"Is it that you think you are getting along without Polatkin? Well, you can try." I hastened to reassure2 him. "Well then—are you getting cold feet about that Ravenscroft woman? Understand me, she can't act at all. It's something scandalous the way she tries to act like you do, and she can't. If I was her manager I would introduce a tight rope into the third act and have her walk it, but what I would have something that wasn't copied from somebody else."
"I wasn't thinking of Miss Ravenscroft," I confessed. "I'm thinking of getting married."
"Married! Married! And leave the stage? My God—it is a sin——!" He clutched the air and shook handfuls of it in my face. "What do you want to get married for?" he demanded. "Ain't you getting on like anything? Ain't you popular? Ain't you making money?"
"All of those," I admitted.
"Well, then?" His wrath3 which had frothed white for a moment, cooled down into a fluid sort of bewilderment which seemed about to set and harden in a smile of disbelief.
"The man I am going to marry lives in Mexico."
"Mexico! Mexico!" he bubbled again. "I ask you is that any sort of a place for a man to live what marries the greatest tragic4 actress ever was going to be?
"Ach, my Gott," in moments of great excitement he reverted5 to the trick of the tongue to which he was born. "All these years I have waited for this, I have said Miss Lattimore is a great actress, she has talent, she has brains, and when she will have passion—Pouff!" He blew out his loose lips and made a balloon with his hands to express the rate at which I would rise in the scale of tragic actresses. "And now that it has happened, she wants to live in Mexico." He deflated6 himself suddenly, folded his hands over what he believed to be his bosom7, and looked at me reproachfully. This being the first time he had studied my face directly since I came home, I suppose he must have seen there my doubt and indecision.
"Understand me," he said soberly, "I have known a lot of actresses, and I want to tell you that this marrying business don't pay. They got to come back to the stage; they got to. You ain't going to be any different down there in Mexico to what you are in New York, understand me. Yah! Mexico!" The word seemed to inflame8 him. But he had the sense to let me alone for a while.
A few days later I saw in the paper that he had taken the lease of the theatre he had mentioned to me, and I knew that he wasn't counting on my going to Mexico.
I suppose if I had had the courage to look into my own mind to find out what I wished to do, I might have surmised9 what was going on there from the fact that I didn't mention the idea of marriage to Sarah. I have tried—all this book has had no other purpose in fact, than to try to tell how I came to be in the relation I was to Helmeth Garrett, came into it as to a room long prepared for me, without any struggles or tormenting11, and without thinking much about the effect that his presence in my life would have upon my work. I suppose that in as much as I had a man's attitude toward work, I had come unconsciously to the man's habit of keeping love and my career, in two watertight compartments12. I found I was not able to think of them as having much to do with one another. Still less had I the traditional shames of my situation.
I remember the first time I went to rehearsal13, groping about in my consciousness for the source of what I felt suddenly divide me from the rest of my company, and finding it in the knowledge of myself as a woman acquainted with passion, with a secret, delicious life. And far from identifying me with the cheapness and betrayal which until now I had supposed inseparable from the uncertified union, it set me apart in the aloofness14 of the exclusive, the distinguishing experience. It remained for Sarah to pierce me, in spite of all I intrinsically felt my relation to Helmeth Garrett to be, with the knowledge of where I stood in the world which I still believed had the last word about human conduct.
It was not altogether the intent to deceive, that kept me from opening the matter to her in the beginning, but a feeling that the less advice I had about it the better. And if I did tell her, I wished first to arrange that I need not feel any constraint15 upon me of our habit of living together. I was anxious to have Helmeth find me when he came, free to be all to him that our love demanded, and in view of all the years in which Sarah and I had lived together, I did not know how to go about it. I began to think that I should have to tell her after all, when the Powers, who must have known very well what was going on, took that into account also.
Sarah's season began a week before mine, and I remember her saying that she would be glad when we could come home together, as she had had an uneasy sensation for the last night or two, of some one following her. Sarah had any number of admirers, but the sort of men who were attracted to her still splendour, were not the kind to follow her home at night.
"Turn them over to the police," I suggested. I had had to try that once or twice.
"Oh, I couldn't!" She turned scarlet16. Even after all those years I had not realized how all her life was timed to catch the slightest approaching footfall of what, to her simple faith, must inevitably17 come. I found her waiting for me at the stage door on my first night—no matter how many of them you have, first nights are always in the balance—and we were so taken up with discussing how I had got on with it, that it wasn't until I was fitting the key in the lock that I was recalled to the occasion of her annoyance18. Just below us there seemed to be a man dodging19 in and out of the blocks of shadow made by the high-railed stairways that led up to the first floor of the row of flats in which our rooms were located. Something in the figure, or in our standing20 there before the shadowed door with the dull light of the transom over us, brushed me with a light wing of memory; I seemed to recall some such conjunction before, but it was gone before I could connote the suggestion with time or place. All I said to Sarah was that if we saw anything more of that we would certainly speak to the police.
The next night we went to supper with friends, and it was after midnight when my cab—Sarah didn't afford cabs for herself—drew up at the door. The approach to it was by way of a handsome pair of stairs with an ornamental21 iron railing of so close a pattern that any one sitting on the steps in the dark, would be pretty well concealed22 by it. That there was some one so sitting, dropped there in a stupour of fatigue23 or drunkenness, we did not discover until we stumbled fairly on to him.
The exclamation24 we raised, awoke him; it arrested the attention of the cab driver just turning from the curb25, he raised his lamp and sent the rays of it streaming over us. The man I could see, was shabby, ill and embarrassed, he ducked his head from the light, but his hat had fallen off on the step and as he threw up his arm to protect himself from recognition I knew him by the gesture.
"Griff," I cried. "Griffin! You!" I caught him by the arm. He let it fall at his side and stood looking at us pitifully, like a trapped animal.
"I wasn't doing any harm," he mumbled26. The cab driver seeing that we knew him, let down his lights and clattered27 away. I thought quickly; he must have been in want, he had looked for me and at the last was ashamed to claim me.
"But, Griffin," I insisted, "you don't know how glad I am to see you—you must come in." He wasn't looking at me; he hadn't heard me.
"Look out," he said, "she's going to faint!" He brushed past me to Sarah. She leaned limp against the railing; he steadied her as a man might a sacred vessel28 in jeopardy29. But Sarah didn't faint so easily as that, she gathered herself away from his hand.
"Come upstairs," she commanded. It was only one flight up. I don't know how we managed to get a light and to find ourselves in its pale flare30, confronting one another. I could see then that my first surmise10 had been correct about Griffin, to the extent that he looked ill and in want. He was holding his hat, which he had picked up from the stairs, and fumbled31 it steadily32 in his hands. His hair, which wanted trimming more even than when I had last seen him, had still its romantic curl; he looked steadily out from under it at Sarah. I had an idea, though I think it must have been derived33 from my own dizziness at what rushed in upon me, that Sarah was floating in air, that she hung there swaying with the breeze from the open window, as a spirit. She was spirit white and her voice seemed to come from far.
"Leon! Leon!" How he knew what she demanded of him only the God who makes men and women to love one another, knows.
"She died," he said to the unspoken question. "She died two years ago. I've been all this time finding you." Suddenly a quick flame burst over Sarah.
"You came—you came to me!" I could see that she moved toward him, all her magnificent body alight, her arms, her bosom. I turned quickly through the door into the room beyond. I couldn't stay to see that. I went on into my bedroom and knelt down, hiding my face in the bedclothes. I think I meant to pray, but no words came. I rose presently and went into the kitchen. The maid did not sleep in the flat but came every morning at nine; on the table there was a tray as she left it always, with everything laid out in case we should be hungry coming late from the theatre. I moved about softly and made chocolate and sandwiches and arranged them on the tray; I knew Sarah would understand. About half an hour after I had gone to my room again, I heard her go out to find it.
From time to time I could catch a faint murmur34 from the front room. I put the pillow over my head and cried softly. I remembered how Griffin had looked at her that time in Chicago when I had taken him to "The Futurist," and how I had been ashamed ever to introduce him. I wondered whether his real name were Lawrence or Griffin. I had fallen asleep at last, and I was awakened35 by Sarah standing beside me in her white gown.
"May I sleep with you, Olivia? I've put ... Mr. Lawrence ... in my room." I drew her under the cover with me; she was cold and now and then a shudder36 passed through her from head to foot.
"You guessed, didn't you?" she whispered. "He said you knew him in Chicago. His ... Mrs. Lawrence is dead ... you heard him say that?" I understood she meant by that to extenuate37 his coming back to her. It was right for him to come if no other woman stood in the way; what there was in himself that stood in the way didn't seem to matter.
"He's been ill," she said. "I hope you didn't mind my keeping him in the house, Olive.... We can be married to-morrow."
"Sarah! You don't mean that you are going to marry him!"
"Why, what else is there to do?"
"But, Sarah ..." I lay down again. After all what else was there to do?
"You know, Olivia, you have never really loved anybody." I had no answer to that; suddenly she broke out shaking the bed with her sobs39. "Oh, my dear, my dear, it is true that he loved me. It is true. He came back to me as soon as he was free. Oh, Olive, if you had known what it is all these years not to know if it was true! If he hadn't only taken me just as a stop-gap ... a fancy ... how was I to know?"
I didn't think very much of the proof that he loved her now. Sarah, beautiful, prosperous, was a goal for any man to strive toward, even without the necessity which was written in every line of Leon Griffin Lawrence.
"Sarah," I questioned gently, "do you mean to say you've loved him all this time, that you love him now?" She left off sobbing40 to answer me with that steady, patient truth with which she met any issue of life.
"I loved him ... all the love I had I gave him. It's not the same now, of course; its wings are broken, but it is his. Once you've given you can't take it back again."
"But he—he has no claim on you now. Sarah, do you need to marry him?"
"I am married to him."
"But, Sarah ... look here, Sarah, it isn't true that I have never loved. I didn't love the man I was married to, but I have learned something about love; I've learned that marriage without it is a thing no self-respecting woman should go into."
"Love," said Sarah, "is a thing that once you've gone into, binds41 you by something that grows out of it that is stronger than love itself. Olivia, I am bound ... if you want to know, I'd rather be bound to—to Leon Lawrence by that tie than to the dearest love without it. Oh, Olivia, can't you see, can't you understand that I have to do right ... that the way I see things there's a law ... not a civil law but a law of loving that goes on by itself; and being faithful to it is better to me than loving. You must see that, Olivia."
"I see that this is the happiest thing for you and I'll not put anything in your way, Sarah." I kissed her. What, after all, does one soul know of another.
It came to me as an extenuating42 circumstance when I looked him over the next morning, that Mr. Lawrence wouldn't live long enough to do her any particular harm. He had been so little of a man always to me, so much less so now, eaten through as he was by poverty and sickness, that I could never understand how he happened to be the vehicle of that appealing charm which even as I looked, drew me over to his side in something like a sympathetic frame.
I could see that he regarded me anxiously, and I thought it to his credit to be able to realize that there might be somebody not absolutely delighted at his marrying Sarah. But it wasn't, as I learned later, any sense of his shortcomings that waked in his eye toward me.
He was lying on the sofa in our little parlour, for the shock of the encounter had been too much for the abused and broken thing he was. Sarah had gone out, to consult Jerry, I believed about their marriage;—she wouldn't have asked me knowing how I felt about it. Griffin looked up at me with the old formless demand on my consideration.
"You've never told her, have you?"
"Told what?" On my part it was genuine amazement.
"About us, you know ... there in Chicago." He dropped his eyes; something almost like a blush of shame overcame him. I stared.
"Good heavens, Griff, I'd forgotten it."
"Oh, well, I didn't know—some women——" He stopped, embarrassed by my sheer credulity of its having anything to do with his relation to Sarah. "I told you I was a bad lot," he protested, "but I swear that since my wife died and I could come back to her, I've been straight. You believe that, don't you?"
"Oh, I'll believe it if it's any comfort to you." When I talked it over with Jerry afterward43 I could see the queer, twisted kind of moral standard by which he made it appear that any irregularity of his during his wife's life, was unfaithfulness to her, and not Sarah.
She had come back with Jerry and I was walking with him to the City Hall for the license44; he had begun by protesting just as I had, and had surrendered to his conviction that nothing less would satisfy Sarah.
"After all," I said, "it shows that there is some sort of harmony between them, that he should realize that the only reparation he could make would be to come back to her."
"Cur!" Jerry kicked at the pavement, "to pollute the life of a woman like Sarah with his wretched existence."
"That's how you feel," I reminded him, "but remember how all these years Sarah has felt polluted by the thought that she wasn't married to him."
"Oh, damn!"
"Sarah thinks, and I'm beginning to think so too, that there is something to marriage that binds besides the ceremony."
"I know." Jerry's wife had left him that summer and though he knew it was the best thing for both of them, he was trying to get her back again: "It binds of itself. If only they would tell us that in the beginning instead of putting up all this stuff about its being the law and religion. We think we can get out of it just by getting out of the law, and none of us know better until it is too late."
"People like Sarah know. They know just the way swallows know to go south in winter. You'll see; she will be happier married, not because it is pleasant but because it is right."
They were married that afternoon in our apartment, and it was not until I was settled in the hotel where I had elected to stay until I could find suitable quarters, that I realized that the chance of this marriage had accomplished45 for me the freedom that I had not known how to obtain for myself.
I lay awake a long time after I came from the theatre, and the mere46 circumstance of my being alone and in a hotel, as well as the events that led up to it, brought back to me the sense of my lover, of his being just in the next room and presently to come in to me. I felt near and warm toward him. And then I thought of Sarah and Griffin and how almost I had become the stop-gap to his affections that she dreaded47 most to find herself to have been. It didn't seem very real in retrospect48. I shuddered49 away from it. Then I began to think how I had first been kindly50 disposed toward him, and that brought up an image of the dim corridor of the hotel where I had come to my first knowledge of such relations, and my abhorrence51 and terror of it. I thought of O'Farrell and of Miss Dean, and that suspicion of sickliness which her personality had for me, and saw how it must have arisen from her consciousness of what she had done to Griffin rather than her relation to Manager O'Farrell. Then I thought of Helmeth Garrett and one night in Sienna when the moonlight poured white over the cathedral ... and a linden tree in bloom outside the window ... and a nightingale singing in it ... Suddenly it was mixed up in my mind with the slanting52 chandelier and the tin-faced clock, and slowly a sense of unutterable stain and shame began to percolate53 through and through me.
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1
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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6
deflated
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| adj. 灰心丧气的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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11
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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12
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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13
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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28
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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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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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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extenuate
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| v.减轻，使人原谅 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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39
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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40
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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41
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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42
extenuating
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| adj.使减轻的，情有可原的v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的现在分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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43
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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44
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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45
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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46
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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47
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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48
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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49
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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50
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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51
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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52
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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53
percolate
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| v.过滤，渗透 | |
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