The two weeks had gone he knew not how; and yet he had taken count of the procession of the days. Days of clouds, when, under a drenching6 mist, the land [Pg 341] was sodden7 into the likeness8 of the sea, the sea stilled into a leaden image of the land; days of rain, when the wet decks shone like amber9, and the sea's face was smoothed out and pitted by the showers; days of sun, when they went with every sail spread, over a warm, quivering sea, whose ripples10 bore the shivered reflections of the sky in so many blue flames that leaped and danced with the Windward in her course; days of wind, when the Channel was a race of tumultuous waves, green-hearted, silver-lipped, swelling11 and breaking and swelling, and flowering into foam12, days when the yacht careened over with steep decks, laid between wind and water, flush with the foam, driven by the wind as by her soul; days when Durant and Frida, who delighted in rough weather, sat out together on deck alone. They knew every sound of that marvelous world, sounds of the calm, of water lapping against the yacht's side, the tender, half-audible caress13 of the sea; sounds of the coming gale14, more seen than heard, more felt than seen, the deep, long-drawn shudder15 of the sea when the wind's path is as the rain's path; and that sound, the song of her soul, the keen, high, exultant16 song that the wind sings, playing on her shrouds17 as on a many-stringed instrument. The boat, in her unrest, rolling, tossing, wheeling and flying, was herself so alive, so one with the moving wind and water, and withal so slight a shell for the humanity within her, that she had brought them, the man and the woman, nearer and nearer to the heart of being; they touched through her the deep elemental forces of the world. The sea had joined what the land had kept asunder18. At this last hour of Durant's last day they were drifting rather than sailing past a sunken shore, a fringe of gray slate19, battered20 by the tide and broken into thin layers, with edges keen as knives; above it, low woods [Pg 342] of dwarf21 oaks stretched northward22, gray and phantasmal as the shore, stunted23 and tortured into writhing24, unearthly shapes by the violence of storms. For here and now the sea had its way; it had taken on reality; and earth was the phantom25, the vanishing, the vague.
They had been pacing the deck together for some minutes, but at last they stood still, looking landward.
Durant sighed heavily and then he spoke26.
"Frida, you know what I am going to say——"
They turned and faced each other. In the man's eyes there was a cloud, in the woman's a light, a light of wonder and of terror.
She smiled bravely through her fear. "Yes, I know what you are going to say. But I don't know——"
"What don't you know?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You don't know what I mean?"
"I know you are going to say you love me, and you had better not. For I don't know what that means. The thing you call love was left out of my composition. Some women are born like that."
"I don't believe it. It's only your way of saying that you don't care for me."
"I like you. I always have liked you. I'll go farther—if I ever loved any man it would be you."
"The fact remains27 that it isn't?"
"It isn't, and it never will be. But you may be very certain that it will never be anyone else."
"Tell me one thing—was there ever a time when it might have been?"
"That isn't fair. I can't answer that question."
"You can. Think—was there ever a time, no matter how short, the fraction of a minute, when if I'd only had the sense, if I had only known——" [Pg 343]
"Are you sure you didn't know? I was afraid you did."
"Then you really mean it—that if I'd only asked you then——"
"Thank Heaven, you did not!"
"Why are you thanking Heaven?"
"Because—because—I can't be sure, but I might—I might have taken you at your word."
"And why not?"
"I would have made a great mistake. The same mistake that you are making now."
"Mistake?"
"You mistook the idea for the reality once, if you remember—and now aren't you mistaking the reality for the idea?"
"Frida, you are too subtle; you are the most exasperating28 woman in the world——"
"There, you see. That's the sort of thing we should always be saying to each other if I let you have your way. But supposing you did have it; if we were married we could not understand each other better than we do; so we should not be one bit better off. By this time we should have got beyond the phase we started with——"
"But we should have had it——"
"Yes; and found ourselves precisely29 where we are now."
"Where we were yesterday, you mean."
"Yes. We were good enough friends yesterday."
"And what are we to-day? Enemies?"
She smiled sadly. "It looks like it. At any rate, we seem to have some difficulty in understanding each other."
"Good God! how coolly you talk about it! Understanding! Do you never feel? Has it never even occurred [Pg 344] to you that I can feel? Have you any notion what it is to be made of flesh and blood and nerves, and to have to stay here, squeezed up in this confounded boat, where I can't get away from you?"
"You can get away in three-quarters of an hour, and meanwhile, if you like, you can go below."
"If I did go below I should still feel you walking over my head. I should hear you breathe. And now to look at you and touch you, and know all the time that something sticks between us——"
He stopped and looked before him. It was true that the sea had brought them together. Amid the d?monic triumph and jubilation30 of the power that claimed them for its own they, the man and the woman, had been thrown on each other, they had looked into each other's eyes, spirit to spirit, the divine thing struggling blind and uncertain in nature's tangled31 mesh32. But now, so near, on the verge33 of the intangible, the divine, it came over Durant that after all it was this their common nature, their flesh and blood, that was the barrier; it merged34 them with the world on every side, but it hedged them in and hid them from each other.
"As you know, we're the best friends in the world; there's only one thing that sticks between us—the eternal difference in our points of view."
"I was perfectly35 right. Why couldn't I trust my first impressions? I thought you frigid36 and lucid37 and inhuman38——"
"Inhuman?"
"Well, not a bit like a woman."
"My dear Maurice, you are very like a man."
"There's something about you——"
"Really? What is it, do you think?"
"Oh, nothing; a slight defect, that's all. It must be as you say, and as I always thought, that you are incapable39 [Pg 345] of feeling or understanding feeling. I repeat, there's something about you——"
"Ah, Maurice, if you want the truth, there's something about you. I always knew, I felt that it was in you, though I wouldn't own that it was there. Now I am sure. You've been doing your best to make me sure."
"What have I made you sure of?"
"Sure that you are incapable, not of loving perhaps, but of loving a certain kind of woman the way she wants to be loved. You can't help it. As I said before, it is the difference in the point of view. We should get no nearer if we talked till doomsday."
"My point of view, as you call it, has entirely40 changed."
"No. It is I who have changed. Your point of view is, and always will be, the same."
He tried hard to understand.
"Does it come to this—that if I had loved you then you would have loved me now?"
"You couldn't have loved me then. You were not that sort."
He understood her meaning and it maddened him. "It wasn't my fault. How the devil was I to see?"
"Exactly, how were you? There are some things which you can't see. You can see everything you can paint, and, as you are a very clever artist, I dare say you can paint most things you can see."
"What has that got to do with it?"
"Everything. It's your way all through. You love me because what you see of me is changed. And yet all that time I was the same woman I am now. I am the same woman I was then."
"But I am not the same man!"
"The very same. You have not changed at all." [Pg 346]
She meant that he was deficient41 in that spiritual imagination which was her special power; she meant that she had perceived the implicit42 baseness of his earlier attitude as a man to her as a woman, a woman who had had no power to touch his senses. It was, as she had said, the difference in their points of view; hers had condemned43 him forever to the sensual and the seen.
He stood ashamed before her.
Yet, as if she had divined his shame and measured the anguish44 of it and repented45 her, she laid her hand on his arm.
"Maurice, it isn't entirely so. I have been horribly unjust."
"Not you! You are justice incarnate46. If I had loved you then——"
"You couldn't have loved me then."
"So you have just told me."
"You had good cause. I was not and could not be then—whatever it is that you love now."
"But I might have seen——"
"Seen? Seen? That's it. There was nothing to see."
Her eyes, in her pity for him, filled with tears, tears that in his anger he could not understand.
"Why are you always reminding me of what I was five years ago? I have changed. Can't a man change if you give him five years to do it in?"
"Perhaps. It's a long time."
"Time? It's an eternity47. If I was a brute48 to you, do you suppose the consciousness of my brutality49 isn't a far worse punishment than anything I could have made you feel?"
She raised her eyebrows50. "What? Have you been suffering all this time—this eternity?" [Pg 347]
"Yes. That is, I'm suffering enough now."
"Then perhaps you have some idea of what you made me feel."
"Again?"
"It's the first time I've reproached you with it, even in my thoughts."
He looked at her with unbelieving eyes. And yet he knew that it was true. Her sweetness, her lucidity51, had been proof against the supreme52 provocation53. She had forgiven, if she had not forgotten, the insult that no woman remembers and forgives.
As his eyes wandered the hand that had lain so lightly on his arm gripped it to command his attention, and he trembled through all his being. But she no longer shrank from him; she kept her hold, she tightened54 it, insisting.
"Oh, Maurice! haven't I told you that I understood?"
He smiled. "Yes. Thank God I can always appeal to your understanding, if I can't get at your heart. Supposing I didn't care for you then? Supposing I was too stupid to see what you were? Is five years, though it may be eternity, so long a time to learn to know you in? You take a great deal of learning, Frida; you are very difficult. There's so much more of you than any man can grasp. But you are the only woman I ever cared to know. I believe you have a thousand sides to you, and every one—every one I can see—appeals to me. There's no end to the interest. Whatever I see or don't see, I always find something more, and I never could be tired of looking."
She sighed and was silent.
"And you blame me because I couldn't see all this at once? Because it took me five years to love you? Remember, you were very cautious; you wouldn't let [Pg 348] me see more than a bit at a time. But I love every bit of you—heart and soul, and body and brain; I love you as I never could love any other woman in the world—the world, Frida," he added, pointing the hackneyed phrase. "You are the world."
They had never stopped pacing the deck together, as they talked, turn after turn, alike and yet unlike in their eagerness and unrest. Now they stood still. Far off they could see the returning boat, a speck55 at the mouth of the harbor, and they knew that their time was short.
"Maurice," she said, "before you go I have a confession56 to make. I wasn't quite honest with you just now when I said I only liked you five years ago. I know very well that I loved you. The world has taught me so much."
The world! He frowned angrily as she said it. But through all his anger he admired the reckless nobility of soul that had urged her to that last admission, by way of softening57 the pangs58 and penalties she dealt to him. Would any other woman have confessed as much to the man who had once despised her, and now found himself in her power?
She went on. "I thought you might like to know it. I've gone far enough, perhaps; but I'll go farther still. I believe I would give the world to be able to love you now."
"Frida, if you can go as far as that——"
"I can go no farther. No, Maurice, not one step."
"You can. I believe, even now, I could make you love me."
"No. You see, women in my position, my unfortunate position, want to be loved for themselves."
"I do love you for yourself. Do you doubt that, too?" [Pg 349]
"I do not doubt it. I am quite sure of it. That's where it is. I know you love me for myself, and so many men have loved me—not for myself. Do you suppose that doesn't touch me? If anything could make me love you that would. And since it doesn't——"
The inference was obvious.
"Is it because you can't give up your life?"
"It is—partly. And yet I might do that. I did it once."
"You did, indeed. I can't conceive how you, being you, lived the life you did——"
"I owed it. It was the price of my freedom."
Her freedom! No wonder that she valued it, if she had paid that price!
She went on dreamily, as if speaking more to herself than him. "To have power over your life—to do what you like with it—take it up or throw it down, to fling it away if that seems the best thing to do. You're not fit to take up your life if you haven't the strength to put it down, too."
"Frida, if you were my wife you wouldn't have to put it down. I'm not asking you to give up the world for me; I'm not even asking you to give up one day of your life. Your life would be exactly what it is now—plus one thing. You'll say, 'What can I give you that you haven't got?' I can give you what you've never had. You don't know what a man's love is and can be; and you must own that without that knowledge your experience, even as experience, is not quite as complete as it might be."
The boat—the boat that was to take him to the shore—was getting nearer. It was his last chance. And while he staked everything on that chance, he thought of Frida as he had first seen her, as she sat tragically59 [Pg 350] at the whist table at Coton Manor60, dealing out the cards with deft61 and supple62 fingers.
Now she was dealing out his fate.
He remembered how she had said, "Mr. Durant wins because he doesn't care about the game." Because he cared—cared so supremely—was he going to lose?
There were so many things in Frida that he had not reckoned with. She was an extraordinary mixture of impulse and reserve, and she had astonished him more than once by her readiness to give herself away; but beyond a certain point—the point of view in fact—her self-possession was complete. Still, he left no argument untried, for there was no knowing—no knowing what undiscovered spring he might chance to touch in that rich and subtle nature.
Her self-possession was absolute. She parried his probe with a thrust.
"It is your own fault if my experience isn't complete. You should have told me these things five years ago. As you say, nobody else has instructed me since."
"I dare say they've done their best. Of course, other men have loved you——"
"They haven't——"
"But I believe my love would be worth more to you than theirs, for the simple reason that I understand you too well to insist on it. I should always know how much and how little you wanted. For we are rather alike in some ways. I would leave you free."
"I know you would. I am sure. And I would—I would so gladly—but I can't! You see, Maurice, I have loved you."
"All the more reason——"
"All the less. I knew what you thought and felt about me, and it made no difference; I loved you just the same, because I understood. Then I had to fight [Pg 351] it. It was hard work, but I did it very thoroughly63. It will never have to be done again. Do you see?"
Yes; he saw very plainly. If Frida could not love him there was nobody but himself to blame. He also saw the advantage she had given him. She had owned that she had loved him, and he had hardly realized the full force of the pluperfect. What had been might be again. She was a woman in whom the primordial64 passion, once awakened65, is eternal.
He pressed his advantage home.
"And why had you to fight so hard?"
"Because the thing was stronger than myself, and I wouldn't be beaten. Because I hated myself for caring for you, as I hate myself now for not caring."
In her blind pity she laid her fingers on his trembling hand. She who used to drop his hand as if it had been flame, she should have known better than to touch him now.
He looked at her with hot hungry eyes. His brain in its feverish66 intensity67 took note of trifles—the tortuous68 pattern of the braid on her gown, the gold sleeve-links at her wrists, the specks69 of brine that glistened70 on her temples under the wind-woven strands71 of her black hair; it recorded these things and remembered them afterward72. And all the time the boat came nearer, and the slow, steady stroke of the oars73 measured his hour by minutes, till the sweat, sprung from the labor74 and passion of his nerves, stood out in beads75 on his forehead.
He looked at her; and her beauty, the beauty born of her freedom and abounding76 life, the beauty he worshiped, was implacable; the divinity in it remained untouched by his desire.
"You needn't care," he said desperately77. "I'm not [Pg 352] asking you to care; I'm not asking you to give me your love, but only to take mine."
She smiled. "I'm not so dishonest as to borrow what I can't repay."
His voice was monotonous78 in its iteration. "I'm not talking about repayment79; I'll risk that. I don't want you to borrow it. I want you to take it, keep it, spend it any way you like, and—throw it away when you can't do anything more with it."
"And never return it? Ah, my friend! we can't do these things."
She dropped into the deck-chair, exhausted80 with the discussion. Her brow was heavy with thought; she was still racking her brains to find some argument that would appease81 him.
"I loved you—yes. And in my own way I love you now, if you could only be content with my way."
"Haven't you told me that your way is not my way?"
"Yes; and I've done worse than that. I've been talking to you as if you had made me suffer tortures, as if you had brought me all the pain of existence instead of all the pleasure. If you only knew! There's nothing I've been enjoying all these five years that I don't owe to you—to you and nobody else. You were very good to me even at the first; and afterward—well, I believe I love life as few women can love it, and it came to me through you. Do you think I can ever forget that? Forget what I owe you? You stood by me and showed me the way out; you stood by and opened the door of the world."
To stand by and open the door for her—it was all he was good for. In other words, she had made use of him. Well, had he not proposed to make use of her? After all, in what did his view of her differ from the [Pg 353] Colonel's, which he abominated82? All along, from the very first, it had been the old theory of the woman for the man. Frida for the Colonel's use, for his (Durant's) amusement, and now for his possession. Under all its disguises it was only an exalted83 form of the tyranny of sex. And Frida was making him see that there was another way of looking at it—that a woman, like nature, like life, may be an end in herself, to be loved for herself, not for what he could make out of her.
"I am a woman of the world, a worldly woman, if you like. I love the world better than anyone in it. And I'm a sort of pantheist, I suppose; I worship the world. But you will always be a part of the world I love and worship; I could not keep you out of it if I would."
The exultation84 in her tone provoked his laughter. "Heaven bless you—that's only a nice way of saying that I'm done for.
'He is made one with Nature; there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder to the song of night's sweet bird.'
You have made a clean sweep of me and my personal immortality85."
The splash of the oars sounded nearer. They could hear the voices of the crew; the boat, lightened of her first load, was returning with horrible rapidity, it came dancing toward them in its malignant86 glee; and they sat facing each other for the last time, tongue-tied.
They had paced the deck together again; one more turn for the last time.
Durant was silent. Her confession was still ringing [Pg 354] in his ears; but it rang confusedly, it left his reason as unconvinced as his heart was unsatisfied.
She had loved him, and not in her way, as she called it, but in his. And that was a mystery. He felt that if he could account for it he would have grasped the clue, the key of the position. Whatever she might say, these things were more than subtleties87 of the pure reason, they were matters of the heart. He was still building a hope beyond the ruins of hope.
"Frida," he said at last, "you are a wonderful woman, so I can believe that you loved me. But, seeing what I was and what you knew about me, I wonder why?"
Louder and nearer they heard the stroke of the oars measuring the minutes. Frida's eyes were fixed88 on the boat as she answered.
"Why? Ah, Maurice, how many times have I asked myself that question? Why does any woman love any man? As far as I can see, in nine hundred cases out of a thousand woman is unhappy because she loves. In the thousandth case she loves because she is unhappy."
The boat had arrived. The oars knocked against the yacht's side with a light shock. Durant's hour was at an end.
Frida held out her hand. He hardly touched it, hardly raised his eyes to her as she said "Good-bye." But on the last step of the gangway he turned and looked at her—the woman in a thousand.
She was not unhappy.
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1
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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dwarf
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northward
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stunted
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writhing
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phantom
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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remains
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exasperating
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precisely
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jubilation
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tangled
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mesh
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verge
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merged
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perfectly
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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primordial
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| adj.原始的；最初的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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repayment
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| n.偿还，偿还款；报酬 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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abominated
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| v.憎恶，厌恶，不喜欢( abominate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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