CHAPTER V.—“A NOTHING STARTS THE SPRING.”
ANOTHER week slipped away. The weather changed. There was rain almostevery day, and a persistent wind blew from the north-east. So the loggiaof No. 43 Beekman Place was not much patronized. Nevertheless, Arthurheard Mrs. Lehmyl sing from time to time. When he would reach home atnight, he generally ensconced himself near to a window at the front ofthe house; and now and then his vigilance was encouraged by the sound ofher voice.
Hetzel, of course, ran him a good deal. He took the running veryphilosophically. “I admit,” he said, “that she piques mycuriosity, and I don’t know any reason why she shouldn’t. Sucha voice, joined to such beauty and intelligence, is it not enough tointerest any body with the least spark of imagination? When are yougoing to call upon them?” But Hetzel was busy. “Examinations are nowin full blast,” he pleaded. “I have no leisure for calling on anyone.”
“‘It sometimes make a body sour to see how things areshared,’.rdquo; complained Arthur. “To him who appreciates it not,the privilege is given; whereas, from him who would appreciate it to itsfull, the privilege is withheld. I only wish I had your opportunity.”
Hetzel smiled complacently.
“And then,” Arthur went on, “not even an occasional encounter inthe street. Every day, coming and going, I cherish the hope that we maymeet each other, she and I. Living so close together, it would be butnatural if we should. But I’m down in my luck. We might as well dwellat the antipodes, for all we gain by being near neighbors. Concede thatFate is deucedly unkind.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Hetzel, reflectively. “PerhapsFate is acting for the best. My private opinion is that the less you seeof that woman, the better for you. You’re a pretty susceptibleyoung man; and those eyes of hers might play sad havoc with youraffections.”
“That’s just the way with you worldly, practical, materialisticfellows. You can’t conceive that a man may be interested in a woman,without making a fool of himself, and getting spoony over her. Youhaven’t enough spiritualism in your composition to realize that awoman may appeal to a man purely on abstract principles.”
Hetzel laughed.
“You’re a cynic,” Arthur informed him.
“I don’t believe in playing with fire,” he retorted.
Thereafter their conversation drifted to other themes.
Well, the week glided by, and it was Sunday again; and with Sunday thereoccurred another change in the weather. The mercury shot up among theeighties, and the sky grew to an immense dome of blue. Sunday morningHetzel said, “I suppose you haven’t forgotten that we are engaged tosup with Mrs. Berle this evening?” To which Arthur responded, yawning,“Oh, no; it has weighed upon my consciousness ever since you acceptedher invitation.”
“I wouldn’t let it distress me so much, if I were you. And, by theway, don’t you think it would be well for us to take some flowers?”
“I suppose it would be a polite thing to do.”
“Then why don’t you make an excursion over to the florist’s onThird Avenue, and lay in an assortment?”
“You’re the horticulturist of this establishment. Go yourself.”
“No. Your taste is superior to mine. Go along. Get a goodly number ofcut flowers, and then two or three nosegays for the ladies.”
“Ladies? What ladies?” demanded Arthur, brightening up. “Who is tobe there, besides us and Mrs. Berle?”
“Oh, I don’t say that any body is. I thought perhaps one of herdaughters, or a friend, or—”
“Well, maybe I’ll go over this afternoon. For the present—”
“This afternoon will be too late. The shops close early, you know, onSunday.”
Arthur issued forth upon his quest for flowers.
What was it that prompted him, after the main purchase had been made, toask the tradesman, “Now, have you something especially nice, somethingunique, that would do for a lady’s corsage?” The shopkeeper replied,“Yes, sir, I have something very rare in the line of jasmine. Only ahandful in the market. This way, sir.”—Arthur was conducted to theconservatory behind the shop; and there he devoted a full quarter hourof his valuable time to the construction of a very pretty and fragrantbunch of jasmine. What was it that induced this action?
When he got back home and displayed his spoils to Hetzel, the lattersaid, “And this jasmine—I suppose you intend it for Mrs. Berle towear, yes?” To which Arthur vouchsafed no response.
They went down stairs at six o’clock. Mrs. Berle was alone in herparlor. They had scarcely more than made their obeisance, however, whenthe door-bell rang; and presently the rustle of ladies’ gowns becameaudible in the hallway. Next moment the door opened—and Arthur’sheart began to beat at break-neck speed. Entered, Mrs. Hart and Mrs.Lehmyl.
“I surmised as much, and you knew it all the while,” Arthur gaspedin a whisper to Hetzel.
His friend shrugged his shoulders.
The first clamor of greetings being over with, Arthur, his bunch ofjasmine held fast in his hand, began, “Mrs. Lehmyl, may I beg of youto accept these little——”
“Oh, aren’t they delicious!” she cried, impulsively.
Her eyes brightened, and she bent over the flowers to breathe in theirincense.
“But I mustn’t keep them all for myself,” she added.
“Oh, we are equally well treated,” said Mrs. Hart, flourishing aknot of Jacqueminot roses.
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Berle joined in, pointing to a table, the marbletop of which was hidden beneath a wealth of variegated blossoms.
“Nevertheless,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. And she went on picking herbouquet to pieces. Mrs. Hart and Mrs. Berle received their shares;Hetzel his; and then, turning to Arthur, “Maintenant, monsieur”she said, with a touch of coquetry, “maintenant à votre tour.” Shefastened a spray of jasmine to the lappel of his coat. In doing so, adelicate whiff of perfume was wafted upward from her hair. Whether itpossessed some peculiar elixir-like quality, or not, I can not tell; butat that instant Arthur felt a thrill pierce to the very innermost of hisheart.
“It is so warm,” said Mrs. Berle, “I thought it would be pleasantto take supper out of doors. If you are agreeable, we will go down tothe backyard.”
In the back-yard the table was set beneath a blossoming peach-tree. Thegrass plot made an unexceptionable carpet. Honeysuckle vines clamberedover the fence. The river glowed warmly in the light of the decliningsun. The country beyond on Long Island lay smiling at the firstpersuasive touch of summer—of the summer that, ere long waxingfiercely ardent, was to scorch and consume it.
Mrs. Lehmyl looked around, with child-like happiness shining in hereyes. Arthur looked at her.
“Permit me to make you acquainted with my brother, Mr. Lipman,” saidthe hostess.
Mr. Lipman had a head that the Wandering Jew might have been proud of;snow-white hair and beard, olive skin, regular features of the finestOriental type, and deep-set, coal-black eyes, with an expression inthem—an anxious, eager, hopelessly hopeful expression—that told thewhole story of the travail and sorrow of his race. He kissed the handsof the ladies and shook those of the gentlemen.
“Now, to the table!” cried Mrs. Berle.
The table was of appetizing aspect; an immaculate cloth, garnished bydivers German dishes, and beautified by the flowers our friends hadbrought. Arthur’s chair was placed at the right of Mrs. Lehmyl’s.Conversation, however, was general from first to last. Hetzelcontributed an anecdote in the Irish dialect, at which he was an adept.Arthur told of a comic incident that had happened in court the otherday. Mrs. Lehmyl said she could not fancy any thing being comic in acourtroom—the atmosphere of a court-room sent such a chill to theheart, she should think it would operate as an anaesthetic upon thehumorous side of a person. Mr. Lipman gave a few reminiscences of theHungarian revolt of ’49, in which he had been a participant, wieldinga brace of empty seltzer bottles, so he said, in default of noblerweapons. This led the talk up to the superiority of America ove
rthe effete monarchies of Europe. After a good deal of patriotism hadasserted itself, a little criticism began to crop out. By and by theGoddess of Liberty had had her character thoroughly dissected. Withthe coffee, Mrs. Berle, who had heretofore shone chiefly as a listener,said, “Now, you young gentlemen may smoke, just as if you were threeflights higher up.” So they lit their cigars—in which pastime Mr.Lipman joined them—and sat smoking and chatting over the table till ithad grown quite dark. At last it was moved that the party should adjournto the parlor and have some music. There being no Wagnerites present,Mrs. Lehmyl sang Jensen’s Lehn deine Wang, with so much fervor thattwo big tears gathered in Mr. Lipman’s eyes and rolled down hischeeks. Then, to restore gayety, she sang La Paloma, in the merriest wayimaginable; and finally, to bring the pendulum of emotion back to itsmean position, Voi chi Sapete from the “Marriage of Figaro.” Afterthis there was an interim during which every body found occasion tosay his say; and then Mrs. Berle announced, “My brother plays the’cello. Now he must also play a little, yes?”
Mrs. Lehmyl was delighted by the prospect of hearing the ’celloplayed; and Mr. Lipman performed a courtly old bow, and said it wouldbe a veritable inspiration to play to her accompaniment. Thereupon theyconsulted together until they had agreed upon a selection. It proved tobe nothing less antiquated than Boccherini’s minuet. The quaint andgraceful measures, wrung out from the deep-voiced ’cello, broughtsmiles of enjoyment to every face. “But,” says Arthur, “whatpleased me quite as much as the music was to keep my eyes fixed on thepicture that the two musicians presented; that old man’s wonderfulcountenance, peering out from behind the neck of his instrument, intent,almost fierce in its earnestness; and hers, pale, luminous, passionate,varying with every modulation of the tune. And all the while the scentof the jasmine bud haunted my nostrils, and recalled vividly the momentshe had pinned it into my buttonhole.”—In deference to the demandfor an encore, they played Handel’s Largo. Then Mrs. Berle’s maidappeared, bearing the inevitable wine and cakes. By and by Mrs. Hartbegan to make her adieux. At this, Arthur slipped quietly out of theroom. When he returned, half a minute later, he had his hat in his hand.Mrs. Hart protested that it was quite unnecessary for him to troublehimself to see them home. “Why, it is only straight across thestreet,” she submitted. But Arthur was obstinate.
On her door-step, Mrs. Hart said, “We should be pleased to have youcall upon us, Mr. Ripley.”
He and Hetzel sat up till past midnight, talking. The latter volunteereda good many favorable observations anent Mrs. Lehmyl. Arthur could havelistened to him till daybreak.—In bed he had difficulty getting tosleep. Among other things, he kept thinking how fortunate it was thatPeixada had disapproved of the trip to Europe. “Why, New York,”he soliloquized, “is by all means the most interesting city in theworld.”
He took advantage of Mrs. Hart’s permission to call, as soon ashe reasonably could. While he was waiting for somebody to appear, headmired the decorations of Mrs. Hart’s parlor. Neat gauze curtains atthe windows, a rosy-hued paper on the wall, a soft carpet under foot,pretty pictures, pleasant chairs and tables, lamps and porcelains, anda book-case filled with interesting looking books, combined to lend theroom an attractive, homelike aspect; for all of which, without cause,Arthur assumed that Mrs. Lehmyl was answerable. An upright pianooccupied a corner; a sheet of music lay open on the rack. He was bendingover it, to spell out the composer’s name, when he heard a rustling ofsilk, and, turning around, he made his bow to—Mrs. Hart.
Mrs. Hart was accompanied by her cats.
Arthur’s spirits sank.
“Ah, how do you do?” said Mrs. Hart. “I’m so glad to see you.”
She shook his hand cordially and bade him be seated. He sat down andlooked at the ceiling.
“Why didn’t you bring your comrade, Mr. Hetzel?” she asked.
“Oh, Hetzel, he’s got an examination on his hands, you know, and hasperforce become a recluse—obliged to spend his evenings wading throughthe students’ papers,” explained Arthur, in a tone of sepulchralmelancholy.
Mrs. Hart tried to manufacture conversation. Arthur respondedabsent-mindedly. Neither alluded to Mrs. Lehmyl. Arthur, fearing toappear discourteous, endeavored to behave as though it was to profitby Mrs. Hart’s society alone that he had called. His voice,notwithstanding, kept acquiring a more and more lugubrious quality.But, by and by, when the flame of hope had dwindled to a spark, a secondrustling of silk became audible. With a heart-leap that for a momentrendered him dumb, he heard a sweet voice say, “Good evening, Mr.Ripley.” He lifted his eyes, and saw Mrs. Lehmyl standing before him,smiling and proffering her hand. Silently cursing his embarrassment,he possessed himself of the hand, and stammered out some sort of agreeting. There was a magic about that hand of hers. As he touched it,an electric tingle shot up his arm.
All three found chairs. Mrs. Hart produced a bag of knitting. One of thecats established himself in Mrs. Lehmyl’s lap, and went to sleep. Theother rubbed up against Arthur’s knee, purring confidentially. Arthurcudgeled his wits for an apt theme. At last he got bravely started.
“What a fine-looking old fellow that Mr. Lipman was,” he said. “Itisn’t often that one sees a face like his in America.”
“No—not among the Americans of English blood; they haven’t enoughtemperamental richness,” acquiesced Mrs. Lehmyl.
“Yes, that’s so. The most interesting faces one encounters herebelong to foreigners—especially to the Jews. Mr. Lipman, you know, isa Jew.”
“Naturally, being Mrs. Berle’s brother.”
“It’s rather odd, Mrs. Lehmyl, but the more I see of the Jews, thebetter I like them. Aside from the interest they possess as a phenomenonin history, they’re very agreeable to me as individuals. I can’t atall comprehend the prejudice that some people harbor against them.”
“How very liberal,” If there was a shade of irony in her tone, itfailed of its effect upon Arthur, who, inspired by his subject, wentgallantly on:
“Their past, you know, is so poetic. They have the warmth of old winein their blood. I’ve seen a great deal of them. This neighborhood isa regular ghetto. Then down-town I rub elbows with them constantly.Indeed, my best client is a Jew. And my friend, Hetzel, he’s ofJewish extraction, though he doesn’t keep up with the religion. On theaverage, I think the Jews are the kindest-hearted and clearest-mindedpeople one meets hereabouts. That Mr. Lipman was a specimen of thehighest type. It was delightful to watch his face, when you and he wereplaying—so fervent, so unselfconscious.”
“And he played capitally, too—caught the true spirit of themusic.”
“So it seemed to me, though of course, I’m not competent tocriticise. Speaking of faces, Mrs. Lehmyl, I hope you won’t mind mesaying that your face does not look to me like and American—I meanEnglish-American.”
“There is no reason why it should. I’m not’ English-American.”
“Ah, I felt sure of it. I felt sure you had Italian blood in yourveins.”
“No—nor Italian either.”
“Well, Spanish, then?”
“Why, I supposed you knew. I—I am a Jewess.”
“Mercy!” gasped Arthur, blushing to the roots of his hair. “Ihope—I hope you—” He broke off, and squirmed uncomfortably in hischair.
“Why, is it possible you didn’t know it?” asked Mrs. Lehmyl.
“Indeed, I did not. If I had, I assure you, I shouldn’t have put myfoot in it as I did—shouldn’t have made bold to patronize your raceas I was doing. I meant every word I spoke, though. The Jews are a nobleand beautiful people, with a record that we Gentiles might well envy.”
“You said nothing that was not perfectly proper. Don’t imagine foran instant that you touched a sensitive spot. I am a Jewess by birth,though, like your friend, Mr. Hetzel, I don’t go to the temple. Modernceremonial Judaism is not to me especially satisfying as a religion.”
“You are not orthodox?”
“I am quite otherwise.”
“I
am glad to hear it. I am glad that there is this tendency amoungthe better educated Jews to cast loose from their Judaism. I want to seethem intermarry with the Christians—amalgamate, and help to form theAmerican people of the future. That of course is their destiny.”
“I suppose it is.”
“You speak as though you regretted it.”
“No; I don’t regret it. I am too good an American to regret it.But it is a little melancholy, to say the least, to see one of the mostcherished of Jewish ideals being abandoned before the first step is madetoward realizing it.”
“What ideal is that?”
“Why, the hope that cheered the Jews through the many centuries oftheir persecution—the hope that a time would come when they couldcompel recognition from their persecutors, when, as a united people,they could stand forth before the world, pure and strong and upright,and exact credit for their due. The Jew has been for so long a time thedespised and rejected of men, that now, when he has the opportunity, itseems as though he ought to improve it—show the stuff he is made of,prove that Shylock is a libel upon him, justify his past, achieve greatresults, demonstrate that he only needed light and liberty todevelop into a leader of progress. The Jew has eternally beencomplaining—crying, ’You think I am such an inferior style ofpersonage; give me a chance, and I will convince you of your error.’Now that the chance is given him, it seems a pity for him quietly toefface himself, become indistinguishable in the mass of mankind. Ishould like him to retain the name of Jew until it has grown to bea term of honor, instead of one of reproach. However, his destiny isotherwise; and he must make the best of it. It is the destiny of thedew-drop to slip into the shining sea.’ Probably it is better that itshould be so.”
“But how many Jews are there who would subscribe to your view of thecase—who would admit that amalgamation is inevitable?”
“Doubtless, very few. Most of them have no views at all on thesubject. The majority of the wealthier Jews here in America areepicureans. Eat, drink, be merry, and lay up a competence for the rainyday, is about their philosophy. But among the older people the prejudiceagainst intermarriage is wonderfully strong. We shall have to wait fora generation or two, before it can become common. But it is a prejudicepure and simple, the offspring of superstition, and not the result ofallegiance to that ideal I was speaking of. The average Jew of a certainage may not care a fig for his religion, but if he hears of an instanceof intermarriage, he will hold up his hands in horror, and wag his head,and predict some dire calamity for the bride and bridegroom. The sameman will not enter a synagogue from year’s end to year’s end, andshould you happen to discuss theology with him, you’d put him down foran out-and-out rationalist at once. But then, plenty of people whopride themselves on being freethinkers, are profoundlysuperstitious—Gentiles as well as Jews.”
“No doubt about that. In fact, I think that every body has a traceof superstition in his makeup, no matter how emancipated he may fancyhimself. Now I, for example, can’t help attributing some uncannypotency to the number seven. There are more things in heaven and earththan are dreamed of by modern science; and perhaps superstition isa crude way of acknowledging this truth. It is the reaction of theimagination, when confronted with the unknowable.”
“It seems to me that much which passes for superstition in the world,ought not to be so called. It is, rather, a super-sense. There is asubtle something that broods over human life—as the aroma broods overa goblet of old wine—a something of such fine, impalpable texture,that many men and women are never able to perceive it, but whichothers of more sensitive organization, feel all the time—are foreverconscious of. This is the material which the imagination seizes hold of,and out of which it spins those fantastic, cobweb shapes that practicalpersons scoff at as superstitions. I can’t understand, however, howany body can specialize it to the extent of linking it to arithmetic, asyou do, and as those do who are afraid of thirteen.”
“What you have reference to falls, rather, under the head ofmysticism, does it not? And mysticism is one form of poetry. You comerightfully by your ideas on this subject. A strain of mysticism is yourbirthright, a portion of your inheritance as a Jewess. It’s one of thebenefits you derive from being something more than an American.”
“Oh, but I am an American, besides. It is a privilege to be one.”
“I meant American of English ancestry. We are all Americans—or moreprecisely, we are all immigrants or the descendants of immigrants. Butthose of us that have an infusion of warmer blood than the English inour veins, are to be congratulated.”
“It seems to me that Ripley is an English name.”
“So it is. But my father’s mother was a Frenchwoman.”
“A ruddy drop of Gallic blood outweighs a world of gold,” parodiedMrs. Lehmyl.
“Oh, you may make fun of me, if you like,” cried Arthur; “butmy comfort in thinking of that French grandmother of mine will remainundiminished. I wonder,” he added, more gravely, “I wonder whetheryou have ever suffered from any of the indignities that your people aresometimes put to, Mrs. Lehmyl. I declare I have been tempted to wringthe necks of my fellow Gentiles, now and then.”
“Suffered? I have occasionally been amused. I should not have muchself-respect, if any thing like that could cause me suffering. Lastsummer, for instance, Mrs. Hart and I were in the mountains, at a hotel.Every body, to begin with, was disposed to be very sociable. Then,innocently enough, one day I said we were Jewesses. After that we wereleft severely alone. I remember, we got into an omnibus one afternoon todrive to the village. A young man and a couple of young ladies—guestsat the same house—were already in it. They glared at us quitesavagely, and whispered, ’Jews!’ and signaled the driver to stop andlet them out. So we had the conveyance to ourselves, for which we werenot sorry.”
“I wish I had been there!” cried Arthur, with astonishing energy.
“Why?” asked Mrs. Lehmyl.
“Oh, that young man and I would have had an interview alone,” heanswered, in a blood-curdling key.
“He means that he would have given that young man a piece of hismind,” put in Mrs. Hart.
The sound of her voice occasioned Arthur a veritable start. He hadforgotten that she was present.
“I hope not,” said Mrs. Lehmyl. “To resent such conduct would lendundue importance to it.”
“All the same it makes my blood boil—the thought that those younganimals dared to be rude to you.”
The pronoun “you” was spoken with a significant emphasis. Astudent of human nature could have inferred volumes from it. Mrs. Hartstraightway proceeded to demolish her own claims to be called a studentof human nature, if she had any, by construing the syllable in theplural number.
“I’m sure we appreciate your sympathy,” she said. “Ruth, play alittle for Mr. Ripley.”
Was this intended as a reward of merit? Contrariwise to the gentleman inPunch, Arthur would so much rather have heard her talk than play.
“Shall I?” she asked.
“Oh, I should be delighted,” he assented.
She played the Pathetic Sonata. Before she had got beyond the firstdozen bars, Arthur had been caught up and borne away on the strongcurrent of the music. She played with wonderful execution and perfectfeeling. I suppose Arthur had heard the Pathetic Sonata a score of timesbefore. He had never begun to appreciate it till now. It seemed to himthat in a language of superhuman clearness and directness, the subtlestand most sacred mysteries of the soul were being explained to him.Every emotion, every passion, that the heart can feel, he seemed tohear expressed by the miraculous voice that Mrs. Lehmyl was calling intobeing; and his own heart vibrated in unison. Deep melancholy, breathlessterror, keen, quivering anguish, blank despair; flashes of short-livedjoy, instants of hope speedily ingulfed in an eternity of despond;tremulous desire, the delirium of enjoyment, the bitter awakening toa sense of satiety and self-deception; intervals of quiet reflection,broken in upon by the turbulent cries of a hundred malicious spirits;weird
glimpses into a world of phantom shapes, exaltation into theseventh heaven of delight, descent into the bottom pit of darkness;these were a few of the strange and vague, but none the less intense,emotional experiences through which Mrs. Lehmyl led him. When shereturned to her chair, opposite his own, he could only look upon herface and wonder; he could not speak. A delicate flush had overspreadher cheeks, and her eyes shone even more brightly than their wont. Sheevidently misunderstood his silence.
“Ah,” she said, with frank disappointment, “it did not pleaseyou.”
“Please me?” he cried. “No, indeed, it did not please me. It waslike Dante’s journey through the three realms of the dead. It waslike seeing a miracle performed. It overpowered me. I suppose I amtoo susceptible—weak, if you will, and womanish. But such music asthat—I could no more have withstood its spell, than I could withstandthe influence of strong wine.”
“Speaking of strong wine,” said Mrs. Hart, “what if you should trya little mild wine?” And she pointed to a servant who had crossed thethreshold in the midst of Arthur’s rhapsody, and who bore a tray withglasses and a decanter.
“In spite of this anti-climax,” he said, sipping his wine, “what Isaid was the truth.”
“It is the fault, no doubt, of your French blood, Monsieur,” saidMrs. Lehmyl. “But I confess that, perhaps in a moderated degree, musichas much the same effect upon me. When I first heard La Damnation deFaust, I had to hold on to the arms of my chair, to keep frombeing carried bodily away. You remember that dreadful ride intoperdition—toward the end? I really felt that if I let go my anchorage,I should be swept off along with Faust and Mephistopheles.”
“I remember. But that did not affect me so. I never was so affectedtill I heard you play just now.”
“I don’t know whether I ought to feel complimented, or thereverse.”
“What is the feeling we naturally have at perceiving our power overanother human being?” Mrs. Lehmyl changed the subject.
“That was an exceedingly clever guess you made the other day,”she said, “that I was a lover of Browning. I can’t understand whatsuggested it.”
“I told you then that I dared not enlighten you, lest I might bedeemed presumptuous. If you will promise me absolution, beforehand—”
“But you, too, I take for granted, share my sentiments.”
“What I have read is unsurpassed. ’The Inn Album,’ for example.”
“And ’The Ring and the Book.’.rdquo;
“I haven’t read ’The Ring and the Book.’.rdquo;
“Oh, then you must read it at once. Then you don’t half knowBrowning. Will you read it, if I lend it to you?”
“You are very kind. I should like nothing better.”
Mrs. Lehmyl begged to be excused and left the room. Arthur followed thesound of her light, quick footsteps up the stairs.
“Browning is her patron saint,” volunteered Mrs. Hart. “She spendsher time about equally between him and her piano.”
Mrs. Lehmyl came back.
“There,” she said, giving him the volume, and smiling, “there ismy vade mecum. I love it almost as dearly as I could if it were a humanbeing. You must be sure to like it.”
“I am sure you honor me very highly by entrusting it to me,” hereplied.
At home he opened it, thinking to read for an hour or two before goingto bed. What interested him, however, even more than the strong, virile,sympathetic poetry, and, indeed, ere long, quite absorbed his attention,were the traces of Mrs. Lehmyl’s ownership that he came across everyhere and there—a corner dog-eared, a passage inclosed by pencillines, a fragment of rose-petal stuck between the pages. It gave him adelicious sense of intimacy with her to hold this book in his hands. Hadnot her hand warmed it? her hair shadowed it? her very breath touchedit? Had it not been her companion in solitary moments? a witness to thelife she led when no human eye was upon her? What precious secretsit might have whispered, if it had had a tongue! There was a slightdiscoloration of the paper, where Pompilia tells of her miseries asGuido’s bride. Who could say but that it had been caused by Mrs.Lehmyl’s tears? That she had loaned him the book seemed somehow likea mark of confidence. On the flyleaf something had been written in ink,and subsequently scratched out—probably her name. He wondered why shehad erased it. Toward the close of Caponsacchi’s version, one of thepages had been torn clear across, and then neatly pasted together withtissue paper braces. He wondered what the circumstances were under whichthe mischief had been done, and whether the repair was her handiwork. Afaint, sweet perfume clung to the pages. It had the power of calling herup vividly before him, and sending an exquisite tremor into his heart.And, withal, had any body suggested that he was at the verge of fallingin love with her, he would have denied it stoutly—so little was hedisposed to self-analysis.
But ere a great while, the scales fell from his eyes.
By dint of much self-discipline, he managed to let a week and a dayelapse before paying his second call. While he stood in the vestibule,waiting for the opening of the door, sundry bursts of sound escapingfrom within, informed him that a duet was being played upon the piano.Intuitively he concluded that the treble part was Mrs. Lehmyl’s;instinctively he asked, “But who is carrying the bass?” On enteringthe parlor, it was with a sharp and significant pang that he beheld,seated at Mrs. Lehmyl’s left, no less redoubtable a creature than aMan. He took a chair, and sat down, and suffered untold wretchednessuntil that duet was finished. He could not see the man’s face, but theback of his head indicated youth. The vicissitudes of the compositionthey were playing brought the two performers painfully close together.This was bad enough; but to poor Arthur’s jealous mind it seemed asif from time to time, even when the music furnished no excuse, theyvoluntarily approached each other. Every now and then they hurriedlyexchanged a whispered sentence. He felt that he would eagerly havebartered his ten fingers for the right to know what it was they said.How much satisfaction would he have obtained if he had been stationednear enough to overhear? All they said was, “One, two, three, four,five, six.” Perhaps in his suspicious mood he would have magnifiedthis innocent remark into a confidence conveyed by means of a secretcode.
When the musicians rose Arthur experienced a slight relief. Mrs. Lehmylgreeted him with marked kindness, and shook hands warmly. She introducedher co-executant as Mr. Spencer. And Mr. Spencer was tall, lean, gawkyand bilious-looking.
But Arthur’s relief was of short duration. Mr. Spencer forthwithproceeded to exhibit great familiarity with both of the ladies—afamiliarity which they did not appear to resent. Mrs. Hart, indeed,reciprocated to the extent of addressing him as Dick. His conversationmade it manifest that he had traveled with them in Europe. He wasconstantly referring to people and places and events about which Arthurwas altogether ignorant. His every other sentence began: “Do youremember?” Arthur was excessively uneasy; but he had determined to sitMr. Spencer out, though he should, peradventure, remain until sunrise.
Mr. Spencer did indeed remain till the night had got on its last legs.It lacked but a quarter of midnight when, finally, he accomplished hisexit.
Said Mrs. Hart, after he had gone: “A Boston man.”
“We met him,” said Mrs. Lehmyl, “at Aix-les-Bains. He’s aremarkably well-informed musician—writes criticisms for one of theBoston papers.”
“He came this evening,” went on Mrs. Hart, “to tell us of thehappy termination of a love affair in which he was involved when we lastsaw him. He’s going to be married.”
At these words Arthur’s spirits shot up far above their customarylevel. So! There was no occasion for jealousy in the quarter of Mr.Spencer, at any rate. The reaction was so great that had Mr. Spencerstill been present, I think our hero would have felt like hugging him.
“A very fine fellow, I should judge,” he said. “I have outstaidhim because I wanted to tell you that Hetzel and I have devised a jollylittle plan for Sunday, in which we are anxious to have you join us. Ouridea is to spend the afternoon in the Metropoli
tan Art Museum. You know,the pictures are well worth an inspection; and on Sunday there is nocrowd. Hetz has procured a Sunday ticket through the courtesy ofthe director. Then, afterward, you are to come back with us and takedinner—if the weather permits, out on our roof. Mrs. Berle will be atthe dinner, though she doesn’t care to go with us to see the pictures.We may count upon you, may we not?”
“Oh, certainly; that will be delightful,” said Mrs. Hart.
“Then we will call for you at about three o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“Good-night.”
His hand was hot and trembling as it clasped Mrs. Lehmyl’s; a stateof things which she, however, did not appear to notice. She gazed calmlyinto his eyes, and returned a quiet good-night. He stood a long whilein the doorway of his house, looking across at No. 46. He saw the lightquenched in the parlor, and other lights break out in the floorsabove. Then these in their turn were extinguished; and he knew that theoccupants were on their way to the land of Nod. “Good angels guard herslumbers,” he said, half aloud, and climbed the stairs that led to hisown bedchamber. There he lay awake hour after hour. He could hear thewaters of the river lapping the shore, and discern the street lampsgleaming like stars along the opposite embankment. Now and again atug-boat puffed importantly up stream—a steam whistle shrieked—aschooner glided mysteriously past. I don’t know how many times heconfessed to his pillow, “I love her—I love her—I love her!”
The next day—Saturday—he passed in a fever of impatience. It seemedas though to-morrow never would arrive. At night he scarcely slept twohours. And on Sunday morning he was up by six o’clock. Then, how thehours and minutes did prolong themselves, until the hands of his watchmarked three!
“What’s the matter with you?” Hetzel asked more than once.“Why are you so restless? You roam around like a cat who has lost herkittens. Any thing worrying you? Feeling unwell? Or what?”
“Oh, I’m a little nervous—guess I drank more coffee for breakfastthan was good for me,” he replied.
He tried to read. The print blurred before his eyes. He tried to write aletter. He proceeded famously thus far: “New York, May 24, 1884.—Mydearest mother.—” But at this point his pen stuck. Strive as hemight, he could get no further.
He tore the paper up, in a pet. He smoked thrice his usual allowance oftobacco. Every other minute he had out his watch. He half believed thatTime had slackened its pace for the especial purpose of adding fuelto the fires that were burning in his breast. Such is the preposterousegotism of a man in love.
When at length the clock struck half after two, his pulse quickened.This last half hour was as long as the entire forepart of the day hadbeen. With each moment, his agitation increased. Finally he and Hetzelcrossed the street. He had to bite his lips and press his finger-nailsdeep into the flesh of his hands, in order to command a tolerablyself-possessed exterior.
Arthur says that he remembers the rest of that Sunday as one remembers abewildering dream. He remembers, to begin with, how Mrs. Lehmyl met himin Mrs. Hart’s drawing-room, and gave him a warm, soft hand, and spokea few pleasant words of welcome. He remembers how his heart fluttered,and how he had to catch for breath, as he gazed into her unfathomableeyes, and inhaled that daintiest of perfumes which clung to her apparel.He remembers how he marched at her side through Fiftieth Street toMadison Avenue, in a state of delirious intoxication, and how theymounted a celestial chariot—Hetzel says it was a Madison Avenue horsecar—in which he sat next to her, and heard her voice mingle with thetinkling of silver bells, like a strain of heavenly music. Heremembers how they sauntered through the galleries, chatting togetherabout—oddly enough, he can not remember what. Oddly enough, also, hecan not remember the pictures that they looked at. He can remember only“the angelic radiance of her face and the wonderful witchery of herpresence.” Then he remembers how they walked home together through thePark, green and fragrant in the gentle May weather, and took placesside by side at the table on the roof. “What is strangest,” he says,“is this, that I do not remember any thing at all about the otherpeople who were present—Hetzel and Mrs. Berle and Mrs. Hart. As I lookback, it seems as though she and I had been alone with each other thewhole time.” “But we were there, nevertheless,” Hetzel assuresme; “and one of us enjoyed hugely witnessing his young friend’sinfatuation. It was delightful to see the big, stalwart, imperiousArthur Ripley, helpless as a baby in the power of that little woman. Onenot well acquainted with him might not have perceived his condition; butto me it was as plain as the nose on his face.”—“There was a fullmoon that evening,” Arthur continues, “and I wish you could haveseen her eyes in the moonlight. I kept thinking of the old song,
’In thy dark eyes splendor,
Where the warm light loves to dwell.’.rdquo;
“I dare say you’ll think me sentimental, but I can’t help it.The fact is that those eyes of hers glowed with all the tenderness andpathos and mystery of a martyr’s. Pale, ethereal fires burned deepdown in them, and showed where her soul dwelt. They haunted me for daysafterward. Days? No—months. They haunt me now. My heart thrills atthis moment, thinking of them, just as it did then, when I was lookinginto them. I tell you it hurt here”—thumping his chest—“when Ihad to part with her. It was like—yes, sir; you needn’t smile—itwas like having my heart wrenched out. My senses were in confusion. Iwalked up and down my floor pretty much all night. You never saw such awretched fellow. At least I fancied I was wretched. The thought of howhopeless my case was—of how unlikely it was that she would ever carea farthing for me—drove me about frantic. All the same, I wouldn’thave exchanged that wretchedness for all the other treasures of theworld.” In this exaggerated vein, he would gladly babble on for thenext twenty pages; but to what profit, since it is already clear that hewas head-over-ears in love?
Of course Arthur had no idea of making a declaration. That she shouldcherish for him a feeling at all of the nature of his for her, seemedthe most improbable of contingencies. So long as he could retain theprivilege of seeing her frequently, he would be contented; he would notrun the risk of having it withdrawn by revealing to her a conditionof affairs which, very likely, she would not sanction. His supremestaspiration, he derived a certain dismal satisfaction from fancying,would be realized if he could in some way become useful and helpful toher, no matter after how lowly a fashion. Henceforward he spent at leastone evening a week in her company. ’She never received him alone;but Mrs. Hart’s presence was not objectionable, because she had thesensible custom of knitting in silence, and leaving the two youngerfolks to do the talking. Their talk was generally about music andliterature and other edifying themes; rarely about matters personal.Arthur got pretty well acquainted with Mrs. Lehmyl’s views and tastesand habits of thought; but when he stopped to reckon up how much he hadgathered concerning herself, her family connections, her life in thepast, he acknowledged that it could all be represented by a solitarynought. Not that she was conspicuously reserved with him. She made itunmistakably evident that she liked him cordially. Only, the pronouns, Iand thou, played a decidedly minor part in her ordinary conversation.
He experienced all the pains and pleasures of first love, and all thestrange hallucinations that it produces. The man who looks at the worldthrough a lover’s eyes, is as badly off as he who looks at it througha distorting lens—objects are thrown out of their proper relations;proportion and perspective go mad; big things become little, and viceversa. Especially is it remarkable how completely his notions of timewill get perverted. For instance, the hours flew by with a rapiditypositively astounding when Arthur was in Mrs. Lehmyl’s presence. Hewould sit down opposite her at eight o clock; they would converse for afew moments; she would sing a song or two; and then, to his unutterablestupefaction, the clock would strike eleven! On the other hand, when hewas away from her, time lagged in an equally perplexing manner. Heand Hetzel, to illustrate, would finish their dinner at half pastseven—only a half hour before he would be at liberty to cross thestreet.
But that half hour! It stretched out like an eternity, beyondthe reach of Arthur’s imagination. Life had changed to a dream or toa delirium—it would be hard to say which. The laws of cause and effecthad ceased to operate. The universe had lost its equilibrium. Arthur’sheart would swing from hot to cold, from cold to hot, without a pretenseof physiological rhyme or reason. He became moody and capricious. Afiber in his composition, the existence of which he had never hithertosuspected, acquired an alarming prominence. That was an almost womanishsensitiveness. It was as if he had been stripped of his armor. Smallthings, trifling events, that had in the past left him entirelyunimpressed, now smote his consciousness like sharpened arrows. Sightsof distress in the streets, stories of suffering in the newspapers,moved him keenly and profoundly. He had been reading Wilhelm Meisler. Hecould not finish it. The emotions it occasioned him were poignant enoughto border upon physical pain. The long and short of it is that Lovehad turned his rose-tinted calcium light upon the world in which Arthurmoved, and so made visible a myriad beauties and blemishes that hadlain hidden in the darkness heretofore. Among other things that Arthurremarked as curious, was the frequency with which he saw her name,Lehmyl, or other names resembling it, Lemyhl, Lehmil, etc., onsign-boards, as he was being whirled through the streets on the elevatedrailway. He was sure that he had never seen it or heard it till she hadcome to dwell in Beekman Place. Now he was seeing it all the time. Hewas disposed to be somewhat superstitious anent this circumstance, toregard it as an omen of some sort—but whether for good or evil, hecould not tell. Of course its explanation was simple enough. With thename uppermost in his mind, it was natural that his attention should becaught by it wherever it occurred; whereas formerly, before he had knownher, it was one of a hundred names that he had passed unnoticed everyday. And yet, emerging from a brown study of which she had been thesubject, it was a little startling to look out of the window, and findLehmyl staring him in the face.
Now and then, if the weather was fine, he would go up-town early andaccompany her for a walk in Central Park. Occasionally he would tuck abook into his pocket, so that when they sat down to rest he could readaloud to her. One day the book of his selection chanced to be a volumeof Nathaniel Hawthorne’s shorter tales. They had appropriated untothemselves a bench in a secluded alley; and now Arthur opened to “TheSnow Image.”
But before he had proceeded beyond the second sentence, Mrs. Lehmylstopped him. “Oh, please—please don’t read that,” she cried, ina sharp, startled tone.
Arthur looked up. He saw that her face had turned deathly pale, that herlips were quivering, and that her eyes had moistened. Thrusting the bookinto his pocket, he stammered out a few hasty words of anxiety. She wasnot ill?
“Oh, no,” she said, “not ill. Only, when you began to read thatstory—when I realized what it was that you were reading—I—it—itrecalled disagreeable memories. But—shall we walk on?” She wassilent or monosyllabic, and her face wore a grave expression, all therest of their time together. At the door of her house she gave him herhand, and looked straight into his eyes, and said, “You must forgiveme if I have spoiled your afternoon. I could not help it. You know howit is’ when one is happy—very happy—to be reminded suddenly ofthings one would like to forget.”
Arthur’s heart went out to her in a mighty bound. “When one ishappy—very happy!” The phrase echoed like a peal of gala bells inhis ears. He had a hard struggle to keep from flinging himself at herfeet there in the open street. But all his love burned in the glance hegave her—an intense, radiant glance, which she met with one that threwhis soul into a transport. She knew now that he loved her! Therecould be no doubt about that. And, since her eyes did not quail beforehis—since she had sustained unflinchingly the gaze which, moreeloquently than any words, told her of the passion that was consuminghim—might he not conclude—? Ah, no; he would trust himself toconclude nothing till he had spoken with her by word of mouth.
“Good-by,” she said.
“May—may I call upon you to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
He relinquished her hand, which he had been clinging to all this time,and went his way.
“When one is happy—very happy,” he repeated again and again. “Soshe was happy—very happy!—until I opened that ill-fated book.What can the associations be that darkened her mood so abruptly? Butto-morrow!”