. If she had been unhappy for complex reasons, the unhappiness was as real as though it had been uncomplicated. Soul is more bruisable than flesh, and Julia was wounded by her spirit. Her husband's personality seemed to be closing gradually in on her, obscuring the sky and cutting off the air till she felt herself shut up among the decaying bodies of her starved hopes. A sense of having been decoyed by some world-old conspiracy into this bondage of body and soul filled her with despair. If marriage was the slow, life-long acquittal of a debt contracted when marriage was a crime against human nature, she, for one, would have no share in maintaining the pretense of which she had been a victim. The pretense that a man and a woman forced into the narrowest of personal relations must remain there till the end though they may have outgrown the span of each other's natures as the mature tree outgrows the iron brace about the sapling. It was in the first heat of her moral indignation that she had met Clement Westall. She had seen at once that he was interested and had fought off the discovery dreading any influence that she draw her back into the bondage of conventional relations. Toward off the peril she had with an almost crude precipitancy revealed her opinions to him. To her surprise she found that he shared them. She was attracted by the frankness of her who, while pressing his suit, admitted that he did not believe in marriage. Her worst audacities did not seem to surprise him. He had thought out all that she had felt and they had reached the same conclusion. People grew at varying rates and the yoke that was an easy fit for the one might soon become galling to the other. That was what divorce was for, the readjustment of personal relations. As their necessarily transitive nature was recognized they would gain indignity as well as in harmony. There would be no farther need of the ignoble concessions and connivances. The perpetual sacrifice of personal delicacy and moral pride by means of which imperfect marriages were now held together. Each partner to the contract would be on his metal forced to live up to the highest standard of self-development or pain of losing the other's respect and affection. The low nature could no longer drag the higher down, but must struggle to rise or remain alone on its inferior level. The only necessary condition to a harmonious marriage was a frank recognition of this truth and a solemn agreement between the contracting parties to keep faith with themselves and not to live together for a moment after complete accord had ceased to exist between them. The new adultery was unfaithfulness to self. It was as Westall had just reminded her on this understanding that they had married. The ceremony was an unimportant concession to social prejudice. Now that the door of divorce stood open no marriage need be an imprisonment and the contract no longer involved any diminution of self-respect. The nature of their attachment placed them so far beyond the reach of such contingencies that it was easy to discuss them with an open mind, and Julia's sense of security made her dwell with a tender insistence on Westall's promise to claim his release when he should cease to love her. The exchange of these vows seemed to make them, in a sense, the recipients of the new law, pioneers in the forbidden realm of individual freedom. They felt that they had somehow achieved beatitude without martyrdom. This, as Julia now reviewed the past she pursued to have been her theoretical attitude toward marriage. It was unconsciously, insidiously, that her ten years of happiness with Westall had developed another conception of the tie. Rather, to the old instinct of passionate dependency and possessorship that now made her blood revolt at the mere hint of change. Change? Renewal? Was that what they had called it in their foolish jargon? Destruction? Extermination, rather. This rending of a myriad fibers interwoven with another's being. Another? But he was not other. He and she were one. The new law was not for them, but for the disunited creatures forced into a mockery of union. The gospel she had felt called on to proclaim had no bearing on her own case. She sent for the doctor and told him she was sure she needed a nerve tonic. She took the nerve tonic diligently, but it failed to act as a sedative to her fears. She did not know what she feared, but that made her anxiety the more pervasive. Her husband had not reverted to the subject of his Saturday talks. He was unusually kind and considerate, with a softening of his quick manner, a touch of shyness in his consideration that sickened her with new fears. She told herself that it was because she looked badly, because he knew about the doctor and the nerve tonic, that he showed this deference to her wishes, this eagerness to screen her from moral draughts. But the explanation simply cleared the way for fresh inferences. The week passed slowly, vacantly, like a prolonged Sunday. On Saturday the morning post brought a note from Mrs. Ben-Citterin. Would dear Julia ask Mr. Westall to come half an hour earlier than usual as there was to be some music after his talk? Westall was just leaving for his office when his wife read the note. She opened the drawing-room door and called him back to deliver the message. He glanced at the note and tossed it aside. What a bore! I shall have to cut my game of rackets. Well, I suppose it can't be helped. Will you write and say it's all right? Julia hesitated a moment, her hand stiffening on the chair-back against which she leaned. You mean to go on with these talks? She asked. I, why not? He returned, and this time it struck her that his surprise was not quite unfaigned. The discovery helped her to find words. You had started them with the idea of pleasing me. Well, I told you last week that they didn't please me. Last week? Oh, he seemed to make an effort of memory. I thought you were nervous then. You've sent for the doctor the next day. It was not the doctor I needed. It was your assurance. My assurance? Suddenly she felt the floor fail under her. She sank into the chair with a choking throat. Her words, her reasons slipping away from her like straws down a whirling flood. Clement, she cried, isn't it enough for you to know that I hate it? He turned to close the door behind them. Then he walked toward her and sat down. What is it that you hate? he asked gently. She had made a desperate effort to rally her routed argument. I can't bear to have you speak as if our marriage were like the other kind, the wrong kind, when I heard you there, the other afternoon, before all those inquisitive, gossiping people, proclaiming that husbands and wives had a right to leave each other whenever they were tired of seeing someone else. Westall set motionless, his eyes fixed on a pattern of the carpet. You have ceased to take this view, then, he said, as she broke off. You no longer believe that husbands and wives are justified in separating under such conditions? Under such conditions? She stammered. Yes, I still believe that, but how can we judge for others? What can we know of the circumstances? He interrupted her. I thought it was a fundamental article of our creed that the special circumstances produced by marriage were not to interfere with the full assertion of individual liberty. He paused a moment. I thought that was your reason for leaving Arma. She flushed to the forehead. It was not like him to give a personal turn to the argument. It was my reason, she said simply. Well, then, why do you refuse to recognize its validity now? I don't. I don't. I only say that one can't judge for others. He made an impatient movement. This is mere hair-splitting. What you mean is that the doctrine having served your purpose when you needed it, you now repudiated. Well, she exclaimed, flushing again. What if I do? What does it matter to us? Westall rose from his chair. He was excessively pale and stood before his wife with something of the formality of a stranger. It matters to me, he said in a low voice, because I do not repudiate it. Well, and because I had intended to invoke it as, he paused and drew his breath deeply. She sat silent, almost deafened by her heartbeats. As in a complete justification of the course I am about to take, Julia remained motionless. What course is that? she asked. He cleared his throat. I mean to claim the fulfillment of your promise. For an instant the room wavered and darkened. My torturing acuteness of vision, every detail of her surroundings pressed upon her, the tick of the clock, the slant of sunlight on the wall, the hardness of the chair-arms that she grasped were a separate one to each sense. My promise, she faltered, your part of our mutual agreement to set each other free if one or the other should wish to be released. She was silent again. He waited a moment, shifting his position nervously. Then he said, with a touch of irritability, you acknowledged the agreement. The question went through her like a shock. She lifted her head to it proudly. I acknowledged the agreement, she said. And you don't mean to repudiate it? A log on the hearth fell forward and mechanically he advanced and pushed it back. No, she answered slowly. I don't mean to repudiate it. There was a pause. He remained near the hearth, his elbow resting on the mantel shelf. Close to his hand stood a little cup of jade that he had given her on one of their wedding anniversaries. She wondered vaguely if he noticed it. You intend to leave me then? She said at length. His gesture seemed to deprecate the crudeness of the illusion. To marry someone else? Again his eye and hand protested. She rose and stood before him. Why should you be afraid to tell me? Is it Una van Cedren? He was silent. I wish you good luck, she said. Part 3 She looked up, finding herself alone. She did not remember when or how he had left the room long afterwards she had sat there. The fire still smoldered on the hearth, but the slant of sunlight had left the wall. Her first conscious thought was that she had not broken her word, that she had fulfilled the very letter of their bargain. There had been no crying out, no vain appeal to the past, no attempt at temporizing or evasion. She had marched straight up to the guns. She looked about her, trying to recover her hold on reality. Her identity seemed to be slipping from her as it disappears in a physical swan. This is my room. This is my house. She heard herself saying, her room, her house, she could almost hear the walls laugh back at her. She stood up, a dull ache in every bone. The silence of the room frightened her. She remembered now, having heard the front door close time ago, the sound suddenly re-echoed through her brain. Her husband must have left the house then. Her husband? She no longer knew in what terms to think. The simplest phrases had a poisoned edge. She sank back into her chair, overcome by a strange weakness. The clock struck ten. It was only ten o'clock. Suddenly she remembered that she had not ordered dinner, or were they dining out that evening. Dinner, dining out, the old meaningless phraseology pursued her. She must try to think of herself as she would think of someone else, a someone disassociated from all the familiar routine of the past, whose wants and habits must gradually be learned as one might spy out the ways of a strange animal. The clock struck another hour. Eleven. She stood up again and walked to the door. She thought she would go upstairs to her room. Her room? Again the word derided her. She opened the door, crossed the narrow hall, and walked up the stairs. As she passed she noticed Westall's sticks and umbrellas. A pair of his gloves lay on the hall table. The same stair carpet mounted between the same walls, the same old French print, in its narrow black frame faced her on the landing. This visual continuity was intolerable. Within a gasping chasm without the same untroubled and familiar surface she must get away from it before she could attempt to think. But once in her room she sat down on the lounge, a stupor creeping over her. Gradually her vision cleared. A great deal had happened in the interval. A wild marching and counter-marching of emotions, ideas, a fury of insurgent impulses that fell back spent upon themselves. She had tried, at first, to rally, to organize these chaotic forces. There must be help somewhere if only she could master the inner tumult. Life could not be broken off short like this. For a whim, a fancy, the law itself would side with her, would defend her. The law? What claim had she upon it? She was the prisoner of her own choice. She had been her own legislator. And she was the predestined victim of the code she had devised. But this was grotesque intolerable, a mad mistake for which she could not be held accountable. The law, she had despised, was still there, might still be invoked. Invoked, but to what end? Could she ask to chain Westall to her side? She had been allowed to go free and claimed her freedom. Should she show less magnanimity than she had exacted? Magnanimity? The word lashed her with its irony. One does not strike an attitude when one is fighting for life. She would threaten, grovel, cajole. She would yield anything to keep her hold on happiness. Ah, but the difficulty lay deeper. The law could not help her. Her own apostasy could not help her. She was the victim of the theories, she renounced. It was as though some giant machine of her own making had caught her up in its wheels and was grinding her to atoms. It was afternoon when she found herself out of doors. She walked with an aimless haste, fearing to meet familiar faces. The day was radiant, metallic, one of the searching American days so calculated to reveal the shortcomings of our street cleaning of our architecture. The streets looked bare and hideous. Everything stared and glittered. She called a passing handsome and gave Mrs. Vinciteran's address. She did not know what had led up to the act, but she found herself suddenly resolved to speak, to cry out a warning. It was too late to save herself, but the girl might still be cold. The handsome rattled up Fifth Avenue. She sat with her eyes fixed, avoiding recognition. At the Vinciteran's door she sprang out and rang the bell. Action had cleared her brain and she felt calm and self-possessed. She knew now exactly what she meant to say. The ladies were both out. The parlor maid stood waiting for a card. Julia, with a vague murmur, turned away from the door and lingered a moment on the sidewalk. Then she remembered that she had not paid the cab driver. Her purse and handed it to him. He touched his hat and drove off, leaving her alone in the long empty street. She wandered away westward, toward strange thoroughfares where she was not likely to meet acquaintances. The failing of aimlessness had returned. Once she had found herself in the afternoon torrent of Broadway, swept past tawdry shops and flaming theatrical posters with the succession of meaningless faces gliding by in the opposite direction. A feeling of faintness reminded her that she had not eaten since morning. She turned into a side street of shabby houses with rows of ash barrels behind bent area railings. In a basement window she saw the sign Lady's Restaurant. A pie and a dish of donuts lay against the dusty pane like petrified food in an ethnological museum. She entered and a young woman with a weak mouth and a brazen eye cleared a table for her near the window. The table was covered with the red and white cotton cloth and adorned with a bunch of celery and a thick tumbler and a salt cellar full of grayish lumpy salt. Julia ordered tea and sat a long time waiting for it. She was glad to be away from the noise and confusion of the streets. The low-sailing room was empty and two or three waitresses in perched faces lounged in the background staring at her and whispering together. At last the tea was brought in a discolored metal teapot. Julia poured a cup and drank it hastily. It was black and bitter but it flowed through her veins like an elixir. She was almost dizzy with exhilaration. Oh, how tired, how unutterably tired she had been. She drank a second cup and now her mind was once more working clearly. She felt as vigorous, as decisive as when she had stood on the van Sideren's doorstep but the wish to return there had subsided. She saw now the futility of such an attempt, the humiliation to which it might have exposed her. The pity of it was that she did not know what to do next. The short winter day was fading and she realized that she could not remain in the restaurant without attracting notice. She paid for her tea and went out into the street. The lamps were a light and here and there a basement shop cast an oblong of gaslight across the fissured pavement. In the dusk there was something sinister about the aspect of the street and she hastened back toward Fifth Avenue. She was not used to being out alone at that hour. At the corner of Fifth Avenue she paused and stood watching the stream of carriages. At last a policeman cut sight of her and signed to her that he would take her across. She had not meant to cross the street but she obeyed automatically and presently found herself on the farther corner. There she paused again for a moment but she fancied the policeman was watching her and this sent her hastening down the near side street. After that she walked a long time, vaguely. Night had fallen and now and then through the windows of a passing carriage she caught the expanse of an evening waistcoat or the shimmer of an opera cloak. Suddenly she found herself in a familiar street. She stood still a moment, breathing quickly. She had turned the corner without noticing whether it led but now a few yards ahead of her she saw the house in which she had once lived, her first husband's house. The blinds were drawn and only a faint translucent mark the windows and the transom above the door. As she stood there she heard a step behind her and a man walked by in the direction of the house. He walked slowly with a heavy middle-aged gait. His head sunk a little between the shoulders the red crease of his neck visible above the fur collar of his overcoat. He crossed the street, went up the steps of the house, drew forth a latch key and let himself in. There was no one else in sight. Julia leaned for a long time against the area rail at the corner her eyes fixed on the front of the house. The feeling of physical weariness had returned but the strong teeth still throbbed in her veins and let her brain with an unnatural clearness. Presently she heard another step draw nearer and moving quickly away she too crossed the street and mounted the steps of the house. The impulse which had carried her there prolonged itself in a quick pressure of the electric bell. Then she felt suddenly weak and tremulous and grasped the balustrade for support. The door opened at a young footman with a fresh inexperienced face stood on the threshold. Julia knew in an instant that he would admit her. I saw Mr. Armand going in just now. She said, Will you ask him to see me for a moment? The footman hesitated. I think Mr. Armand has gone up to dress for dinner, madam. Julia advanced into the hall. I am sure he will see me. I will not detain him long," she said. She spoke quietly, authoritatively, in the tone which a good servant does not mistake. The footman had his hand on the drawing-room door. I will tell him, madam. What name, please? Thought of that. Merely say a lady. She returned carelessly. The footman wavered and she fancied herself lost. But at that instant the door opened from within and John Armand stepped into the hall. He drew back sharply as he saw her, his floored face turning shallow with the shock. Then the blood poured back to it, swelling the veins on his temples and reddening the lobes of his thick ears. It was long since Julia had seen him and she was startled at the change in his appearance. He had thickened, coarsened, settled down into the enclosing flesh. But she noted this insensibly. Her one conscious thought was that now she was face to face with him she must not let him escape till he had hurt her. Every pulse in her body throbbed with the urgency of her message. She went up to him as he drew back. I must speak to you, she said. Armand hesitated, red and stammering. Julia glanced at the footman and her look acted as a warning. The instinct of shrinking from a scene predominated over every other impulse and Armand said slowly will you come this way? He followed her into the drawing-room and closed the door. Julia, as she advanced, was vaguely aware that the room at least was unchanged. Time had not mitigated its horrors. The Contadena still lurched from the chimney breast, and the Greek slave obstructed the threshold of the inner room. The place was alive with memories. They started out from every fold of the yellow satin curtains and glided between the angles of the rosewood furniture. But while some subordinate agency was carrying these impressions to her brain, her whole conscious effort was centered in the act once will. The fear that he would refuse to hear her mounted like fever to her brain. She felt her purpose melt before words and arguments running into each other in the heat of her longing. For a moment her voice failed her, and she imagined herself thrust out before she could speak. But as she was struggling for a word, Armand pushed a chair forward and said quietly you are not well. The sound of his voice steadied her. It was neither kind nor unkind, a voice that suspended judgment, rather, awaiting unforeseen developments. She supported herself against the back of the chair and drew a deep breath. Shall I sin for something? He continued, with a cold embarrassed politeness. Julia raised an untreating hand. No, no, thank you, I am quite well. He paused midway toward the bell and turned on her. Then may I ask Yes, she interrupted him. I came here because I wanted to see you. There is something I must tell you. Armand continued to scrutinize her. I am surprised at that, he said. I should have supposed that any communication you may wish to make could have been made through our lawyers. Our lawyers? She burst into a little laugh. I don't think they could help me this time. Armand's face took on a barricaded look, if there is any question of help, of course. It struck her, whemsically, that she had seen that look when some shabby devil called with a subscription book. Perhaps he thought she wanted him to put his name down for so much in sympathy, or even in money. The thought made her laugh again. She saw his look change slowly to perplexity. All his facial changes were slow, and she remembered suddenly how it had once diverted her to shift that lumbering scenery with a word. For the first time it struck her that she had been cruel. There is a question of help, she said in a softer key. You can help me, but only by listening. I want to tell you something. Armand's resistance was not yielding. Would it not be easier to write, he suggested. She shook her head. There is no time to write, and it won't take long. She raised her head and their eyes met. My husband has left me, she said. Westall he stammered, reddening again. Yes, this morning, just as I left you because he was tired of me. The words, uttered scarcely above a whisper, seemed to violate to the limit of the room. Armand looked toward the door. Then his embarrassed glance returned to Julia. I am very sorry, he said awkwardly. Thank you, she murmured. But I don't see. No. But you will, in a moment. Won't you listen to me, please? Instinctively she had shifted her position, putting herself between him and the door. It happened this morning. She went toward breathless phrases. I never suspected anything. I thought we were perfectly happy. Suddenly he told me he was tired of me. There is a girl he likes better. He has gone to her. As she spoke, the lurking anguish rose upon her, possessing her once more to the exclusion of every other emotion. Her eyes ached, her throat swelled with it, and two painful tears burnt away down her face. Armand's constraint was increasing visibly. This is very unfortunate, he began. But I should say the law. The law, she echoed ironically, when he asked for his freedom you are not obliged to give it. You are not obliged to give me mine, but you did. He made a protesting gesture. You saw that the law couldn't help you, didn't you? She went on. That is what I see now. The law represents material rights. It can't go beyond. If we don't recognize an inner law, the obligation that love creates, being loved as well as loving, there is nothing to prevent our spreading ruin unhindered. Is there? She raised her head plaintively, with the look of a bewildered child. That is what I see now. What I wanted to tell you. He leaves me because he's tired, but was not tired, and I don't understand why he is. That's the dreadful part of it, the not understanding. I hadn't realized what it meant, but I've been thinking of it all day, and things have come back to me, things I hadn't noticed. When you and I—she moved closer to him and fixed her eyes on his with the gaze that tries to reach beyond words—I see now that you didn't understand, did you? Their eyes met in a sudden shock of comprehension. A veil seemed to be lifted between them. Armand's lip trembled. No, he said. I didn't understand. She gave a little cry, almost of triumph. Ah! I knew it! I knew it! You wondered. You tried to tell me, but no words came. You saw your life falling in ruins, the world slipping from you, and speak or move. She sank down on the chair against which she had been leaning. Now I know. Now I know, she repeated. I am very sorry for you, she heard Armand stammer. She looked up quickly. That's not what I came for. I don't want you to be sorry. I came to ask you to forgive me, for not understanding that you understand. That's all I wanted to say. She rose with a vague sense that the end had come and put out a groping hand toward the door. Armand stood motionless. She turned to him with a faint smile. You forgive me? There is nothing to forgive. Then will you shake hands, for good-bye? She felt his hand in hers. It was nervous, reluctant. She repeated. I understand now. She opened the door and passed out into the hall. As she did so, Armand took an impulsive step forward. But just then the footman, who was evidently alive to his obligations, advanced from the background to let her out. She heard Armand fall back. The footman threw open the door and she found herself outside in the darkness. Section 3 of International Women's Literature Collection This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Rachel Klippenstein Him for Holy Wednesday by St. Cassia Section 3 O Lord, the woman fallen among manifold sins, perceiving thy divinity, assumes of myrrh bearer, and morning beareth myrrh to thee before the day of thy burial, saying woe is me, for night is about me, the sting of passion, twilight and moonless dark, even love of transgression, accept I entreat my tears fountains, who in vapours aloft drawest the waters of ocean. Bow down, I pray, and give ear to my heart's bitter groanings, thou who didst bend the heavens, emptying myry. I will kiss thy undefiled feet, and will wipe them dry again with the curling locks of my head, the feet whose dread sound eave in paradise heard in her ears and hid for terror. The fullness of my sins and the abysses of thy judgments who can explore soul saver, deliverer mine, turn not thy sight from thy servant, thou whose compassion is infinite. End of Section 3