“Oh, did he.”
“Yes. And he found out that her affairs had been innumerable. One man after another for ten years. Some of them for a short while, and some of them for longer. All sorts and kinds, too—she seems to have had no discrimination at all. Any sort of man, so long as he made love to her. There was a wealthy ice-manufacturer in New York, an Italian police-sergeant, an officer in the Coast Guard, a college boy from Arkansas—she had pretty heavy love-affairs with all of these.”
“You mean she was engaged to them?”
“Oh, no. Who bothers to be engaged nowadays? I thought you were so modern.”
“Well, I’m damned!”
“And a string of others, including Read, who still hangs on, I believe. T. J. had it out with her. There was a terrible scene: at the beginning she wept and said she was innocent, but at the end she was swearing and throwing things on the floor. All that delightful gentleness of hers, that you talk so much about, went to the winds. She admitted everything, and told him to go to hell.”
“The damned liar!”
“But why should he take the trouble to lie?”
“I don’t know, but he’s lying.”
“No, he isn’t. Here, have another drop?”
“No, thanks.”
There was a pause, the clink of a tumbler, and the sound as of a waste-paper basket kicked over.
“You might as well open your eyes. I daresay she’s a nice enough girl, but you’d better disabuse yourself of the notion that she’s a saint. Of course, that needn’t make any difference to you. Even supposing that she is, as T. J. says, terribly manhandled—”
“Damnation. It’s impossible!…”
“Even supposing she is, it may be that it’s only because she’s played in bad luck. She may, each time, have been sincerely in love, and sincerely in hope of marrying. That’s quite possible, though it doesn’t seem likely. But T. J. thinks she is really, by nature, promiscuous. She basks in the admiration of men, she must have men around her, and he thinks she will be like that all her life. I don’t know anything about her, of course—I’m merely telling you what T. J. said.”
“Very kind of you.”
“Look here, Paul—”
“I know—I beg your pardon. It really is kind of you. But you know I’m in love with her, and this sort of thing is painful.”
“Of course it is. I’m sorry.”
A pause. The Englishman listened. The pause lengthened itself.
“I admit, this shakes me a good deal. To tell the truth, I’ve been having the same experience with her myself, I mean—”
“Well?…”
“About her proficiency. It’s been coming out, little by little, in just the way you described. And it hurts me horribly—horribly. If you knew what it is to be in love with someone you can’t quite trust!… But I’m sure she’s all right—I’m sure of it.”
“Well, if you’re sure of that, then you’re all right.”
“Man-handled!… Good God!”
“Don’t be depressed by it. I daresay she’s all right. If you’re in love with her—”
“But I thought she was so completely innocent! That’s what’s so horrible. And I think she is, fundamentally. After all, what can it matter, if I’m in love with her?”
“But are you sure you’re in love with the right image? I mean the true one?”
“I prefer to think that the woman I’m in love with is the real woman. That’s what T. J. missed—that’s what he would miss. I mean, her central idealism, her essential holiness. Yes, that’s what it is. She has a kind of holiness about her that it’s impossible to describe. And by God, I’ll marry her. And to hell with T. J. and all his damned detectives.”
“Well, if you’re sure of that, you’re all right. Let’s change the subject …”
“We might as well—this doesn’t get us anywhere … Let’s talk about something else.”
“Have a night-cap. In vino sanitas.”
“Thanks—plenty.”
“Water?”
“No … My God, my God, if only I didn’t—”
“What?”
“It’s no use. In vino sanitas … Anything to be unconscious!”
A pause. The Englishman counted sheep. Two-four-six-eight-twenty-two at a time-two at a time-two at a time-wool in the hedge-gaps—wool on the hawthorn twigs—wool on the gorse—
“I hear Peter is back to try again. Poor devil! He certainly sticks at it.”
“Poor devil.”
“Poor devil.”
The bells were heard striking the third quarter: Ding dong dang doom: doom dang ding dong: ding dang dong doom: and again a question-mark was left in the air.
NO, NO, GO NOT TO LETHE
I.
This literary fellow, who was, as a matter of fact, only half literary—his real occupation being that of a teacher of English composition at the college—was named Samuel Pierce Babcock; but he always signed his name S. Pierce Babcock, and managed to have his friends call him Pierce. He disliked the name Samuel, which always seemed to him effeminate, and which in addition had been the name of his father’s brother, whom he had detested. Besides, if one had to have a trade name, for literary purposes (and he was perpetually sending out poems, articles, and stories to the magazines), he thought S. Pierce Babcock was much more distinguished than (say) Samuel Babcock. And he rather liked the “social” air of S. Pierce Babcock. He had even thought of dropping the Samuel altogether; but to tell the truth he was prevented by the thought of the formalities he might have to undergo in order to change his signature at the bank.
He lived in a boarding-house in the charming little country town, in Massachusetts, which contained the aforesaid college (the name of which we had better not mention); he had no living relatives; he was a bachelor, aged thirty-two; he knew himself to be rather charming—one of those fortunate young men who unite the virtues of athlete and philosopher; and he prided himself on his complete independence, both socially and intellectually. He picked his acquaintances carefully, kept them carefully at a distance, used them, pumped them, gave himself to them quite liberally up to a certain point, but when that point had been reached became as inscrutable as the Sphinx. He had never yet encountered a human being who was worthy of his ultimate confidence; to no one had he, as yet, ever made full confession, poured from the heart. He had, moreover, an idea that to confess oneself too readily, or too freely, was, ipso facto, to weaken oneself. Not only was it a shameful kind of self-indulgence, unworthy of a mature being; it was also a definite and horrible draining of one’s spiritual excellence, one’s virtue. And by virtue he meant a sort of magic.
For this reason, therefore, and because he wanted to maintain this excellence intact for his literary purposes (and likewise for his nocturnal explorations of the truth—a very serious occupation with him) he kept his personal relationships at a decent minimum. His contacts at the college he managed very skillfully. He was tactful, friendly, on occasion he could be quite sufficiently convivial; he prided himself somewhat on his ability (a real one) to be all things to all men; and at the end of his second year of teaching he was, if not exactly popular, at any rate well liked. He could spend an evening with cheerful cocktail drinkers and get slightly tight; he could dine with a pair of middle-aged professors and discuss Grimm’s law; or play a game of billiards with the manager and quarterback of the football team; or even, if necessary, attend a tea at the president’s house, where he made himself agreeable to the president’s wife. But if he did all these things easily, he did not do them often; and he never encouraged these acquaintances to seek him out. He became known by degrees as something of a mystery. He was respected, looked up to, and he was well aware of this; he knew that people pointed him out as that “brilliant young Babcock”; but he was determined to allow no liberties to be taken. His life—his precious and secret life—was to remain inviolably and wonderfully his own.