The Woman Who Vowed Part 16

"Phaines tells me he wants to marry Anna of Ann."

"Isn't she foolish now not to marry him?" answered the Mater, putting down her work. "I am so fond of her, and Phaines and she would make an ideal couple. She could work all day at the art she is fond of and both ought to be as happy, all the year long, as larks in the spring."

"I have sometimes thought," said I, wis.h.i.+ng to draw the Mater out, "that Anna looked sad."

"Well, she is a genius, and all geniuses look sad sometimes. It seems as though somebody has to be sad in order that others may be happy. Now, I am glad I am a plain farmer's wife and don't have to be sad. And yet,"

she added, taking up her knitting again, "I love to look at sad things.

Have you ever seen Anna's statue of Bacchus?"

I had seen it and wondered at it until it was explained to me that the better Greek notion of Bacchus as the G.o.d of enthusiasm had been restored to the Dionysan cult. Then I perceived that Anna had given to the wine G.o.d something of the discontent that lends charm to the statues of Antinous.

"Anna's thought doubtless is," said I, "that the highest enthusiasm springs from a sense of an unsatisfied need."

"Well, I like to look at it but I don't care to think about it. I like just to toast my toes by the fire these long winter evenings and know that our storehouse is full and our boys happy. But I do wish Anna would marry Phaines."

a.s.suredly, thought I, man is a variable thing--constructed upon lines so different that it is surprising one variety of man can at all understand the other. And yet, in view of the variety of occupations in which man must engage if he wants to satisfy his complex needs, how fortunate that the Mater could be happy only on her farm, and Anna happy only in her studio! And for the Mater and Phaines the question of marriage with Anna was one that could tarry for its solution year after year; while for Anna, her love for Ariston tormented her life, intruded into her art, saddened and inspired it.

I was interested, however, to discover that she had escaped from the thraldom of it for the time at any rate; for on the next day, when I peeped into her studio early in the morning, she no longer threw a cloth over her clay, but, on the contrary, beckoned me in.

And I saw dimly growing out of a gigantic ma.s.s of clay the n.o.ble lineaments of an old man with s.h.a.ggy projecting eyebrows and a beard that rivalled that of the Moses of Michael Angelo.

"It is only the bust," she said. She looked very lovely as with suppressed excitement she explained to me her thought, and her eyes usually dim grew bright. "It is to be a colossal figure, standing; I think there is something in it that is going to be suggested by the Creator of the Sixtine chapel as he stands creating Eve; but then, too, I see in the clay before me something more kindly, reminding me rather of Prospero; and yet he is to be triumphant; I think one arm will be lifted, half in joy and half in benediction, but his brow will be thoughtful and sad."

"And you have got rid of Ariston altogether?" asked I.

She blushed and pouted a little.

"You must never speak to me of Ariston again. I am glad to be free from him, in this at any rate--and it is your t.i.thonus that has rescued me.

If I were to put a legend to this sculpture--of course, I won't--but if I were to do so, it should be 'Me only, cruel immortality consumes.'"

"And yet this would express only a small part of the whole thing."

"And that is why no legend should ever be attached to sculpture; sculpture must tell her own story in her own way--legends belong to literature. Sculpture must owe nothing to any other art than her own."

She was looking critically at the bust now, as though I were not in the room, but presently becoming conscious of my existence again, she added: "I value this legend because it started me on a new line of thought unhaunted by the old."

For days Anna was so gay that I began to wonder whether Ariston had not lost his opportunity, and I wondered so all the more when I saw little advances to Anna on his part unresponded to. One evening when he had felt himself discouraged by her, he said to me:

"I don't think Anna will ever care for anything but her art. I asked her to show me what she is doing and she refused--a little curtly, I thought."

"My dear Ariston," answered I, "do you suppose Anna is going to fall into your arms the moment you open them to her? You have treated her for years as though she did not exist, and now you are disappointed because at a first lordly approach she does not at once fall trembling at your feet."

"Am I really such a c.o.xcomb as that?" asked Ariston.

"Don't take me too seriously," said I. "All I mean to suggest is that if Anna is worth winning she is worth wooing; she is absorbed in her work--her life is quite filled with it--and if you want her life to be filled with you, you must take some little trouble and exercise some little patience."

Ariston laughed good humoredly, and asked me how Lydia was doing. I had seen little of her. We met at meal-time, but so many sat down to every meal that I seldom found myself near her. I knew that she heard daily from Chairo and wrote daily to him, but more than this no one knew.

Ariston explained to me that the forces marshalled in opposition to one another were now fairly organized, but that it was impossible to tell with whom the victory would rest. The leader of the government, Peleas, was not a big man; on the contrary, many charged him with being narrow.

He was bitterly opposed to the amnesty bill; regarded Chairo as a firebrand who must be suppressed, and asked, if blood could deluge the streets of New York one day and amnesty be voted to those responsible therefor the next, what security could the community hope for in the future? Would not such action serve to encourage all discontent to take the shape of riot and revolt?

There was, of course, much truth in his view. The Demetrian council had met, but their decision was kept absolutely secret. Irene had now altogether recovered and was expected to direct the Demetrian forces in the legislature; she would not, however, take the floor; it was considered that their spokesman ought to be a man. Ariston was disqualified by the fact that he was acting for Chairo; so they decided on an extremely judicious, though not very eloquent speaker, by name Arkles. Ariston returned to New York the next day.

CHAPTER XVIII

A DREAM

The day that Ariston left, the Mater summoned me to her room to make plans for the day, and I found Lydia there, engaged in moving a bracket of beautifully wrought iron that she found too low. While I talked to the Mater I found my eyes following Lydia's movements as she stood with her back to me uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the bracket from the wall. The Mater soon came to an understanding with me and left the room to attend to her household duties. I was left alone with Lydia.

She had by this time unscrewed the bracket and was holding it higher up against the wall, estimating the height, prior to fastening it in again.

"You will never be able to fasten it at that height," said I, "without a ladder."

She looked round at me, still holding the bracket against the wall, and I wished I had the art of a sculptor to immortalize her as she stood.

She smiled as she said: "How about a chair, Xenos?"

I immediately brought a chair to her.

She stepped upon it but slipped. I was holding the back of the chair, and as she slipped I put out my hands to catch her. For a moment I held her in my arms. She had stumbled in such a way that her head was thrown a little back over my shoulder, and before she could recover herself her face was so close to mine that I could have kissed her with the slightest possible movement of my face.

I thought that I had conquered the feeling which she had inspired in me the first moment I set eyes on her on Tyringham hill. But the blood, rus.h.i.+ng through my veins, and my beating pulses, as I held her for a moment in my arms, told me that I was still hopelessly in love with her.

She seemed altogether unaware of it, for recovering her balance she laughed a little, looked at me straight in the eyes, her brows a little lifted, and her lovely lips parted by a smile.

"I slipped," she said. "Wasn't it silly of me!"

And jumping on the chair she got to work again.

I watched her work and drank deep draughts of delicious poison as I watched.

As soon as she had finished she looked at her work critically and said: "That is very much better!" and turning to me, added, "Isn't it?"

I could not help wondering whether she was as unconscious of the effect she produced as she seemed to be. But she gave me no chance of discovering, for finding I did not answer but stood there silent, like a fool, she added:

"I must be off! _Au revoir!_" and taking up her screwdriver and other things, went with the appearance of utter unconsciousness out of the room.

All that day my mind was haunted by her; I knew it was folly to harbor hope, and yet I harbored it fatuously; her image came in and out of my mind as the sun on a rainy day in and out of the clouds, to delight and to torment.

That evening the orchestra played a minuet of Mozart so charmingly that Lydia rose, and saying, "We really must dance to that," made a sweeping bow.

I jumped up at the challenge, and soon eight of us were on our feet.

Lydia was my partner. I was so absorbed by her every movement, so entranced by the occasional touch of her ungloved hand, that I was aware of nothing else in the room. Surely, thought I, there never was a Tanagra figure to compare with hers.