The Beautiful and Damned

  "It is rather too cold to walk," he said, briskly, to hide his annoyance.

  She made no answer and he wondered if she would dismiss him at the hotel entrance. She walked in without speaking, however, and to the elevator, throwing him a single remark as she entered it:

  "You'd better come up."

  He hesitated for the fraction of a moment.

  "Perhaps I'd better call some other time."

  "Just as you say." Her words were murmured as an aside. The main concern of life was the adjusting of some stray wisps of hair in the elevator mirror. Her cheeks were brilliant, her eyes sparkled--she had never seemed so lovely, so exquisitely to be desired.

  Despising himself, he found that he was walking down the tenth-floor corridor a subservient foot behind her; was in the sitting-room while she disappeared to shed her furs. Something had gone wrong-in his own eyes he had lost a shred of dignity; in an unpremeditated yet significant encounter he had been completely defeated.

  However, by the time she reappeared in the sitting-room he had explained himself to himself with sophistic satisfaction. After all he had done the strongest thing, he thought. He had wanted to come up, he had come. Yet what happened later on that afternoon must be traced to the indignity he had experienced in the elevator; the girl was worrying him intolerably, so much so that when she came out he involuntarily drifted into criticism.

  "Who's this Bloeckman, Gloria?"

  "A business friend of father's."

  "Odd sort of fellow!"

  "He doesn't like you either," she said with a sudden smile.

  Anthony laughed.

  "I'm flattered at his notice. He evidently considers me a--" He broke off with "Is he in love with you?"

  "I don't know"

  "The deuce you don't," he insisted. "Of course he is. I remember the look he gave me when we got back to the table. He'd probably have had me quietly assaulted by a delegation of movie supes if you hadn't invented that phone call."

  "He didn't mind. I told him afterward what really happened."

  "You told him!"

  "He asked me."

  "I don't like that very well," he remonstrated.

  She laughed again.

  "Oh, you don't?"

  "What business is it of his?"

  "None. That's why I told him."

  Anthony in a turmoil bit savagely at his mouth.

  "Why should I lie?" she demanded directly. "I'm not ashamed of anything I do. It happened to interest him to know that I kissed you, and I happened to be in a good humor, so I satisfied his curiosity by a simple and precise 'yes.' Being rather a sensible man, after his fashion, he dropped the subject."

  "Except to say that he hated me."

  "Oh, it worries you? Well, if you must probe this stupendous matter to its depths he didn't say he hated you. I simply know he does."

  "It doesn't wor--"

  "Oh, let's drop it!" she cried spiritedly. "It's a most uninteresting matter to me."

  With a tremendous effort Anthony made his acquiescence a twist of subject, and they drifted into an ancient question-and-answer game concerned with each other's pasts, gradually warming as they discovered the age-old, immemorial resemblances in tastes and ideas. They said things that were more revealing than they intended--but each pretended to accept the other at face, or rather word, value.

  The growth of intimacy is like that. First one gives off his best picture, the bright and finished product mended with bluff and falsehood and humor. Then more details are required and one paints a second portrait, and a third--before long the best lines cancel out--and the secret is exposed at last; the planes of the pictures have intermingled and given us away, and though we paint and paint we can no longer sell a picture. We must be satisfied with hoping that such fatuous accounts of ourselves as we make to our wives and children and business associates are accepted as true.

  "It seems to me," Anthony was saying earnestly, "that the position of a man with neither necessity nor ambition is unfortunate. Heaven knows it'd be pathetic of me to be sorry for myself--yet, sometimes I envy Dick."

  Her silence was encouragement. It was as near as she ever came to an intentional lure.

  "--And there used to be dignified occupations for a gentleman who had leisure, things a little more constructive than filling up the landscape with smoke or juggling some one else's money. There's science, of course: sometimes I wish I'd taken a good foundation, say at Boston Tech. But now, by golly, I'd have to sit down for two years and struggle through the fundamentals of physics and chemistry."

  She yawned.

  "I've told you I don't know what anybody ought to do," she said ungraciously, and at her indifference his rancor was born again.

  "Aren't you interested in anything except yourself?"

  "Not much."

  He glared; his growing enjoyment in the conversation was ripped to shreds. She had been irritable and vindictive all day, and it seemed to him that for this moment he hated her hard selfishness. He stared morosely at the fire.

  Then a strange thing happened. She turned to him and smiled, and as he saw her smile every rag of anger and hurt vanity dropped from him--as though his very moods were but the outer ripples of her own, as though emotion rose no longer in his breast unless she saw fit to pull an omnipotent controlling thread.

  He moved closer and taking her hand pulled her ever so gently toward him until she half lay against his shoulder. She smiled up at him as he kissed her.

  "Gloria," he whispered very softly. Again she had made a magic, subtle and pervading as a spilt perfume, irresistible and sweet.

  Afterward, neither the next day nor after many years, could he remember the important things of that afternoon. Had she been moved? In his arms had she spoken a little--or at all? What measure of enjoyment had she taken in his kisses? And had she at any time lost herself ever so little?

  Oh, for him there was no doubt. He had risen and paced the floor in sheer ecstasy. That such a girl should be; should poise curled in a corner of the couch like a swallow newly landed from a clean swift flight, watching him with inscrutable eyes. He would stop his pacing and, half shy each time at first, drop his arm around her and find her kiss.

  She was fascinating, he told her. He had never met any one like her before. He besought her jauntily but earnestly to send him away; he didn't want to fall in love. He wasn't coming to see her any more--already she had haunted too many of his ways.

  What delicious romance! His true reaction was neither fear nor sorrow--only this deep delight in being with her that colored the banality of his words and made the mawkish seem sad and the posturing seem wise. He would come back--eternally. He should have known!

  "This is all. It's been very rare to have known you, very strange and wonderful. But this wouldn't do--and wouldn't last." As he spoke there was in his heart that tremulousness that we take for sincerity in ourselves.

  Afterward he remembered one reply of hers to something he had asked her. He remembered it in this form--perhaps he had unconsciously arranged and polished it:

  "A woman should be able to kiss a man beautifully and romantically without any desire to be either his wife or his mistress."

  As always when he was with her she seemed to grow gradually older until at the end ruminations too deep for words would be wintering in her eyes.

  An hour passed, and the fire leaped up in little ecstasies as though its fading life was sweet. It was five now, and the clock over the mantel became articulate in sound. Then as if a brutish sensibility in him was reminded by those thin, tinny beats that the petals were falling from the flowered afternoon, Anthony pulled her quickly to her feet and held her helpless, without breath, in a kiss that was neither a game nor a tribute.

  Her arms fell to her side. In an instant she was free.

  "Don't!" she said quietly. "I don't want that."

  She sat down on the far side of the lounge and gazed straight before her. A frown had gathered between her eyes. Anthony sank d
own beside her and closed his hand over hers. It was lifeless and unresponsive.

  "Why, Gloria!" He made a motion as if to put his arm about her but she drew away.

  "I don't want that," she repeated.

  "I'm very sorry," he said, a little impatiently. "I--I didn't know you made such fine distinctions."

  She did not answer.

  "Won't you kiss me, Gloria?"

  "I don't want to." It seemed to him she had not moved for hours.

  "A sudden change, isn't it?" Annoyance was growing in his voice.

  "Is it?" She appeared uninterested. It was almost as though she were looking at some one else.

  "Perhaps I'd better go."

  No reply. He rose and regarded her angrily, uncertainly. Again he sat down.

  "Gloria, Gloria, won't you kiss me?"

  "No." Her lips, parting for the word, had just faintly stirred.

  Again he got to his feet, this time with less decision, less confidence.

  "Then I'll go."

  Silence.

  "All right--I'll go."

  He was aware of a certain irremediable lack of originality in his remarks. Indeed he felt that the whole atmosphere had grown oppressive. He wished she would speak, rail at him, cry out upon him, anything but this pervasive and chilling silence. He cursed himself for a weak fool; his clearest desire was to move her, to hurt her, to see her wince. Helplessly, involuntarily, he erred again.

  "If you're tired of kissing me I'd better go."

  He saw her lips curl slightly and his last dignity left him. She spoke, at length:

  "I believe you've made that remark several times before."

  He looked about him immediately, saw his hat and coat on a chair--blundered into them, during an intolerable moment. Looking again at the couch he perceived that she had not turned, not even moved. With a shaken, immediately regretted "good-by" he went quickly but without dignity from the room.

  For over a moment Gloria made no sound. Her lips were still curled; her glance was straight, proud, remote. Then her eyes blurred a little, and she murmured three words half aloud to the death-bound fire:

  "Good-by, you ass!" she said.

  Panic

  The man had had the hardest blow of his life. He knew at last what he wanted, but in finding it out it seemed that he had put it forever beyond his grasp. He reached home in misery, dropped into an armchair without even removing his overcoat, and sat there for over an hour, his mind racing the paths of fruitless and wretched self-absorption. She had sent him away! That was the reiterated burden of his despair. Instead of seizing the girl and holding her by sheer strength until she became passive to his desire, instead of beating down her will by the force of his own, he had walked, defeated and powerless, from her door, with the corners of his mouth drooping and what force there might have been in his grief and rage hidden behind the manner of a whipped schoolboy. At one minute she had liked him tremendously--ah, she had nearly loved him. In the next he had become a thing of indifference to her, an insolent and efficiently humiliated man.

  He had no great self-reproach--some, of course, but there were other things dominant in him now, far more urgent. He was not so much in love with Gloria as mad for her. Unless he could have her near him again, kiss her, hold her close and acquiescent, he wanted nothing more from life. By her three minutes of utter unwavering indifference the girl had lifted herself from a high but somehow casual position in his mind, to be instead his complete preoccupation. However much his wild thoughts varied between a passionate desire for her kisses and an equally passionate craving to hurt and mar her, the residue of his mind craved in finer fashion to possess the triumphant soul that had shone through those three minutes. She was beautiful--but especially she was without mercy. He must own that strength that could send him away.

  At present no such analysis was possible to Anthony. His clarity of mind, all those endless resources which he thought his irony had brought him were swept aside. Not only for that night but for the days and weeks that followed his books were to be but furniture and his friends only people who lived and walked in a nebulous outer world from which he was trying to escape--that world was cold and full of bleak wind, and for a little while he had seen into a warm house where fires shone.

  About midnight he began to realize that he was hungry. He went down into Fifty-second Street, where it was so cold that he could scarcely see; the moisture froze on his lashes and in the corners of his lips. Everywhere dreariness had come down from the north, settling upon the thin and cheerless street, where black bundled figures blacker still against the night, moved stumbling along the sidewalk through the shrieking wind, sliding their feet cautiously ahead as though they were on skis. Anthony turned over toward Sixth Avenue, so absorbed in his thoughts as not to notice that several passers-by had stared at him. His overcoat was wide open, and the wind was biting in, hard and full of merciless death.

  ... After a while a waitress spoke to him, a fat waitress with black-rimmed eye-glasses from which dangled a long black cord.

  "Order, please!"

  Her voice, he considered, was unnecessarily loud. He looked up resentfully.

  "You wanna order or doncha?"

  "Of course," he protested.

  "Well, I ast you three times. This ain't no restroom."

  He glanced at the big clock and discovered with a start that it was after two. He was down around Thirtieth Street somewhere, and after a moment he found and translated the

  in a white semicircle of letters upon the glass front. The place was inhabited sparsely by three or four bleak and half-frozen night-hawks.

  "Give me some bacon and eggs and coffee, please."

  The waitress bent upon him a last disgusted glance and, looking ludicrously intellectual in her corded glasses, hurried away.

  God! Gloria's kisses had been such flowers. He remembered as though it had been years ago the low freshness of her voice, the beautiful lines of her body shining through her clothes, her face lily-colored under the lamps of the street--under the lamps.

  Misery struck at him again, piling a sort of terror upon the ache and yearning. He had lost her. It was true--no denying it, no softening it. But a new idea had seared his sky--what of Bloeckman! What would happen now? There was a wealthy man, middle-aged enough to be tolerant with a beautiful wife, to baby her whims and indulge her unreason, to wear her as she perhaps wished to be worn--a bright flower in his buttonhole, safe and secure from the things she feared. He felt that she had been playing with the idea of marrying Bloeckman, and it was well possible that this disappointment in Anthony might throw her on sudden impulse into Bloeckman's arms.

  The idea drove him childishly frantic. He wanted to kill Bloeckman and make him suffer for his hideous presumption. He was saying this over and over to himself with his teeth tight shut, and a perfect orgy of hate and fright in his eyes.

  But, behind this obscene jealousy, Anthony was in love at last, profoundly and truly in love, as the word goes between man and woman.

  His coffee appeared at his elbow and gave off for a certain time a gradually diminishing wisp of steam. The night manager, seated at his desk, glanced at the motionless figure alone at the last table, and then with a sigh moved down upon him just as the hour-hand crossed the figure three on the big clock.

  Wisdom

  After another day the turmoil subsided and Anthony began to exercise a measure of reason. He was in love--he cried it passionately to himself. The things that a week before would have seemed insuperable obstacles, his limited income, his desire to be irresponsible and independent, had in this forty hours become the merest chaff before the wind of his infatuation. If he did not marry her his life would be a feeble parody on his own adolescence. To be able to face people and to endure the constant reminder of Gloria that all existence had become, it was necessary for him to have hope. So he built hope desperately and tenaciously out of the stuff of his dream, a hope flimsy enough, to be sure, a hope that was cracked and di
ssipated a dozen times a day, a hope mothered by mockery, but, nevertheless, a hope that would be brawn and sinew to his self-respect.

  Out of this developed a spark of wisdom, a true perception of his own from out the effortless past.

  "Memory is short," he thought.

  So very short. At the crucial point the Trust President is on the stand, a potential criminal needing but one push to be a jailbird, scorned by the upright for leagues around. Let him be acquitted--and in a year all is forgotten. "Yes, he did have some trouble once, just a technicality, I believe." Oh, memory is very short!

  Anthony had seen Gloria altogether about a dozen times, say two dozen hours. Supposing he left her alone for a month, made no attempt to see her or speak to her, and avoided every place where she might possibly be. Wasn't it possible, the more possible because she had never loved him, that at the end of that time the rush of events would efface his personality from her conscious mind, and with his personality his offense and humiliation? She would forget, for there would be other men. He winced. The implication struck out at him--other men. Two months--God! Better three weeks, two weeks----

  He thought this the second evening after the catastrophe when he was undressing, and at this point he threw himself down on the bed and lay there, trembling very slightly and looking at the top of the canopy.

  Two weeks--that was worse than no time at all. In two weeks he would approach her much as he would have to now, without personality or confidence--remaining still the man who had gone too far and then for a period that in time was but a moment but in fact an eternity, whined. No, two weeks was too short a time. Whatever poignancy there had been for her in that afternoon must have time to dull. He must give her a period when the incident should fade, and then a new period when she should gradually begin to think of him, no matter how dimly, with a true perspective that would remember his pleasantness as well as his humiliation.

  He fixed, finally, on six weeks as approximately the interval best suited to his purpose, and on a desk calendar he marked the days off, finding that it would fall on the ninth of April. Very well, on that day he would phone and ask her if he might call. Until then--silence.

  After his decision a gradual improvement was manifest. He had taken at least a step in the direction to which hope pointed, and he realized that the less he brooded upon her the better he would be able to give the desired impression when they met.