The end of April found New York still cold and bleak. The buds on the trees were bursting and the birds were returning from the south because it seemed the proper season for these changes to take place, not because the buds and birds had received any encouragement from the elements. The sun refused to show his face for whole days and frosty winds blew chill rains up and down the streets. The result was that New Yorkers, who usually at this time of year began to suffer nostalgia for Europe or Maine, withdrew into their houses and huddled before active fireplaces, while they considered the advisability of another trip to Palm Beach or Havana.
To Campaspe, who seldom travelled in any direction, the weather was not a matter of any great moment. Her harassed state of mind was due to another cause. It seemed incredible to her that a man could destroy her habitual tranquillity, even temporarily, by leaping from a window, and yet it was patent that he had done so. There was, it would seem, sufficient diversion in the human scene to occupy her attention this spring, more, apparently, than usual, but every effort she made to direct her thoughts into more objective thoroughfares in some way or other led back to Gunnar. It was a good deal like taking a stroll in Venice: in whichever direction you sauntered, no matter how many corners you turned, or how careful you were to walk directly away from it, invariably, sooner or later, you turned up in the Piazza San Marco.
Paul, for instance, and his adventure in Wall Street, which had led him into the arms of a girl with the extraordinary name of Wintergreen Waterbury, obviously would repay investigation. Under ordinary circumstances Campaspe would have requested her friend to bring the model to tea so that she might examine her at closer range. Now she felt listless, uninterested, in the matter, save for her holding the curious, subconscious belief that it was through Gunnar that Paul had met Wintergreen. Gareth had reminded her that one pebble tossed into a still pool would create an ever-widening series of circles. Well, here the phenomenon was being enacted before her eyes. Other strange results of the maddening young man's peculiarly magnetic influence were to be noted in Consuelo's passion for instruction in the realm of acrobatics and in the successful launching of Miss Pinchon's amazing school. Of these, too, at the moment, it was impossible for Campaspe to reflect without pain. Only by a sort of double feat of mental ingenuity was she able to realize with what amusement she might regard this experiment on the part of the governess had it come about otherwise. In her present uncomfortably agitated mood she could derive no pleasure from a consideration of it, although it was obvious that contemplation of the project offered the most vital elements for cynical enjoyment. Pinchon's Prophylactic Plan, indeed, had assumed an international significance. Prospective pupils were arriving from Europe, Indiana, and California by every ship and train, each nourishing the practical intention of winning a diploma by means of which they might carry the secrets of the Plan into their own particular camps. A very celebrated philosophical writer had manifested his interest in the institution by introducing encomiastic references to it in his lectures. It was rumoured that Havelock Ellis had written a letter of query in regard to it. In the pleasant breeze created by this spreading fan of recognition Miss Pinchon had been obliged to provide larger quarters and to engage new professors both for the philosophical and physical departments. George Everest, it appeared, would probably earn large dividends from his initial investment of one thousand dollars.
One afternoon, returning from a drive to Great Neck with Lalla, who had gone out with the purpose of inspecting some English sheep-dogs in a kennel there, Campaspe, seated before the fireplace in her drawing-room, considered these matters. She had not changed her dress since she had come in and still wore a dark-green velvet suit, cut in a severe tailored fashion, with a small, moss-coloured straw cloche, devoid of ornament. Attempting to apply her mind to the inspection of these topics which would have interested her so much at any other time, it seemed to her that the logs in the fire were assuming the attitudes of acrobats about to undertake some difficult feat. In her imagination the andirons metamorphosed themselves into the supporting bases for a taut wire, and the clock on the mantelpiece ticked, without cessation, Gun-nar! Gun-nar! Gun-nar!
With a great effort of the will she induced her mind to consider another incident, that of the death of Ella Nattatorrini. How difficult it had proved to invent, without preparation, a history which might be retailed safely to Lou Poore! She had in no adequate manner sensed in advance what this sister would be like; somehow she hadn't thought about it at all, but when she saw the poor, simple, frail, old lady standing before her, she was cognizant at once of the fact that this wgs the kind of person who must be regaled with a suitably sympathetic deathbed story. Campaspe had risen magnificently to the occasion, had described the Countess calling to have the windows opened so that she might believe she were in Iowaeonce more, had recounted how, propped up against the pillows, Ella had imagined she stood once again in the fields of waving corn; then, how she had uttered her father's name twice, and had asked for her sister just before she expired. The poor old lady had thanked her, weeping softly, and had departed happy, or as happy as any one could be made by a deathbed story. Campaspe wondered, indeed, if the death of the Countess under these glamorous conditions were not calculated to make Lou happier even than she had been while her sister lived. Lou must always instinctively have resented the living Ella. Sympathetically, as well as geographically, they must have dwelt thousands of leagues apart. It was only in death, as a matter of fact, that Lou possessed Ella once more as a sister. Now, probably, she would create for herself a legend of a great love. The real scene, what had actually occurred, on the other hand, belonged to Campaspe alone, and was inextricably complicated and confused in her mind with the thought of her own great desire.
She lifted another log from the copper sugarkettle which held the supply and laid it on the fire almost reverently, as though she were offering a sacrifice to the gods. Outside, she was aware, the clouds were breaking and the drizzle had ceased. The creaking and rattling of the casements, however, gave evidence that a high wind was blowing.
The clock in the process of striking five was interrupted by the faint, far-away tinkle of the doorbell. Presently, Campaspe heard Frederika softly making her way along the hallway towards the street entrance. She did not wish to see anybody, but her lassitude was so complete that she lacked the force to warn Frederika that she was not at home. She remained, therefore, quietly gazing into the fire, as she listened to the opening and closing of the door. Now she sensed a presence in the room, but even so she did not yet turn her head. There followed a considerable pause before her visitor spoke.
I have come back, she heard a breaking voice announce.
Still she did not turn her head. How thankful she was that she had not turned it before! She waited, perhaps ten seconds, employing all the will at her command in a supreme effort to regain her composure. Then she spoke—and how hollow and unreal her voice sounded to her!
Yes. How do you do? At last, she risked a glance. How pitiful he was, with agony sketched across his features! The glance performed the miracle she had been praying for. She might have known that she could count on that. Confronted by his distress, her own peace of mind returned in some degree. She even rose, advanced towards him, and clasped his hand.
Please . . . sit down, she invited.
He did not accept her invitation. He remained standing; he was not, she observed, even looking in her direction.
I have fought like ten million devils, he stammered, but it's no good. I love you. He made this announcement in a tone of the deepest despair.
I think I love you, too, Gunnar, Campaspe responded. Then she celebrated an astonishing ceremony. Pressing his temples between her palms, she kissed him on the forehead. Cluttering into an arm-chair, the young man held his hands before his eyes and wept.
I think, Campaspe continued, softly, that you will have a good deal to tell me . . . . With her hand she touched him gently on the shoulder, but she did not try to comfort him with words. . . . This is scarcely the place. At this hour we may be interrupted. Later I have people coming to dinner. If you don't mind we'll go out.
Gunnar nodded a weary acquiescence. Campaspe rang.
Frederika, she ordered, telephone Ambrose to bring the car around immediately. Mr. and Mrs. Draycott and Mr. Hammond are coming to dine at eight. If I have not returned, ask them to sit down without me. Explain to them that I have been detained.
Yes, madame. What dress shall I lay out?
It doesn't matter. Campaspe was impatient. Then an inspiration came to her. The silver, Frederika, she said.
Heavy, purple clouds again masked the sky and shut the light from the New York streets. The room was in almost total darkness save for the glow from the fire. The two sat in absolute silence. Not a word was spoken, not a glance exchanged, during the ten minutes they waited for the car. When, at last, Ambrose was announced, Campaspe said quietly, Come, and Gunnar rose and followed her.
She whispered a direction to the chauffeur before she settled back into her seat. As Ambrose started the car, she peered at Gunnar. His face, still preserving somehow that inexplicable effulgent aureole which seemed mystically to illuminate his countenance, wore, she thought, the most utterly despondent expression she had ever observed on human features. And quite suddenly, she began to breathe naturally again, aware that by some magic accident she was released, free once more, at any rate her own, and no one else's, able to deal with the situation, with any situation, able again to lead her own special, personal life. On and on they drove in the closed car, Ambrose directing it straight ahead towards their mysterious destination. Now and again, she patted Gunnar's hand, but still no word was spoken. Presently, the purple clouds burst and whips of rain lashed the windows. At last, on a side street off Riverside Drive, the automobile drew up before a frame house of modest size, set back some distance on a broad lawn. Ambrose raised an umbrella to protect the pair from the downpour as he escorted them through the gate up the walk to the house. On the porch, Campaspe inserted a key in the lock, opened the door, and led Gunnar into a dark hallway. Pressing a button she caused a red globe, which depended on a chain from the ceiling, to glow with light. The pair ascended the stairs. On the second storey she took a turn down the corridor, passing several closed doors, until she selected one which she opened. Again she pressed a button.
They stood in a bedroom, furnished neatly, simply. The wall-paper was the shade of ivory, spattered symmetrically with sprigs of blue flowers. Curtains of dotted swiss hung before the windows. The bed, covered with a white counterpane, embroidered in blue and rose, the reniform dresser, laid out with all necessary toilet articles, the chest of drawers, and the chairs were all of birds'-eye maple.
Sit down, Gunnar, Campaspe urged.
He accepted a chair. There was another formidable pause. Campaspe had seated herself on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. She extracted a cigarette from her case and struck a match.
Now, she said, exhaling a whiff of smoke of the hue of the moonstone, tell me why you have come back, and why you went away.
You know the answer to both those questions, Gunnar replied.
It would be better, perhaps, if you began at the beginning, Campaspe suggested.
Gunnar supported his head in his interlocked hands against the back of his chair. Once more Campaspe sensed an eerie impression of a halo. After he began to speak she scarcely once removed her direct gaze from his face. Gunnar's eyes, on the contrary, shifted away from this close scrutiny. At first, his speech was halting and low, but as his feeling for his narrative grew warmer, he spoke faster and louder.
Well then, he said, I must begin before I was born. My father, John Aloysius O'Grady is an Irishman and a most remarkable man. He married Beata Fuchs, an Austrian Jewess, who is an equally remarkable woman. Neither relinquished their religion. My father has remained a Catholic to this day, and my mother continues to observe the faith of her race in the synagogue. Singularly enough, in the face of this friendly disagreement in regard to their religious beliefs, they were able to agree on a much more difficult question, the rearing of their offspring.
My father had long since made the acute observation that whether children were brought up strictly or leniently by their parents the gods were ironically indifferent. One boy, prepared for all the pitfalls of life, fell into all the snares and traps he had been so carefully warned to avoid; another boy, reared in precisely the same manner, heeded the warning. Or, in the opposite instance, a lad, whose parents neglected to acquaint him with any of the perils of life, somehow managed, quite unconsciously, to walk around the danger spots and remain innocent until the day he died, while another, with an exactly similar background, spent his youth with loose women, drank to excess, dabbled in drugs, and at fifty suddenly collapsed in the street and was carried off to a hospital. Life, indeed, certainly so far as the raising of children was concerned, appeared to be a vicious circle. My father passed a good many of his early years in communion with the philosophers, a pernicious habit in which, two decades later, I futilely followed him. They taught him nothing. At the end of this period, however, through a long process of reasoning which I shall not detail to you, he became convinced that parents, through the very personal nature of their interest, were entirely unfitted to bring up their own children. Shortly after he had arrived at this radical conclusion he invented his extraordinary plan which offered the further advantage of removing any possibility of argument in regard to the religious faith in which his children were to be reared. When the plan was broached to my mother she immediately consented to its adoption. This agreement was reached when my eldest sister Dagmar was two years old.
Three years later, when Dagmar was five, an age at which she could walk and talk and think and was about to begin her quest of worldly knowledge, my father gave her in charge to a sterile couple who had long desired to possess a child. These foster-parents were only selected after a great deal of preliminary study—many excellent offers were rejected. The investigations, however, were conducted through the medium of a third person. An ineluctable rule of my father's system stipulated that foster-parents and actual parents should never meet. A clause was inserted, however, to the effect that the contract should come to an end when Dagmar attained her twenty-first year, that is, she should then be informed of the state of affairs and should choose for herself whether to live with one or the other couple, or both, at intervals, or neither. This plan was followed in every detail, without variation, with four more children.
Five years ago, when I reached my majority, I was invited to join my parents and learn the facts that I have just related to you in abbreviated form. My sister Dagmar, now one of the foremost scientists of Germany—you doubtless are acquainted with her book dealing with the spiritual identity of the circle and the square—learned them two years before me. As for my brothers and sisters who still remain in ignorance of their paternity, it may be said that they, too, have already in a measure justified the experiment. Cécile has made her début as a violinist and her hand has been sought in marriage by a French gentleman of the highest social standing. Giuseppe is one of the leaders of the Fascisti—you may have observed his name in the papers. As for Zimbule . . .
Zimbule! Campaspe echoed, stupefied. Zimbule O'Grady!
Yes, the actress whom the New York dramatic critics have recognized as this season's American Duse.
But how strange all your Christian names are! And by what method have you contrived to hold on to the O'Grady?
Gunnar leaned so far back into his chair that his long eyelashes formed shadows on his eyeballs, like the patterns made on white sand by palm-leaves in the sun. That is extremely simple, he continued. An essential clause in the contract stipulated that we should retain our surname, and to avoid discussion as to whether we should receive Irish or Jewish Christian names it was further nominated that we should only be given these upon the occasion of our pseudo-adoption. We were then christened by our foster-parents, and the diversity in our names is accounted for by the fact that my father and mother, who are immensely wealthy, travelled extensively, a condition which was facilitated by their absolute freedom from all family responsibility.
Zimbule was given in charge to a Levantine family. She has undergone a curious experience, but even in the face of a bewildering series of accidents my father's faith in his plan has been justified. Shortly after she had been adopted by this worthy Levantine couple, they departed on a voyage for America. The steamship in which they embarked was wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland. They, together with nearly every other soul aboard, perished. By some kind of miracle, however, Zimbule was saved. What happened to her subsequently is as yet a mystery. My parents only heard of her again when she became a moving-picture star. Doubtless, on the occasion of her reunion with her lost ones, which will occur in a few years, she will be able to relate the incidents of the unaccounted-for period in her career.
But the name! Campaspe cried. How has she been able to retain the name?
Easily, Gunnar explained. Each of us, at the time of our adoption and christening, was presented with a gold key on which the name was engraved. This key was attached to a gold chain linked around the throat and could only be removed by breaking the chain. The key opens a box kept by our guardians in a safe-deposit vault, waiting our coming of age. Zimbule's box was secured by my parents after her foster-family had perished at sea. She doubtless retains the key.
I saw no key! Campaspe ejaculated.
Do you then know her? Gunnar regarded her with astonishment.
I knew her two years ago.
Even if she does not wear it round her throat, she must have retained the key, Gunnar argued.
It is a most amazing story, Campaspe commented, as she lighted a new cigarette.
There is much more, and the interesting part of it is that it is all true, but I must come down to my own history, making it as brief as possible.
You need not abbreviate it on my account, Campaspe urged. I am willing to listen two days or longer.
I was brought up by a Danish family in Copenhagen, Gunnar continued; hence my name, Gunnar. My guardian was an honest burgess of some fortune; his wife, a sedate and careful housewife. The incidents of my childhood are not essential to this narrative and I shall not go into them. Suffice it to say that I was sent to the University at Copenhagen, famous, as you may have heard, for its training of athletes, and it was there that I became proficient in the Grecian games.
I always nourished an instinctive desire to develop my body. My ambition was to force my muscles to be subservient to my slightest whim. Perfect co-ordination was my aim. As I grew older and became more interested in the philosophy of life, an inclination inherited, probably, from my father, this instinct seemed even more reasonable to me. I looked about, and what did I see? People, consumed with hate and rage and lust, existing like squirrels in their cages, continuously and unnecessarily pawing perdurable treadmills. For what? Only to cause them to revolve. Others reminded me more of panthers in the zoological gardens, striding incessantly behind their bars from one side of the enclosure to the other. I began to think of my fellow-beings as mechanical toys, automatically performing the rites of coeval or geographical morality or custom, with occasional baffling and disturbing interruptions caused by the fierce demands of sex or greed. There appeared to be no justification for life, no sense to it. I foresaw that I should become like the others. It was during this fatal period that I came upon the studies of Sigmund Freud and, convinced as I was at the time that there was truth in his diagnosis of the universal neurosis, I was quite prepared to commit suicide.
What I actually did do . . . Gunnar now looked Campaspe full in the eyes . . . was something much worse. I fell in love. Here, too, I shall abridge, giving you only the essentials of an affair to which I might easily devote ten evenings, or write down in a book which would be longer than a la Recherche du temps perdu. I fell in love with a lady who apparently loved me also. It was arranged, after a short but seething courtship, that we should be married. One evening, however, shortly before that solemn ceremony was to be celebrated, she persuaded me to yield to her charms, and our physical union was consummated. The events of the next two months assumed the form of a hideous vision—even yet there seems nothing real to me in this sordid adventure. I was completely in the power of lust. There was, assuredly, no happiness in those months; rather, every variety of misery and grief and anguish and humiliation, together with the fierce, nervous excitement brought about by the abuse of our natural forces. Jealousy, devastating, burning, consuming jealousy, devoured my vitals. I was jealous even of the motor that bore her to our rendezvous, jealous of the hours that kept her away from me, jealous of the servants to whom she gave orders. When I was perforce separated from her for a day I cursed her and myself. I was unable to work. I was unable to enjoy myself. In short, he concluded, his lip curling bitterly, I was in love.
You were, indeed, Campaspe echoed sympathetically.
Love, I found, is not happiness. It is a kind of consuming selfishness which ends in slavery. You belong to some one else. You no longer live with yourself. You lose your freedom and become the servant of glowering moods and the powers of darkness. You suggest a shadow rather than an object. The orientals, I understand, take these matters more lightly—Sigmund Freud would find no patients among the Arabs—but with us Northern races love is the bane of our existence. He paused to mop his face with his handkerchief. I shall not try your patience much longer, he announced.
Go on! Go on! Campaspe urged. Say all that you have to say!
I am nearly done. Day by day, I found myself growing weaker, readier to answer the call of the loathsome voice, and more stricken with the bitter, reactionary pain which has no surcease until, at last, I struck bottom. I discovered that my mistress, my affianced bride, was unfaithful to me, unfaithful in a manner with which, through a curious chain of circumstances, I became fully cognizant. At first, I planned to kill her. For days, indeed, I was mad, completely, totally insane. Quite suddenly, my brain, or my body—can one ever be sure which it is?—experienced an unexpected but salutary revulsion. I would, I determined, kill this thing in me, instead, and be free again. At that instant my drooping spirits began to revive.
There were, however, other dangers to guard against. There was the possibility that I might fall into step with the automatic puppets, become one of the squirrels in the treadmill, or one of the restless panthers behind the bars. In whichever direction I turned life seemed to be hopelessly dominated by these conditions: stupid, ovine existence, complicated, and often rendered ridiculous, by the arduous rigours of sex. The married were not free from it, less free from it, indeed, than the unmarried. With married couples I noted a constant suggestion of straining on the leash, a desire to break away into forbidden fields. Some, of course, did break away to console themselves with libidinous debauchery, which they tried to construe as comfort or happiness. In any event, the strain was always intense, mutual hatred under the surface at times, but always ready, in case of accident, to rear its ugly head.
I desired complete freedom. What was there to do in life? Conform to the action of the puppets, dull one's perceptions and lead the existence of the majority, an existence which appeared to me to have no meaning, or . . . ? I sought advice from the philosophers. I began to read Plato and Pythagoras, Plotinus, Kant, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche . . . even Hans Vaihinger, but it was not until I stumbled upon Hippias, the old Greek, that I discovered any food to satisfy my natural craving. Have you ever heard of Hippias?
Campaspe shook her head.
Well, the philosophy of Hippias embraced all of life. He believed that one should cultivate everything inside oneself. He himself was an extraordinary mathematician; he practised poetry and he understood astronomy. Painting, mythology, ethnology, as well as music, held his interest. He designed and made his own garments; he fashioned his own jewelry. He also appears to have held an ideal looking forward to the establishment of a universal brotherhood, an obnoxious ideal which I did not take over. . . . There was also at hand the case of Leonardo da Vinci . . .
Of him I know.
Naturally. Well, Hippias was my salvation. I knew at last what I might do: I might strive for perfection, so far as was humanly possible. Already a fine athlete, I determined to make my body the most agile in the world. Heard I of a feat attempted by another I accomplished it too. I was already acquainted with many languages. I had waded through all the philosophies. Lately, I have mastered the art of humility, together with an enormous amount of prowess in the field of salesmanship, by engaging in small clerkships and certain of the so-called inferior trades. Also I have acquired enough technical experience of a social nature so that I manage to get along fairly well with the puppets. I was well on my way towards my goal of perfection. I was light-hearted, carving out a form of existence which might have proved an irresistible model to other young men, when . . . I met you. Now I have lost my freedom again. Once more I am plunged in misery, suffer with cold sweats, endure the sense of fear that masters a man no longer master of himself. In short I am experiencing anew all the awful agony of love. I tried escape. I sought to run away. Gunnar groaned. It was impossible. I felt drawn back involuntarily. I cannot get along without you and yet my reason tells me that I am miserable every instant I am with you. What am I to do?
I suppose, Campaspe replied, as if she were reflecting, that the flaw in your system—and every system of philosophy must have at least a single flaw—is that you have overlooked the importance of preparing for the reactions of the sex impulse.
It must be stamped out, he cried.
That is exactly what you cannot do. You are finding out that no life is possible which excludes sex. I know. I, too, have suffered. During the weeks you have been away I have felt a good deal—not so much, perhaps, because it didn't frighten me so much—of what you must have been feeling. I, too, for a somewhat different reason, desire to be free, and it needed just this to set me free. I have seen you now, talked with you, kissed you, and I have escaped from my desire, because I have given it up of my own accord. Had you kept away from me I could never—well, certainly not for a long time—have liberated myself, because I would not have been exercising my own free will. Your absence would have been a compelling factor which would have acted unfavourably.
And I? he demanded bitterly. What about me?
Campaspe rose, stooped over Gunnar, and grasped his shoulders. Why, she queried, do you think I brought you here?
Why? he echoed, stupefied. Why?
Here I am. Here youare. There is the bed. I am strong enough now to give you what you want and still walk away free. I am willing to do so. . . . She was speaking with great gentleness. . . . If you want to be free also you must reject me of your own accord, with your own will. Are you strong enough?
As she removed her hands from his shoulders, Gunnar bowed his head into his palms and wept.
Gunnar, Gunnar, I am so sorry, so very sorry. Campaspe tried to console him.
Can't you see how unfair you are? he inquired at last. You are only giving your strength to my weakness, which binds me to you ten times more tightly. I could only escape if you wanted me as much as I want you. Then I might use my will. Now, it is you who have rejected me. You are offering me a shell to play with, a shell which would enclose and bind me to you, while you are bound to nothing.
That, Campaspe averred sadly, I cannot help. I can give you no more than I can give you. I am compelled to tell you the truth: I am free.
Then, he said, rising, there remains but one thing for me to do.
She did not try to comfort him further. She knew the vanity of any such attempt. As she led him stumbling from the house, it appeared to her that the amber glow about his brow flickered uncertainly. Suddenly, without a word of farewell, he dashed away down the rain-swept street.
At a quarter before eight, Frederika was fastening the hooks on Campaspe's silver gown. Campaspe, polishing her nails, glanced occasionally into a long mirror to note the effect of her costume.
Be sure, Frederika, she was saying, that there is enough ice in the Bacardi cocktails, and less grenadine than last time.
Yes, Mrs. Lorillard.
And I do hope cook hasn't forgotten to put garlic in the lamb.
No, madame.
If Campaspe harboured any other qualms about the dinner she forgot them. A line from Edith Dale's letter had slipped into her mind, the line descriptive of the horror in the chapel of the Penitentes: white-washed walls . . . splotched with blood-splashing . . . a little wagon with wooden wheels on which was seated a life-sized skeleton, laughing, bearing bow and arrow, the arrow poised, the bow drawn. . . . She heard the bell below ring faintly. Presently, the door was opened, and Lalla Draycott's hearty voice reverberated through the corridor.