Читать книгу The Spell - William Dana Orcutt - Страница 7

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By mutual consent, Miss Thayer and Armstrong decided not to mention the rather dramatic finale to their first excursion to the library. Inez experienced the deepest mortification, while Jack blamed himself severely that he had not watched his companion more carefully. If he had done this, he repeated to himself, he might easily have anticipated and avoided the unpleasant climax to an otherwise thoroughly enjoyable morning. Miss Thayer, however, would not listen to his apologies: he had accepted her as a comrade, and she had proved herself unequal to the test. Armstrong tried to reassure her, but his efforts were not eminently successful.

The whole affair, in spite of their disclaimers, made a considerable impression upon them both. Armstrong knew that it had not been weakness alone; for even his brief acquaintance with her told him that strength was a salient point in her character. She was impressionable—he realized that—but surely not to the extent of losing all control over herself. Was it—and Armstrong feared lest Inez should read his mind as the thought came to him—was it that same irresistible influence of those ancient spirits, coming out from the past to her as they had so many times to him, recognizing her as a reincarnation of themselves, and claiming her, even for that, brief moment of unconsciousness, as a part of what had gone before?

Inez pleaded a headache upon reaching the villa, and asked that her lunch be sent to her room; but it was long after Annetta had left the tray upon the table that she was able to taste, even sparingly, the tempting delicacies which were placed before her. What can be more searching than a woman’s self-examination? She had told Armstrong that she blamed herself for her weakness; so she did, but it was not wholly the weakness of losing consciousness. Who was this man, and what this influence which had so suddenly entered into her life and assumed such immediate control over her? She felt that she could resist either separately, but together they produced a power which she questioned her ability to oppose. And the strange part of it all was that no one was forcing it upon her. She knew perfectly well that she need never go to the library again unless she chose; but she knew equally well what her choice must inevitably be, if the opportunity were offered her.

Even as she recalled her experience, a thrill half of delight, half of apprehension, passed over her. What did it all mean? Armstrong compelled her respect, but it was ridiculous even to wonder whether or not the sentiments he inspired were of a more serious nature. The subjects in which he was interested appealed to her highest self and fascinated her, but beyond this what possible force could they possess to render her so immediately subservient to their demands? What was there about it all which made it seem so inexpressively delicious? And what of him, of this man above whose head the ancients had already placed the halo of their approval, who stood to her as the personification of ideal manhood?

These were some of the questions Inez Thayer asked herself that afternoon, wrestling within and striving honestly to decide her course; but even as she did so she found her thoughts again centering themselves upon Armstrong as she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be carried back to the experiences of the morning. She had no reasonable excuse to leave Florence, which instinctively she felt to be the safest thing to do; and, besides this, her spirit revolted at the thought that she could not meet the problem face to face and master it. She must do it, she would do it; and, having finally arrived at this determination, she came down, just before dinner, and joined her friends in the garden, where they were enjoying the soft close of the perfect Italian day.

“There you are!” Helen welcomed her with outstretched arms. “Is your headache better?”

“Yes, thank you,” Inez replied, forcing a smile; “the air was very close in the library, and then, too, I found so much to make me thoughtful.”

“Then you were not disappointed?” Emory asked.

“Disappointed? It was wonderful. You don’t know how much you all missed.”

“You look as if Jack had shown you some spooks,” remarked Eustis; “you are as white as one yourself.”

The color quickly returned to Inez’ face. “I am always like that when I have one of these wretched headaches,” she explained. “But, truly, I never had such a remarkable experience. I can quite understand Mr. Armstrong’s devotion. I never knew before how fascinating such learning really is.”

“Did he actually conjure up those old fellows and put them through their paces for you?” Emory asked.

Miss Thayer was in no mood for bantering. “It is not possible for you to understand without experiencing it yourself,” she said, quietly.

“Or even afterward, I suspect,” Bertha Sinclair added, slyly.

“I am so glad that you enjoyed it,” said Helen. “I couldn’t get much out of Jack, and I was afraid that you had passed a stupid morning and that the headache was the natural result.”

“I shall never forget it—never!” Inez murmured.

Helen regarded her attentively for a moment. “I had no idea it would make so strong an impression on you,” she said at length. “Now that it is over, you and Jack will both feel better satisfied.”

“You must see Cerini, Helen, and let him show you those wonderful books and explain everything, just as he did to us.”

“So I will, sometime,” Helen smiled. “Perhaps he could bring out my dormant possibilities.”

“It is time we dressed for dinner,” remarked Mary Sinclair, rising. “You and Inez are already en grande tenue, but the rest of us are shockingly unconventional.”

As the Sinclair girls hurried into the house, closely followed by the men, Helen leaned against the balustrade at the end of the bowling-green and watched the deepening color which touched alike the spires of Santa Croce and the turret of the Palazzo Vecchio, gleamed on the dome of the Cathedral and Giotto’s tower, and spread like wine over the placid surface of the Arno. Beyond the river rose the basilica of San Miniato, its ancient pediment sharply outlined against the sky. Helen’s thoughts wandered even farther away than her eyes. Inez watched her for several moments before slipping her arm about her waist.

“Oh, Inez!” Helen was startled for an instant. “Did you ever see such a wonderful spot as this?” she continued, recovering herself. “Some new beauty discloses itself uninvited hour by hour. Every time I come into the garden I find some lovely flower I never saw before, or meet some sweet odor which makes me shut my eyes and just draw it in with delight. Each time I look toward Florence the view is different, and each new view more beautiful than the last. Oh, Inez darling, is it an enchanted palace that Jack has brought me to, or is it just because I am so blissfully, supremely, foolishly happy?” Helen embraced her friend enthusiastically.

“Let us call it the enchanted palace, dear,” Inez answered as Helen released her, “and you the modern Circe, with power to make all about you as beautiful and as happy as the ancient Circe to cast malign influences.”

Helen laughed. “Why not take it further and say that the transformation of the ancient Circe is the final triumph of Uncle Peabody’s labors? Had his theories been in force among the friends of Ulysses, the fair lady could never have turned them into swine. But tell me, did you not find Jack a very different person from what you had expected after seeing him here at home?”

“I did, indeed,” assented Inez, soberly.

“Is he not simply splendid?” Helen’s face beamed with pride. “It was just as much of a surprise to me. Of course, I have always known that he was interested in all these things, but it has only been since we were married that I have realized how much he actually knows.—I wish I thought there was even the slightest chance of his being able to lead me up to his heights, he is so eager for it. I shall give him an opportunity to try his experiment, of course, but the trouble is that in spite of the interest and fascination which I do feel, his hobby always seems to me to be hemmed in with needless limitations. For my part, I don’t see why we can’t take the best these master spirits of the past can give us, just as Jack says, but without ourselves becoming a part of the past.—You see how absolutely hopeless I am. I wonder how in the world he ever came to be attracted to me.”

“You are the only one who wonders.”

“Oh, I know that my hair is not red, and that I don’t squint, and all that, but Jack is so fascinated by everything scholarly that I don’t see why he didn’t select an intellectual wife. Why, I don’t even wear glasses!”

Inez smiled at the picture Helen drew. “The rest of us girls understand why he made just the selection he did, Helen.”

“I never wanted to be intellectual before. Until now I have always considered the caricatures of the Boston Browning woman as typical of the highly educated species; but you are showing me that a girl can be human and intellectual at the same time.”

“I wish I could show you that you make too much of a mountain out of this intellectual bugbear,” Inez replied, candidly. “Your husband is a very unusual man. His interest in the humanities is beyond anything one can appreciate without seeing him as I saw him this morning. He longs to take you with him into this life, and if I were in your place I should let him be the one to discover my lack of understanding, if I really did lack it, instead of insisting upon it as a foregone conclusion. For myself, I don’t take much stock in it. I remember too well how quick a certain Miss Cartwright was at school to grasp new ideas, and I have not noticed any serious retrogression since.”

Helen pondered carefully over her friend’s criticism before replying. “I suppose it does seem like obstinacy,” she said, finally—“to him as well as to you; yet to myself it appears perfectly consistent. The one thing which gives me an idea of the extent of his devotion is my music. You know how I adore it, how much a part of my life it has always been—yet it means nothing to Jack, and he therefore takes no particular interest in it. He went to the Symphonies and the Opera with me while we were engaged, and to concerts and recitals, but I knew all the time that it was just to please me. I made up my mind that when we were married I would keep up my interest in this ‘devotion’ of mine only as much as I could without having it interfere with those things which he cared for or which we could enjoy together. But the fact that music means less to him than it means to me does not make me love him any the less.”

“But you don’t enter into this particular interest of his, even to please him, as he did to please you.”

“Because I appreciate from the experience I have just mentioned how little real satisfaction it would give either one of us. Looking back, I feel that I was positively selfish to let him go to those concerts with me, and I shall never inflict them on him again. I am sure that he knows how I feel, and I think he ought to be grateful for my consideration.”

Inez pressed Helen’s hand. “You ought to know best, dear,” she answered. “You both possess such wonderful possibilities that it would be a shame not to combine them. It seems to me that you might come to an appreciation of each other’s interests by becoming familiar with them.—I wonder if you realize what a man your husband is?”

Helen leaned over and kissed her impulsively. “I realize more than I ever intend to let him know, dear child. He would become unbearably conceited were he even to guess how much he has already become to me. I really did not want to marry him—or to marry any one—but he swept away every objection, just as he always does, and now I find myself wondering how in the world I ever existed without him. Oh, Inez”—Helen’s face became tense in her earnestness—“we girls think we know a whole lot about marriage. We anticipate it—we dread it; but, when one actually enters into her new estate, she knows how infinitely more it is to be anticipated, if happy, than her fondest dream. But if unhappy—then her dread must have been infinitesimal compared with the reality.”

“‘Marriage is either a complete union or a complete isolation,’” quoted Inez.

“As I tell you, Jack and I understand each other perfectly,” Helen continued, confidently, “and that means so much to a girl. One of the first things I told him, after we became engaged, was that if our affection stood for anything it must stand for everything. If at any time while we were engaged, or even after we were married, he felt that he had made a mistake in thinking me the one woman in the world for him, he was to come to me frankly and say so, and together we would plan how best to meet the situation. Suppose, for instance, that Jack met some one whom he really loved better than me. It would be an awful experience, but how much less of a tragedy to recognize the fact than to live on, a hollow, miserable existence, such as we see in so many instances around us.”

“And he has not confessed to you yet?”

“Not yet,” Helen laughed, “and we shall have been married six weeks to-morrow. That is a pretty good start, is it not?”

“But how about yourself—have you the same privilege?”

“Of course; but that is not important, for I shall never see any one fit to ride in the same automobile with Jack.”

“What did you say about my automobile? Has it arrived?”

Armstrong’s face was filled with eager expectation as he came up behind Helen, followed by Uncle Peabody. He drew her affectionately toward him.

“You wretch!” cried Helen, “you have been eavesdropping.”

“Not an eavesdrop,” protested Jack, “and I can prove it by a witness. When I came down-stairs I looked for my beloved spouse upon the terrace and found her not. The gentle Annetta confided to me that you and the Signorina Thayer were in the garden; I set out upon my quest and found you here discussing my automobile or some one else’s. Again I ask you, have you news of its arrival?”

“No, Jack—no news as yet; and you make out so good a case that I must absolve you. Since you insist on knowing, we were discussing the very prosaic subject of matrimony.”

“Why discourage Miss Thayer from making the attempt simply because of your own sad case?” Armstrong queried, releasing his wife and seating himself beside her on the edge of the balustrade. “Marriage is a lottery—so saith the philosopher. We all know the preponderance of blanks and small prizes, yet each one feels certain that he will be the lucky one. Once in a while a chap pulls out the capital prize, and that encourages the others, though it ought to discourage them, because it lessens the chances just so much. But what I object to is the growling afterward, when each should realize that he is getting exactly what he ought to have expected.”

“But it is not fair that both you and Helen should have drawn the lucky numbers,” Inez declared. “It makes it so hopeless for the rest of us.”

“There, Sir Fisher,” cried Helen, “you have gained the compliment for which you strove. Art satisfied?”

“No one has drawn me yet,” suggested Uncle Peabody, “and I am a capital prize—I admit it.”

“It is a shame to throw cold water on Miss Thayer’s beautiful sentiment,” continued Armstrong. “Such thoughts are so rare that they should be encouraged; but the facts of the case are that the capital prizes in the men’s lottery were discontinued long ago. No—among the girls they are still to be won at rare intervals, but the only way to distinguish the men is by looking up their rating in Bradstreet’s, or their mother’s family name in the Social Register. Other than this, one man is as bad as another, if not worse.”

Inez looked at Armstrong for a moment with a puzzled expression, but failed to find any suggestion that he was speaking lightly. And yet—what a change in attitude from the morning! She hesitated to turn the subject upon what seemed to her to be forbidden ground, yet she could not resist opposing his expressions, even though they might be uttered flippantly. Her voice contained a reproach.

“You spoke differently of men this morning.”

Armstrong turned to her quickly. “This morning?” he repeated. “Oh, but I was referring to the humanists, and to ancient ones at that. I am talking now of men in general, rather than of those rare exceptions, ancient or modern, who have succeeded in separating themselves from their commonplace contemporaries. Of course, my respect for the old-timers is supreme, because their great accomplishments were in the face of so much greater obstacles. Since then the world has had five hundred years in which to degenerate.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Inez,” Helen interrupted, complacently. “He is simply trying to start an argument, and he does not believe a word he says. He really looks upon men as infinitely superior beings in the past, present, and future, and this self-abnegation on the part of himself and his sex is only a passing conceit.”

“I refuse to be side-tracked,” Armstrong insisted. “I grant that the conversation started more in jest than in earnest, but I maintain my position, none the less. Modern civilization has brought to us a wonderful material development, but intellectual advance, instead of keeping abreast of the material, has positively retrograded.”

“You really make me feel ashamed to be living in such an abominable age,” suggested Uncle Peabody.

Inez was serious. “I am quite incompetent to carry on this discussion with you, Mr. Armstrong,” she said, disregarding the others, “and I admire, as you know, the marvellous accomplishments of these ‘old-timers,’ as you call them, wondering at their power to overcome the obstacles which we know existed. Yet I like to believe that the ages which have passed have marked an advance on all sides rather than a retrogression.”

“So should I like to,” assented Armstrong, “if I could; but look at the facts. William James has just succeeded in making philosophy popular, but Plato and Aristotle gave it to us before the birth of Christ. We enthuse over Shakespeare and Dante and Milton, but Homer and Virgil gave us the grandest of poetry two thousand years ago. The quattrocento, that period which so fires me with enthusiasm, gave us Raphael as an artist, together with Leonardo and Michelangelo as the foremost examples of humanists. Whom have we had since to equal them?”

“All this is beyond argument,” Inez admitted. “But is this the fault of the men or of the times? Conditions are so changed that the same kind of work can never be done again. The telephone, the telegraph, railroad trains, fast steamships, the daily papers—everything distracts the modern worker from devoting himself wholly and absolutely to his single purpose; but with this distraction is it not also true that the modern worker gives to the world what the world really needs most under the present conditions? In other words, would not these same great men, if set down in the twentieth century, produce work very similar to what modern great men have given and are giving us?”

“I should be sorry enough to think so,” affirmed Jack. “What a pity it would be!”

Uncle Peabody’s mood had changed from amusement to interest. “If I really thought you were sincere in the attitude you take,” he said, addressing Armstrong, “I could prescribe no better cure for your complaint than to force you to subject yourself, for one single week, to those same conditions which you seem to admire so much.”

“If you refer to conveniences, Mr. Cartwright,” interrupted Armstrong, “I will admit without argument that you are right. These are wholly the result of material development.”

“Let us confine ourselves to intellectual achievements if you choose,” continued Uncle Peabody. “Without an intellect, could one harness steam and electricity and make them obedient to the human will? Is not a wireless message an echo from the brain? What is the telephone if not a product of thought?”

“You and Miss Thayer are arguing my case far better than I can do it myself,” replied Armstrong, undisturbed. “The triumphs of Watt and Edison and Marconi and Bell are all intellectual, even though utilitarian. Each of these men has proved himself humanistic, in that he has given to the world the best that is in him, and not simply modified or readapted some previous achievement. If they were not limited by living in an age of specialization they might even have been humanists. Right here in Italy you see the same thing to-day. The Italians are beyond any other race intellectually fit to rule the world now as they once did, and it is simply because they have been unable to withstand materialism that they have not reclaimed their own.”

“Just what do you mean by ‘humanism,’ Jack?” Helen asked, abruptly.

“The final definition of modern humanism will not be written for several years,” Armstrong answered. “The world is not yet ready for it, and I am afraid Cerini’s creed of ancient humanism would strike you as being rather heavy.”

“Let me see if I could comprehend it.” Helen looked across to Inez, and the eyes of the two girls met with mutual understanding. “Can you repeat it?”

“I know it word for word,” her husband replied, eagerly, delighted to have Helen manifest an interest. “It was the first lesson the old man taught me, years ago. ‘The humanist,’ Cerini says, ‘is the man who not only knows intimately the ancients and is inspired by them: it is he who is so fascinated by their magic spell that he copies them, imitates them, rehearses their lessons, adopts their models and their methods, their examples and their gods, their spirit and their tongue.’”

Helen was visibly disappointed. “I thought I had an idea,” she said, slowly, “but I was wrong. Inez used the word ‘humanities’ a few moments ago, and I once heard President Eliot say that this was simply another name for a liberal education—teaching men to drink in the inspiration of all the ages and to seek to make their age the best.”

“You are not wrong, Helen,” continued Armstrong, “unless you understand President Eliot to mean that the ages which have come since these great men lived have been able to add particularly to what has gone before. All that is included in what Cerini says.”

“Then the present, which I love so well, means nothing?”

“It means a great deal.” Armstrong laughed at the injured tone of Helen’s voice. “The great material achievements of the present, which you just heard cited by Miss Thayer and Uncle Peabody, are of vast importance, but the age does not stand out as a period of intellectual progression. The achievements themselves, and the new conditions which they introduce, make that impossible.”

“Can we not admire the past and enjoy what it has given us without becoming a part of it ourselves?” persisted Helen.

“Not if we remain true to our ideals. I spoke just now of Leonardo and Michelangelo as being the foremost examples of humanists. By that I mean that they represent the highest point of intellectual manhood. Da Vinci was a great writer, a great painter, a great scientist, a great engineer, a great mechanician, while Buonarroti was famous not only as a sculptor, but also as a painter, an architect, and a poet. And these men had to develop their own precedent, while all who have striven for more than mediocrity since then have propped themselves up on the work of these and other great masters. Can you wonder that my own great ambition, quite impossible of accomplishment, is to emulate these men—not in the same pursuits, but in some way, in any way, which enables me to give to the world the best that is in me. Should I gratify myself in this, that which I accomplished would be done simply in the fulfilment of my effort, and I should gain my recompense in the knowledge that it was my best. This is my understanding of Cerini’s creed.”

“All this is most interesting,” admitted Helen. “It is indeed splendid to know the ancients intimately, and to receive their inspiration. It is fine to imitate them and to rehearse their lessons, but I don’t see why we should bind ourselves down to the old-time limitations by using their methods when, to my mind, our own methods are so much better suited to modern conditions?”

“Your position is fully justified, Helen, if you really believe these methods to be limitations,” replied Armstrong, seriously. “For my part, I do not feel this. I accept the Cerini creed without qualification. I grant you that many things of the past are limitations, but there are certain cardinal principles which must remain the same so long as the world lasts and which are not subject to what you call ‘modern conditions.’”

“To be wholly consistent, Jack,” pursued Uncle Peabody, “should you not adopt their tongue—as called for in the creed?”

“Not necessarily, as the ‘creed’ is, of course, idealistic; but the only reason I do not do so is because of the limitations which are placed upon us—this time by modern civilization. Cerini and I converse for hours together in the Latin tongue, but it is very seldom that I find the opportunity to do this. Why is it that Latin is used in medicine, in botany, in science, to give names to various specimens or species? Simply because French, German, Italian, English may be forgotten languages a few centuries hence, but Latin—the so-called dead language—will be as enduring then as now.”

“I can never hope to become as much of an enthusiast as you, Mr. Armstrong,” Inez said, finally, as the others gave up the argument in despair; “and I suppose you will never forgive me if I say that I fear it would be very uncomfortable for me if I did. You must simply let me browse around the edges as a neophyte while you and the master quaff the nectar and ambrosia of the gods.”

“And I cannot even do that,” added Helen, rising from the balustrade. “I cannot give up my dear present even to agree with my learned husband. You don’t want me to say that I am sorry I am living among all these imperfect conditions when I really find them very satisfactory and enjoyable? It is wrong of you so to break down my modern idols. There are our guests,” she continued, as a laughing group appeared on the veranda. “As penance I decree that you shall take each of us by the hand and lead us back to the villa—the Humanist flanked by the Pagan and the Christian. Arise, thou ancient one, and lead us on!”