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The Crimson Tide: A Novel, a novel by Robert W. Chambers |
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Chapter 23 |
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_ CHAPTER XXIII In the strange, springlike weather which prevailed during the last days of January, Vanya was buried under skies as fleecy blue as April's, and Marya Lanois went back to the studio apartment where she and Vanya had lived together. And here, alone, in the first month of the new year, she picked up again the ravelled threads of life, undecided whether to untangle them or to cut them short and move on once more to further misadventure; or to Vanya; or somewhere--or perhaps nowhere. So, pending some decision, she left her pistol loaded. Afternoon sunshine poured into the studio between antique silken curtains, now drawn wide to the outer day for the first time since these two young people had established for themselves a habitation. And what, heretofore, even the lighted mosque-lamps had scarcely half revealed, now lay exposed to outer air and daylight, gilded by the sun--cabinets and chests of ancient lacquer; deep-toned carpets in which slumbered jewelled fires of Asia; carved gods from the East, crusted with soft gold; and tapestries of silk shot with amethyst and saffron, centred by dragons and guarded by the burning pearl. Over all these, and the great mosque lantern drooping from above, the false-spring sunshine fell; and through every open window flowed soft, deceptive winds, fluttering the leaves of music on the piano, stirring the clustered sheafs of growing jonquils and narcissus, so that they swayed in their Chinese bowls. Marya, in black, arranged her tiger-ruddy hair before an ancient grotesquerie set with a reflecting glass in which, on some days, one could see the form of the Lord Buddha, though none could ever tell from whence the image came. Where Vanya had left his music opened on the piano rack, the sacred pages now stirred slightly as the soft wind blew; and scented bells of Frisia swayed and bowed around a bowl where gold-fish glowed. Marya, at the piano, reading at sight from his inked manuscript, came presently to the end of what was scored there--merely the first sketch for a little spring song. Some day she would finish it as part of a new debt--new obligations she had now assumed in the slowly increasing light of new beliefs. As she laid Vanya's last manuscript aside, under it she discovered one of her own--a cynical, ribald, pencilled parody which she remembered she had scribbled there in an access of malicious perversity. As though curious to sound the obscurer depths of what she had been when this jeering cynicism expressed her mood, she began to read from her score and words, playing and intoning: "Parfait qu'on attend La Maree Rouge, "Croque'morts, sacristains et abbes, "La Maree Rouge montera
She was still occupied in destroying the unclean thing when a servant appeared, and in subdued voice announced Palla and Ilse. They came in as Marya swept the tattered scraps of paper into an incense-bowl, dropped a lighted match upon them, and set the ancient bronze vessel on the sill of the open window. "Some of my vileness I am burning," she said, coming forward and kissing Ilse on both cheeks. Then, looking Palla steadily in the eyes, she bent forward and touched her lips with her own. "Nechevo," she said; "the thing that dwelt within me for a time has continued on its way to hell, I hope." She took the pale girl by both hands: "Do you understand?" And Palla kissed her. When they were seated: "What religious order would be likely to accept me?" she asked serenely. And answered her own question: "None would tolerate me--no order with its rigid systems of inquiry and its merciless investigations.... And yet--I wonder.... Perhaps, as a lay-sister in some missionary order--where few care to serve--where life resembles death as one twin the other.... I don't know: I wonder, Palla." Palla asked her in a low voice if she had seen the afternoon paper. Marya did not reply at once; but presently over her face a hot rose-glow spread and deepened. Then, after a silence: "The paper mentioned me as Vanya's wife. Is that what you mean? Yes; I told them that.... It made no difference, for they would have discovered it anyway. And I scarcely know why I made Vanya lie about it to you all;--why I wished people to think otherwise.... Because I have been married to Vanya since the beginning.... And I can not explain why I have not told you." She touched a rosebud in the vase that stood beside her, broke the stem absently, and sat examining it in silence. And, after a few moments: "As a child I was too imaginative.... We do not change--we women. Married, unmarried, too wise, or too innocent, we remain what we were when our mothers bore us.... Whatever we do, we never change within: we remain, in our souls, what we first were. And unaltered we die.... In morgue or prison or Potter's Field, where lies a dead female thing in a tattered skirt, there, hidden somewhere under rag and skin and bone, lies a dead girl-child." She laid the unopened rosebud on Palla's knees; her preoccupied gaze wandered around that silent, sunlit place. "I could have taken my pistol," she said softly, "and I could have killed a few among those whose doctrines at last slew Vanya.... Or I could have killed myself." She turned and her remote gaze came back to fix itself on Palla. "But, somehow, I think that Vanya would grieve.... And he has grieved enough. Do you think so, Palla?" "Yes." Ilse said thoughtfully: "There is always enough death on earth. And to live honestly, and love undauntedly, and serve humanity with a clean heart is the most certain way to help the slaying of that thing which murdered Vanya." Palla gazed at Marya, profoundly preoccupied by the astounding revelation that she had been Vanya's legal wife; and in her brown eyes the stunned wonder of it still remained, nor could she seem to think of anything except of that amazing fact. When they stood up to take leave of Marya, the rosebud dropped from Palla's lap, and Marya picked it up and offered it again. "It should open," she said, her strange smile glimmering. "Cold water and a little salt, my Palla--that is all rosebuds need--that is all we women need--a little water to cool and freshen us; a little salt for all the doubtful worldly knowledge we imbibe." She took Palla's hands and bent her lips to them, then lifted her tawny head: "What do words matter? _Slava, slava_, under the moon! Words are but symbols of needs--your need and Ilse's and mine--and Jack's and Vanya's--and the master-word differs as differ our several needs. And if I say Christ and Buddha and I are one, let me so believe, if that be my need. Or if, from some high minarette, I lift my voice proclaiming the unity of God!--or if I confess the Trinity!--or if, for me, the god-fire smoulders only within my own accepted soul--what does it matter? Slava, slava--the word and the need spell Love--whatever the deed, Palla--my Palla!--whatever the deed, and despite it." * * * * * As they came, together, to Palla's house and entered the empty drawing-room, Ilse said: "In mysticism there seems to be no reasoning--nothing definite save only an occult and overwhelming restlessness.... Marya may take the veil ... or nurse lepers ... or she may become a famous courtesan.... I do not mean it cruelly. But, in the mystic, the spiritual, the intellectual and the physical seem to be interchangeable, and become gradually indistinguishable." "That is a frightful analysis," murmured Palla. A little shiver passed over her and she laid the rosebud against her lips. Ilse said: "Marya is right: love is the world's overwhelming need. The way to love is to serve; and if we serve we must renounce something." They locked arms and began to pace the empty room. "What should I renounce?" asked Palla faintly. Ilse smiled that wise, wholesome smile of hers: "Suppose you renounce your own omniscience, darling," she suggested. "I do not think myself omniscient," retorted the girl, colouring. "No? Well, darling, from where then do you derive your authority to cancel the credentials of the Most High?" "What!" "On what authority except your own omniscience do you so confidently preach the non-existence of omnipotence?" Palla turned her flushed face in sensitive astonishment under the gentle mockery. Ilse said: "Love has many names; and so has God. And all are good. If, to you, God means that little flame within you, then that is good. And so, to others, according to their needs.... And it is the same with love.... So, if for the man you love, love can be written only as a phrase--if the word love be only one element in a trinity of which the other two are Law and Wedlock--does it really matter, darling?" "You mean I--I am to renounce my--creed?" Ilse shook her head: "Who cares? The years develop and change everything--even creeds. Do you think your lover would care whether, at twenty-odd, you worship the flaming godhead itself, or whether you guard in spirit that lost spark from it which has become entangled with your soul?--whether you really do believe the man-made law that licenses your mating; or whether you reject it as a silly superstition? To a business man, convention is merely a safe procedure which, ignored, causes disaster--he knows that whenever he ignores it--as when he drives a car bearing no license; and the police stop him." "I never expected to hear this from you, Ilse." "Why?" "You are unmarried." "No, Palla." The girl stared at her: "Did you _marry_ Jack?" she gasped. "Yes. In the hospital." "Oh, Ilse!----" "He asked me." "But--" her mouth quivered and she bent her head and placed her hand on Ilse's arm for guidance, because the starting tears were blinding her now. And at last she found her voice: "I meant I am so thankful--darling--it's been a--a nightmare----" "It would have been one to me if I had refused him. Except that Jack wished it, I did not care.... But I have lately learned--some things." "You--you consented because he wished it?" "Of course. Is not that our law?" "Do you so construe the Law of Love and Service? Does it permit us to seek protection under false pretences; to say yes when we mean no; to kneel before a God we do not believe in; to accept immunity under a law we do not believe in?" "If all this concerned only one's self, then, no! Or, if the man believed as we do, no! But even then--" she shook her head slowly, "unless _all_ agree, it is unfair." "Unfair?" "Yes, it is unfair if you have a baby. Isn't it, darling? Isn't it unfair and tyrannical?" "You mean that a child should not arbitrarily be placed by its parents at what it might later consider a disadvantage?" "Of course I mean just that. Do you know, Palla, what Jack once said of us? He said--rather brutally, I thought--that you and I were immaturely un-moral and pitiably unbaked; and that the best thing for both of us was to marry and have a few children before we tried to do any more independent thinking." Palla's reply was: "He was such a dear!" But what she said did not seem absurd to either of them. Ilse added: "You know yourself, darling, what a relief it was to you to learn that I had married Jack. I think you even said something like, 'Thank God,' when you were choking back the tears." Palla flushed brightly: "I meant--" but her voice ended in a sob. Then, all of a sudden, she broke down--went all to pieces there in the dim and empty little drawing-room--down on her knees, clinging to Ilse's skirts.... She wished to go to her room alone; and so Ilse, watching her climb the stairs as though they led to some dread calvary, opened the front door and went her lonely way, drawing the mourning veil around her face and throat. _ |
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