Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 37
“Then what happened? He found at last what he was looking for — a woman, to him the most perfect thing in the world, the only perfect thing. With her he could live entire. She was the mate to his flame, the answering spark. But the flames could never meet, could never fuse into a life. Hers was dying, his was blighted. And when he looked at the woman, he felt like a man who was seeing the sun go down for the last time, knowing that thereafter he would dwell in the eternal darkness of the jungle, lapped by its hot life, abandoned to its murky ways, given over to the jungle heart and soul. He knew himself, knew what was in him.
“Then came the dream. It offered a way out, but he couldn’t take it. The body had its rights. Its demands were imperious. He was a fool perhaps, and weak, but he was all confused. He saw what he wanted less distinctly now, and always through a thickening vapor rising from the jungle. And in the vapor the other woman was standing and she was desirable. Don’t you see, it was all mixed up in him. I don’t say he was right or admirable or anything like that, but the man existed, he was like that, and you can’t explain him away. He believed in the dream, Aird! It was in him to believe in the dream. What the mind can imagine must exist or can be made to exist. If not in this world, then in another. I believe that, too.”
I stopped from the sheer urgency of my words and sat stupidly gazing at my hands, refusing to meet Aird’s eyes. Thoughts were tumbling through my mind, but they had neither form nor sequence. I knew that I had spoken vaguely and side-stepped the issue, but nevertheless I felt relieved. Aird started to speak, but I interrupted him.
“What I mean, Aird,” I said, “is that there’s a lot of love and life and beauty in this world that we can’t get at. Some people are willing to accept substitutes. Others prefer to invent things, but occasionally you find somebody who is willing to accept neither one nor the other method of existence, and that person, unless some unusual thing happens, either goes mad or commits a crime. Sometimes he does both, but it’s seldom he knows what he’s doing. Now when such a one meets a woman of a like mind and she’s willing to lead the way out — oh! well, you see it’s difficult. There are so many things to decide, particularly if he wants to think straight. And there are so many things to overcome if he happens to be weak — not cast in the hero’s mold.”
“Landor,” said Aird, his voice sounding kind and serious, “when a man is going through such a spiritual conflict as you describe, he must necessarily be alone. I pity your friend and in a way I envy him. I’m a skeptic by training and profession. It’s my business to question things, to believe in nothing unless it can be reduced to demonstrable fact. That’s my business. But in my heart, securely locked in an unprofessional strong box, there are a lot of hopes and fears that have no foundation in fact.”
“You’re not so skeptical then as you pretend?”
“I’m afraid not,” he replied. “We are all of us more or less bound up in the sanctions and prohibitions of the past, the old creeds and customs, tenets and traditions that have been accepted as irrefragable truths. The world is still littered up with a lot of hypocritical cussedness, some of it vicious and some of it just plain foolish, but until this stuff is cast aside, it doesn’t pay for a man to be anything other than skeptical. The time isn’t ripe for a person to indulge his soul. If he does he’s liable to lose it or else, as you say, go mad or commit a crime.”
“The dead still bury the living,” I suggested.
“In a sense,” he agreed. “But nevertheless we seem to have a well-developed faculty for burying ourselves. The world is like a train running along through a series of tunnels... it’s like certain parts of the Italian Riviera, where beauty lies all around you, yet most of your time is spent in the hot, confusing darkness of a tunnel. That’s the way we are, Landor, and that’s the way life is. We spend altogether too much time in darkness running through tunnels. For a moment we come out of the smoke and confusion to catch a glimpse of beauty, a fleeting vision of reality, peace and plenty and daylight, then suddenly we rush back again into the black mouth of the tunnel, and the vision fades from our eyes. Only the memory remains, and most of us forget that. As the engineers have bored through the mountains and brought us forth to the light that lies on the other side, so some day the scientist will tunnel through the deep confusion of our minds and let in a finer and more orderly conception of life. Then perhaps we shall know where we’re going and why we’re going, and what to expect at the end.”
“When the world has emerged from its last tunnel, we won’t be among its passengers.”
“I’m afraid not, Landor. There are many tunnels yet ahead and the way still lies up grade. Soon we shall all step off before the journey’s end.”
“Before we do,” I said as I rose to go, “I might be able to help you out with the end of that story.”
“It would be interesting to know more about such things,” he replied, looking at me attentively, “but for purely personal reasons I should prefer to let it remain only a story.”
At this moment Mrs. Aird appeared with her gingerbread and I was forced to resume my chair for fear of committing the unpardonable sin of not receiving her offering with a proper show of reverence. Apparently forgetting that she had entertained me thus on several previous occasions, she said brightly, “I just thought that I’d throw together a little gingerbread. It’s very nice in the afternoon.”
“What!” exclaimed Aird as though stabbed by the daring originality of the idea. “Gingerbread! Splendid, Mother.”
Believing it hardly necessary to act a lie with such callous elaboration, I did my duty with a conservative show of enjoyment. Between us Mrs. Aird sat flushed and triumphant as we dutifully consumed her offering. The sun dropped from view behind the island, leaving a melting light in the sky. The marshes filled up with shadows, among which streaks of crimson fitfully glittered.
* * * * *
IT was dark when I reached the cottage. MacKellar was not at home. Without troubling to strike a light, I groped my way to the stairs. As I was about to reach the landing, I heard in the hallway above me the pattering of bare feet, and Scarlet’s voice called down:
“One moment, David, I’m undressed.”
“That’s nothing new,” I replied irritably. “Since when have you become so delicate?”
“You’re always so sweet to me,” she said with good- natured sarcasm. “I’ve known officers who would have torn up their commissions to be in your shoes at this minute.”
“I wish to God they were,” I answered. “Shut your door.”
“If you’ll only wait a minute,” she called.
I could hear her stealthily moving about in the darkness. Then she said:
“Well, David, you can almost have your wish. I know a man — not so far away — who will gladly give me a fortune for my favor. He’s said as much... several times.”
“Accept it and get dressed,” I exclaimed impatiently. “Look out, Pm coming up.”
“All right, then,” she said. “Come up!”
Somewhere near at hand a door slammed, and without further hesitation I groped my way down the hall. Suddenly my outstretched hands encountered the soft flesh of a woman’s body and two strong arms twisted themselves round my neck.
“You thought I’d gone,” she whispered, “didn’t you?”
Before I had time to reply my lips were closed by hers, and a little tongue of fire seemed to dart through my brain. Weary as I was at that moment, both physically and mentally, I felt unable to resist the madness that had overtaken me in the darkness. Like a tired swimmer I now yielded to Scarlet. My arms slipped down to her hips, my mouth responded to hers, and our bodies clung together.
“You’ve never been to see me,” she whispered as she drew one arm from around my neck and quickly opened a door behind her. “Come in and see how nice it is.... Hugh won’t be back for hours.”
My hands fluttered over her body like frantic wings and my lips insanely sought her neck. All the while my brain was numb, dark and devoid of thought. I was glad of this, for I was afraid to think. And for the same reason I gave myself over the more completely to the moment. As we stood on the threshold of her room every other impulse in my life was subordinated to my desire to possess this woman. Her body quivered against mine, and I could feel her gently pulling me forward.
“Come, David,” she repeated under her breath.
As she spoke, she placed her two small hands against my chest and with all the strength that was in her shoved me violently backward. The door slammed in my face, and as I staggered back against the wall I heard the click of a lock. I sprang at the door, but it held firm. On the other side of it Scarlet was laughing softly. The very nearness of her body added to my rage.
“Oh, you little prig,” she called to me. “What becomes of your beautiful dream? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
Without replying I began to kick madly at the door, beating upon it with my hands. A demon of desire had taken possession of me. I was driven blindly to the attack like an unreasoning creature. Much of the hate in my heart was directed against myself. I held Scarlet responsible for this and my anger against her increased. I felt ashamed and yet unable to abandon my object. Then the door opened and she looked fearlessly out at me-
“Why don’t you try Hilda?” she asked with a’ sneer in her voice. “She’d love to see you now.”
At the mention of Hilda’s name my desire for Scarlet was consumed in a white hot flame of anger. I wanted her now, but for another reason. My hand shot out through the darkness. I seized her wrists as I had once done on another occasion, but this time I slapped her a full swinging blow on her face. As my hand came heavily down on her flesh I experienced a thrill of pleasure. Like a man intoxicated with brutality I continued to cuff her across the face and head until she began to sway unsteadily from side to side. She made no outcry nor attempt to free herself, but submitted silently to my blows. My strength was exhausted before my anger, and finally, through sheer weariness, I was forced to release her. She sank to the floor and threw her white arms around my knees. I was trembling violently and felt dazed and tired. A deep sigh escaped my lips. It sounded like a third person.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she clung to me. “Do you hear, David? I’m sorry. You can do what you want with me now.”
“I’ve done it,” I answered, balancing myself against the side of the door.
“David!” she pleaded.
As I looked down at the crumpled figure at my feet, a lump rose in my throat. My whole being was revolted by what I had done. Scarlet’s face appeared to be terribly bruised. In the dim light of the hallway I could see a little strip of black sliding over her lower lip and down to her chin. It was fascinating to watch this thread of blood as it crawled like a tiny snake to the white skin of her neck.
I averted my eyes and an unutterable sadness settled down on me. I felt afraid to be left alone with myself and yet unable to remain in the presence of this woman. With a low sob I broke from her grasp and, staggering through the hall to my room, sat down on the edge of my bed.
For a long time I sat there motionless, desperately going back over my conduct. No matter how falsely I shifted my reasoning, there were some facts that could not be avoided. I was no better than John Elliott. That was apparent. In fact, I had surpassed him. He could never have treated his wife as brutally as I had treated Scarlet. Why had I done it? Because she had mentioned Hilda’s name, or because she had made a mock of my passion? If it had been for Hilda’s sake there might have been some slight justification, but I could not honestly convince myself that Hilda had been the reason. My thoughts went back to the afternoon. It had been so quiet and different on the veranda of Aird’s little cottage. I had been different too — another person. Who would have believed that scarcely ten minutes after leaving that peaceful place I should try to take a woman by force and then have beaten her because I had failed in my purpose? How many other primitive and disgusting creatures were slinking about in the twilight of my soul, waiting their chances to confront me?
Unable to stand the darkness any longer I walked over to the table and lit the lamp. Then I began to move restlessly around the room, picking up familiar objects and examining them minutely as though they were new — anything to keep from thinking. Once I went to the door and listened, but it was quiet in the hall. With a little shiver I turned back to the room and stood irresolutely at my table. Some unfinished verses were lying upon it. Without realizing what I was doing, I sat down and began to write.
* * * * *
SOME time later I heard a tapping at my door. With a strange sense of fear I looked up and waited. The tapping continued patiently and at last, mastering my emotions, I called out in an irritable voice.
“Who the devil’s there?”
The door opened and MacKellar stood blinking at me.
“It’s one,” he said, “who began life as an artist, but who seems doomed to end it as a damn duenna. I’ve seen Hilda. She says she’s better... she isn’t. There’s been a doctor.”
“Who sent for him?” I asked.
“I did, of course. Elliott was furious.”
“What did he say — the doctor?”
“Very little. Merely looked confused... like a savage handling a watch. Her heart’s bad, but he could find nothing organic. I didn’t like the way he shook his head. Anybody can do that. When he left he was good enough to say that it was a very interesting case, and recommended a change of scene. Well?”
“Nothing,” I said, rising from the table. “Oh, God, there are too many things! What shall we do now?”
“What can we do?” he replied shortly. “She isn’t our wife. Here, she sent you this.”
He handed me a small square of Academy board which I took eagerly and carried to the lamp.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered, my hand shaking slightly as I looked at the picture. “You caught her beautifully, didn’t you?”
But I turned my eyes away from the simple little sketch MacKellar had handled so tenderly. At the moment I could not bear to look at Hilda’s face. Her eyes were too honest, and between them and mine floated the white bruised face of Scarlet as she had looked up at me from the floor.
“Where do you keep your whiskey?” I asked after a pause.
“Under lock and key,” he answered triumphantly.
“Where’s the key?” I demanded.
He looked at me with a startled expression which caused me hastily to add, “Oh, it’s all right, Hugh, only I’m still in need of a little picking up.”
His face cleared, and crossing the room, he took me affectionately by the arm.
“Come along then,” he said. “Let’s drink some whiskey.”
CHAPTER XIV
WHENEVER I THINK back over this period of my life I seem to be able to recall it in complete detail, and yet, at times when my thoughts are otherwise engaged, I suddenly discover in some dusty pigeonhole of my mind a new sheaf of unremembered things, and once more the past is vividly reopened. Little unimportant things, such as the acrid smell of a weed plucked by the roadside, the flight of a hawk across the marshes, or the sound of an ax ringing in the woods, serve to bring back more poignantly to me the exact texture of a forgotten mood than could any deliberate effort of memory.
To-day, for example, the sound of a child’s voice caused me unexpectedly to recall the fishermen’s children with whom I shared the beach for two days after I had attacked Scarlet. This small voice drifting in at my window awakened a clear echo of the past, bringing back to me with almost photographic distinctness the faces of those vanished children, and, as if it were only yesterday, I remembered the tale they coaxed from my reluctant lips fully twenty years ago.
Because of my encounter with Scarlet I now loathed myself more heartily than ever before, and was eager for the companionship of other people. A feeling of guilt restrained me from either remaining in MacKellar’s cottage or visiting Hunter Aird’s. And so, as a last resort, I withdrew to the beach, where I strove to forget myself in the company of a wind-weathered band of vagabonds whose clamoring voices mingled with the wash of the waves from early dawn until dark.
Children, I have always felt, are instinctively perceptive of sorrow in their elders, and when not too preoccupied with their own affairs, have a charmingly tactful yet lavish way of expressing their sympathy, particularly if the object of their affection happens to be an evil doer whose crimes have thrust him from the oppressive good graces of organized society.
The children of the fishermen received me with that spirit of free-masonry which exists between all habitual delinquents. They were professionally but not spitefully interested in the exact nature and extent of my offense.
“Whatcha sorry about?” asked one little chap after peering for a long time thoughtfully into my eyes.
“I’ve been bad,” I replied.
“Yeah?” he continued with rising interest. “Whatcha do?”
“I lost my temper,” I told him, “and made a terrible fuss of it.”
He considered this information judiciously while the other children drew nearer with serious faces. To them this was life, something that touched them intimately. Their spokesman continued:
“Did you kick an’ scream and fight?”
“Exactly,” I replied. “And now I don’t want to go home any more.”
“I know,” he said with the air of one who had suffered much. “They do git right after you when you go on like that. Las’ week I caught it somethin’ terrible, didn’t I, Natty?”
He looked at Natty for confirmation, and that young lady nodded vigorously with a shy smile on her rather serious and expressive face.
“Natty’s my sister, ain’t you, Natty?” he continued, and once more the girl made affirmative bobs with her brown curls.
“She’s eight,” he concluded abruptly.
“I’m the oldest of everybody here,” she announced.
