Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 20 (9 page)

 
          
I
never told Louis all the incidents of that first sitting, but began my story
where the real interest ended; and Miss Eure was equally silent, through
forgetfulness or for some good reason of her own. I went sev eral times again,
‘vet though the conservatory door stood open I felt no ill effects from the
Indian plants that still bloomed there, dreamed no more dreams, and Miss Eure
no more enacted the somnambulist. I found an indefinable charm in that pleasant
room, a curious interest in studying its mistress, who always met me with a
smile, and parted with a look of unfeigned regret. Louis rallied me upon my
absorption, but it caused me no uneasiness, for it was not love that led me there,
and Miss Eure knew it. I never had forgotten our conversation on that first
night, and with every interview the truth of my friend’s suspicions grew more
and more apparent to me. Agatha Eure was a strong-willed, imperious woman, used
to command all about her and see her last wish gratified; but now she was
conscious of a presence she could not command, a wish she dare not utter, and,
though her womanlv pride sealed her lips, her eyes often traitorously betrayed
the longing of her heart. She was sincere in her love for art, and behind that
interest in that concealed, even from herself, her love for the artist; but the
most indomitable passion given humanitv cannot long be hidden. Agatha soon felt
her weakness, and vainly struggled to subdue it. I soon knew my power, and
owned its subtle charm, though I disdained to use it.

 
          
The
picture was finished, exhibited and won me all, and more than I had dared to
hope; for rumor served me a good turn, and whispers of Miss Eure’s part in mv
success added zest to public curiosity and warmth to public praise. I enjoyed
the little stir it caused, found admiration a sweet draught after a laborious
year, and felt real gratitude to the woman who had helped me win it. If my work
had proved a failure I should have forgotten her, and been
an
humbler, happier man; it did not, and she became a part of my success. Her name
was often spoken in the same breath with mine, her image was kept before me bv
no exertion of mv own, till the memories it brought with it grew familiar as old
friends, and slowly ripened into a purpose which, being born of ambition and
not love, bore bitter fruit, and wrought out its own retribution for a sin
against myself and her.

           
 
The Painting Finished

 
          
The
more I won the more I demanded, the higher I climbed the more eager I became;
and, at last, seeing how much I could gain by a single step, resolved to take
it, even though I knew it to be a false one. Other men married for the
furtherance of their ambitions, why should not I? Years ago I had given up love
of home for love of fame, and the woman who might have made me what I should be
had meekly yielded all, wished me a happv future, and faded from my world,
leaving me only a bitter memory, a veiled picture and a quiet grave my feet
never visited but once. Miss Eure loved me, sympathised in my aims, understood
my tastes; she could give all I asked to complete the purpose of mv life, and
lift me at once and for ever from the hard lot I had struggled with for thirty
years. One word would win the miracle, whv should
1
hesitate to utter
it?

 
          
I
did not long — for three months from the day I first entered that shadowy room
I stood there intent on asking her to be mv wife. As I waited I lived again the
strange hour once passed there, and felt as if it had been the beginning of
another dream whose awakening was vet to come. I asked myself if the hard
healthful reality was not better than such feverish visions, however brilliant,
and the voice that is never silent when we interrogate it with sincerity answered,
“Yes.” “No matter, I choose to dream, so let the phantom of a wife come to me
here as the phantom of a lover came to me so long ago.” As I uttered these
defiant words aloud, like a visible reply, Agatha appeared upon the threshold
of the door. I knew she had heard me — for again 1 saw’ the soft-eyed, tender
girl, and opened my arms to her without a word. She came at once, and clinging
to me with unwonted tears upon her cheek, unwonted fervor in her voice, touched
my forehead, as she had done in that earlier dream, whispering like one still
doubtful of her happiness —

 
          
“Oh,
Max!
be
kind to me, for in all the world I have only
you to love.”

 
          
I
promised, and broke that promise in less than a year.

 
          
We
were married quietly, went away till the nine days gossip was over, spent our
honeymoon as that absurd month is usually spent, and came back to town with the
first autumnal frosts; Agatha regretting that I was no longer entirely her own,
I secretly thanking heaven that I mjght drop the lover, and begin my work
again, for I was as an imprisoned creature in that atmosphere of “love in
idleness,” though my bonds were only a pair of loving arms. Madame Snow and son
departed, we settled ourselves in the fine house and then endowed with every
worldly blessing, I looked about me, believing myself master of my fate, but
found I was its slave.

 
          
If
Agatha could have joined me in my work we might have been happy; if she could
have solaced herself with other pleasures and left me to my own, we might have
been content; if she had loved me less, we might have gone our separate ways,
and yet been friends like many another pair; but I soon found that her
affection was of that exacting nature which promises but little peace unless
met by one as warm. I had nothing but regard to give her, for it was not in her
power to stir a deeper passion in me; I told her this before our marriage, told
her I was a cold, hard man, wrapt in a single purpose; but what woman believes
such confessions while her heart still beats fast with the memory of her
betrothal? She said everything was possible to love, and prophesied a speedy
change; I knew it would not come, but having given my warning left the rest to
time. I hoped to lead a quiet life and prove that adverse circumstances, not
the want of power, had kept me from excelling in the profession I had chosen;
but to my infinite discomfort Agatha turned jealous of my art, for finding the
mistress dearer than the wife, she tried to wean me from it, and seemed to feel
that having given me love, wealth and ease, I should ask no more, but play the
obedient subject to a generous queen. I rebelled against this, told her that
one-half my time should be hers, the other belonged to me, and I would so
employ it that it should bring honor to the name I had given her. But, Agatha
was not used to seeing her will thwarted or her pleasure sacrificed to another,
and soon felt that though I scrupulously fulfilled my promise, the one task was
irksome, the other all absorbing; that though she had her husband at her side
his heart was in his studio, and the hours spent with her were often the most
listless in his day. Then began that sorrowful experience old as Adam’s
reproaches to Eve; we both did wrong, and neither repented;
both
were
self-willed, sharp tongued and proud, and before six months of
wedded life had passed we had known many of those scenes which so belittle
character and lessen self-respect.

 
          
Agatha’s
love lived through all, and had I answered its appeals by patience, self-denial
and genial friendship, if no warmer tie could exist, I might have spared her an
early death, and myself from years of bitterest remorse; but I did not. Then
her forbearance ended and mv subtle punishment began.

 
          
“Away again to-night, Max?
You have been shut up all
dav
, and I hoped to have you to myself this evening. Hear
how the storm rages without, see how cheery I have made all within for you, so
put your hat away and stay, for this hour belongs to me, and I claim it.”

 
          
Agatha
took me prisoner as she spoke, and pointed to the cosy nest she had prepared
for me. The room was bright and still; the lamp shone clear; the fire glowed;
warm-hued curtains muffled the war of gust and sleet without; books, music, a
wide-armed seat and a woman’s wistful face invited me; but none of these things
could satisfy me just then, and though I drew my wife nearer, smoothed her
shining hair, and kissed the reproachful lips, I did not vield.

 
          
“You
must let me go, Agatha, for the great German artist is here, I had rather give
a year of life than miss this meeting with him. I have devoted many evenings to
you, and though this hour is yours I shall venture to take it, and offer you a
morning call instead. Here are novels, new songs, an instrument, embroidery and
a dog, who can never offend by moody silence or unpalatable conversation — what
more can a contented woman ask, surely not an absent- minded husband?”

 
          
“Yes,
just that and nothing more, for she loves him, and he can supply a want that
none of these things can. See how pretty I have tried to make myself for you
alone; stay, Max, and make me happy.”

 
          
“Dear,
I shall find my pretty wife to-morrow, but the great painter will be gone; let
me go, Agatha, and make me happy.”

 
          
She
drew herself from my arm, saying with a flash of the eye — “Max, you are a
tyrant!”

 
          
“Am
I?
then
you made me so with too much devotion.”

 
          
“Ah,
if you loved me as I loved there would be no selfishness on your part, no
reproaches on mine. What shall I do to make myself dearer, Max?”

 
          
“Give
me more liberty.”

 
          
“Then
I should lose you entirely, and lead the life of a widow. Oh, Max, this is
hard, this is bitter, to give all and receive nothing in return.”

 
          
She
spoke passionately, and the truth of her reproach stung me, for I answered with
that coldness that always wounded her:

 
          
“Do
you count an honest name, sincere regard and much gratitude as nothing? I have
given you these, and ask only peace and freedom in return. I desire to do
justice to you and to mvself, but I am not like you, never can be, and vou must
not hope it. You say love is all-powerful, prove it upon me, I am willing to be
the fondest of husbands if I can; teach me, win me in spite of myself, and make
me what you will; but leave me a little time to live and labor for that which
is dearer to me than your faulty lord and master can ever be to you.”

 
          
“Shall
I do this?” and her face kindled as she put the question. “Yes, here is an
amusement for you, use w hat arts you will, make your love irresistible, soften
mv hard nature, convert me into vour shadow, suhdue me till I come at your call
like a pet dog, and when you make vour presence more powerful than painting I
will own that you have won your will and made your theory good.”

 
          
I
was smiling as I spoke, for the twelve labors of I Icrcules seemed less impossible
than this, but Agatha watched me with her glittering eyes; and answered slowly
—

 
          
“I
will do it. Now go, and enjoy your liberty while you mav, but remember when I
have conquered that you dared me to it, and keep your part of the compact.
Promise this.” She offered me her hand with a strange expression — I took it,
said good-night, and hurried away, still smiling at the curious challenge given
and accepted.

The Domestic Feud Culminates

           
 
 
          
Agatha
told me to enjoy my liberty, and I tried to do so that very night, but failed
most signally, for I had not been an hour in the brilliant company gathered to
meet the celebrated guest before I found it impossible to banish the thought of
my solitary wife. I had left her often, yet never felt disturbed by more than a
passing twinge of that uncomfortable bosom friend called conscience; but now
the interest of the hour seemed lessened by regret, for through varying
conversation held with those about me, mingling with the fine music that I
heard, looking at me from every woman’s face, and thrusting itself into my mind
at every turn, came a vague, disturbing self-reproach, which slowly deepened to
a strong anxiety. My attention wandered, words seemed to desert me, fancy to be
frostbound, and even in the presence of the great man I had so ardently desired
to see I could neither enjoy his society nor play my own part well. More than
once I found myself listening for Agatha’s voice; more than once I looked
behind me expecting^to see her figure, and more than once I resolved to go,
with no desire to meet her.

 
          
“It
is an acute fit of what women call nervousness; I will not yield to it,” I
thought, and plunged into the gayest group I saw, supped, talked, sang a song,
and broke down; told a witty story, and spoiled it; laughed and tried to bear
myself like the lightest-hearted guest in the rooms; but it would not do, for
stronger and stronger grew the strange longing to go home, and soon it became
uncontrollable. A foreboding fear that something had happened oppressed
me,
and suddenly leaving the festival at its height I drove
home as if life and death depended on the saving of a second. Like one pursuing
or pursued I rode, eager only to be there; yet when I stood on my own threshold
I asked myself wonderingly, “Why such haste?” and stole in ashamed at my early
return. The storm beat without, but within all was serene and still, and with
noiseless steps I went up to the room where I had left my wife, pausing a
moment at the half open door to collect myself, lest she should see the
disorder of both mind and mien. Looking in I saw her sitting with neither book
nor work beside her, and after a momentary glance began to think my anxiety had
not been causeless, for she sat erect and motionless as an in animate figure of
intense thought; her eyes were fixed, face colorless, w it h an expression of
iron determination, as if even energy of mind and body w ere w rought up to the
achievement of a single purpose. There was something in the rigid attitude and
stern aspect of this familiar shape that filled me w ith dismay, and found vent
in the abrupt exclamation,

 
          
“Agatha,
what is it?”

 
          
She
sprang up like a steel spring w hen the pressure is removed, saw me, and struck
her hands together w ith a wild gesture of surprise, alarm or pleasure, which I
could not tell, for in the act she dropped into her seat white and breathless
as if smitten with sudden death. Unspeakably shocked, I bestirred myself till
she
recovered,
and though pale and spent, as if with
some past exertion, soon seemed quite herself again.

 
          
“Agatha,
what were you thinking of w hen I came in?” I asked, as she sat leaning against
me with half closed eyes and a faint smile on her lips, as if the unwonted
caresses I bestowed upon her were more soothing than any cordial I could give.
Without stirring she replied,

 
          
“Of you, Max.
I was longing for you, with heart and soul and
\v ill. Y bu told me to win you in spite of yourself; and 1 was sending my love
to find and bring you home. Did it reach you?
did
it
lead you back and make you glad to come?”

 
          
A
peculiar chill ran through me as I listened, though her voice was quieter, her
manner gentler than usual as she spoke. She seemed to have such faith in her
tender fancy, such assurance of its efficacy, and such a near approach to
certain knowledge of its success, that I disliked the thought of continuing the
topic, and answered cheerfully,

 
          
“My
own conscience brought me home, dear; for, discovering that I had left my peace
of mind behind me, I came back to find it. If your task is to cost a scene like
this it w ill do more harm than good to both of us, so keep your love from such
uncanny wanderings through time and space, and win me with less dangerous
arts.”

 
          
She
smiled her strange smile, folded my hand in her ow n, and answered, with soft
exultation in her voice, “It will not happen so again, Max; but I am glad, most
glad you came, for it proves I have some power over this wayward heart of
yours, where I shall knock until it opens wide and takes me in.”