Читать книгу Human Nature - Edith Wharton - Страница 10

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The next morning I received a telephone call from Stephen asking me to lunch. We met at a quiet restaurant near his studio, and when, after an admirably chosen meal, we settled down to coffee and cigars, he said carelessly: “Sorry you got thrown out that way yesterday.”

“Oh, well—I saw you were tired, and I didn’t want to interfere with your nap.”

He looked down moodily at his plate. “Tired—yes, I’m tired. But I didn’t want a nap. I merely simulated slumber to try and make Chrissy shut up.”

“Ah—” I said.

He shot a quick glance at me, almost resentfully, I thought. Then he went on: “There are times when aimless talk nearly kills me. I wonder,” he broke out suddenly, “if you can realize what it feels like for a man who’s never—I mean for an orphan—suddenly to find himself with two mothers?”

I said I could see it might be arduous.

“Arduous! It’s literally asphyxiating.” He frowned, and then smiled whimsically. “When I need all the fresh air I can get!”

“My dear fellow—what you need first of all is to get away from cities and studios.”

His frown deepened. “I know; I know all that. Only, you see—well, to begin with, before I turn up my toes I want to do something for mother Kit.”

“Do something?”

“Something to show her that I was—was worth all this fuss.” He paused, and turned his coffee-spoon absently between his long twitching fingers.

I shrugged. “Whatever you do, she’ll always think that. Mothers do.”

He murmured after me slowly: “Mothers—”

“What she wants you to do now is to get well,” I insisted.

“Yes; I know; I’m pledged to get well. But somehow that bargain doesn’t satisfy me. If I don’t get well I want to leave something behind me that’ll make her think: ‘If he’d lived a little longer he’d have pulled it off’.”

“If you left a gallery of masterpieces it wouldn’t help her much.”

His face clouded, and he looked at me wistfully. “What the devil else can I do?”

“Go to Switzerland, and let yourself be bored there for a whole winter. Then you can come back and paint, and enjoy your success instead of having the enjoyment done for you by your heirs.”

“Oh, what a large order—” he sighed, and drew out his cigarettes.

For a moment we were both silent; then he raised his eyes and looked straight at me. “Supposing I don’t get well, there’s another thing ...” He hesitated a moment. “Do you happen to know if my mother has made her will?”

I imagine my look must have surprised him, for he hurried on: “It’s only this: if I should drop out—you can never tell—there are Chrissy and Boy, poor helpless devils. I can’t forget what they’ve been to me ... done for me ... though sometimes I daresay I seem ungrateful....”

I listened to his embarrassed phrases with an embarrassment at least as great. “You may be sure your mother won’t forget either,” I said.

“No; I suppose not. Of course not. Only sometimes—you can see for yourself that things are a little breezy ... They feel that perhaps she doesn’t always remember for how many years ...” He brought the words out as though he were reciting a lesson. “I can’t forget it ... of course,” he added, painfully.

I glanced at my watch and stood up. I wanted to spare him the evident effort of going on. “Mr. and Mrs. Brown’s tastes don’t always agree with your mother’s. That’s evident. If you could persuade them to go off somewhere—or to lead more independent lives when they’re with her—mightn’t that help?”

He cast a despairing glance at me. “Lord—I wish you’d try! But you see they’re anxious—anxious about their future....”

“I’m sure they needn’t be,” I answered shortly, more and more impatient to make an end.

His face lit up with a suddenness that hurt me. “Oh, well ... it’s sure to be all right if you say so. Of course you know.”

“I know your mother,” I said, holding out my hand for goodbye.