The Age of Desire (37 page)

That night, she writes back to Morton. At first his letter felt like a great relief. Especially his hopeful mention of the lilac bower. But then the poisonous anxiety of so many days of silence boils up while she sits at dinner with Carl and Teddy chatting about cattle, and she feels more indignant than relieved. Joyous? He wishes her to be joyous? The absurdity of it makes her want to bang her head against the wall.

Having shed Carl’s clinging presence by telling Teddy that the two of them should take a walk along the ridge to see the best view of the sunset, she settles at her desk and begins:

At last, my dearest, your letter of the 21st . . . Que voulez vous que je vous dise?
[Already she is angry in French. Will she make it through this letter without screaming at him for his cruelty?]
Your silence of nineteen days seems to me a very conclusive, anticipated answer to my miserable cry! You didn’t wait to be asked what was “best”!

But don’t read a hint of reproach in this. I have spent three weeks of horrible sadness, because I feared from your silence that within ten days of our good-bye the very meaning of me had become a weariness. And I suffered—no matter how much—but I said to myself: “I chose the risk, I accept the consequences.” And that is what I shall always say.
[She must make him see he hasn’t fully destroyed her—although so many days he did, he has. . . . ]

Only, cher, one must be a little blind—or else a little relieved at the “reasonableness” of my attitude—to read in my note of the 11th anything but an appeal for frankness—a desperate desire to know, at once, and have the thing over.
[Could he have truly believed she meant “Don’t write”? Was he so insensitive to have believed her? Even poor oblivious Carl Snyder would have known better!]
Don’t be afraid! I can only reiterate it. Anything on earth would be better (I’ve learned that in these last three weeks) than to sit here and wonder: What was I to him, then? I assure you I’ve practiced my “Non dolet!”

She scolds him for wanting her to be joyous. She excoriates him for suggesting that not hearing from him or thinking about him would be better for her novel. If he were any other man, she would have dismissed him as a complete fool, a manipulator, a cad. But these words were from
Morton
. Her beloved.

It would be a great joy if you could send me a line once a week—only never, never under compulsion!—And, when your plans are settled—about coming to America,—if you were to tell me it would be kind. Even if you’re not coming, I should be rid of the ache of wondering. . . .

Dearest, I love you so deeply that you owe me just one thing—the truth. Never be afraid to say: “Ma pauvre amie, c’est fini.” That is what I meant when I said I couldn’t bear to watch the dwindling and fading. When the time comes, just put my notes and letters in a bundle and send them back, and I shall understand. I am like one who went out seeking for friendship, and found a kingdom. Don’t you suppose I know that the blessedness is all on my side?

That night, she expects to sleep well, but she’s miserable in her lonely bed, her pillow a mountain range, her sheets on fire. And then with no sheets, she shivers. With no pillow, her neck twitches and burns. But her physical wretchedness is the least of it. She struggles helplessly between sadness and fury. Feelings she has tamped down for weeks and weeks, now released like Pandora’s terrors, flying around her room, biting at her heart. Sighing and flailing, she finally gets up and sharply parts the drapes to look out over the valley. Clouds circle the moon, ever moving, crossing the nearly full orb, weakening its mighty beam. Down below, bathed in milky light, she sees Carl pacing the terrace in his robe. He must have awakened too. Or never slept. Does he suffer from longing as she does? For her. For
her
! She can hardly believe it. She wishes she could ease him, even imagines going down in her robe to talk to him. To hold him. To kiss him. But she doesn’t. Her heart is tied up like a hog headed for market. If only she could send Morton Fullerton to market instead! All summer she has hated her own husband, imagined him dead, for he stood between her and the one soul she’s loved more than any other. Now her anger is beaming across the Atlantic to that very soul, to the café where he sits at night with his books, his thick coffee. No, it’s already morning in Paris. He is walking to his office, his ebony mustache catching the sunlight, his eyes as blue as the cornflowers on china. His crisp, perfect clothes. His polished shoes. She wants to slap him. She wants to hold him. She wants to be near him. She wants to open her clothes again just once for him. Just once! She wants everything she can’t have. The pain is excruciating. Cracked ribs, torn muscles couldn’t hurt more. She once heard of a man in so much pain he scratched his very eyes out. She would. She could! Instead she cries, lets out a sound like a banshee into the silence. Teddy is drunk, won’t hear a thing. Carl is far downstairs. She cries and cries. Until, damp and weak, she tumbles at last into a dead sleep.

In the morning, she drags herself to breakfast. Carl is there, wan and quiet.

“I saw you last night,” she tells him. “Out on the terrace. Are you all right?”

“I’m going back today,” he says very quietly.

“Are you? I understood you were staying through the weekend.” He catches her eyes and stares at her, smiling weakly.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, his voice rising with hope.

She hesitates too long. This is how Morton must feel, she thinks. Trapped into a lie to ease my pain.

“I’m going,” he says. “You want me to go. I’ve been here too long.”

“I think you should go if you’re ready to go,” she tells him.

He nods and closes his eyes.

“If someone could take me to the train.”

“Of course.”

She sees the sorrow, the defeat in his eyes. He is as angry at himself as he is at her. For loving someone so unavailable to him. She understands that also . . . far more than he knows.

That afternoon after Carl has gone, a letter is delivered telling her that Walter will arrive at The Mount the following Friday on his way up to see his ailing mother before he leaves for Cairo, where he has been appointed a judge at the International Tribunal. Edith feels a sense of relief that could only be compared to letting out a breath after holding it until one’s lungs burn. The thought of laying her sadness in his large hands eases her immeasurably.

On the morning of Walter’s scheduled arrival, Teddy is preparing to go fishing for a week with a Peter Van Gelder, a New York friend who drives up in his own motorcar. It’s starting to rain, and, already in a nervous buzz, Teddy insists on packing too many accessories and jackets and three pairs of waders because he can’t decide which he likes best. When Teddy goes back into the house for more, Peter leans toward Edith.

“Edith, do tell me. Is he quite all right? He seems a bit
wild
.”

Edith steels herself. If Teddy doesn’t leave the house, she thinks she might go mad. She’s been looking forward to Teddy’s leaving almost as much as she’s been counting the days until Walter’s arrival.

“Nothing to worry about. He’s a bit overexcited lately. But not sad like he was in Paris.” She can see in Peter’s eyes that he’s weighing whether he should take Ted on the trip at all.

“You’ll have a wonderful time,” she reassures him. “You know how much Teddy loves nature! You’re doing the kindest thing by taking him.”

Teddy arrives back just in time to keep Peter from speculating further.

When they drive off, Edith stands in the rain waving gaily and feels alive for the first time in days. By afternoon the sun is not just out, but glistening, as Walter arrives in the wagon. His lanky body, which always strikes Edith as taller than she remembered, and his energetic certainty fill The Mount with a fresh sense of hope.

“My darling!” he declares, doffing his straw boater and enfolding her in his arms. “When I am with you, I feel at home.”

She loves his dry, exotic scent, no doubt bought years ago in Paris, his elegant clothes always so rich—today a beautiful white linen summer suit, velvety at the edge from too much washing. She wishes he would hold her in his arms for an hour. No one makes her feel more at peace than Walter!

In Hamburg, Thomas Schultze insists on staying for a few days to show Anna around, and he begs her to change her itinerary to accompany him to Essen to see his factories. But even after hours of walking together through the streets and over the canals of Hamburg, enjoying the musical theatre and dining in the cafés, she cannot imagine their shipboard friendship going further than it’s gone. She has never seen this turn in her life as an option and it confuses her. Why should Thomas, wealthy and smart, choose Anna of all women? Why should any man choose her? At her age. Her hair more white than golden . . . and still a maiden.

After a vibrant staging of
Die Brautwerbung,
they stop for a glass of wine in a small restaurant near her hotel. The room is dark and a sole violinist bows sad melodies that twist and lose themselves in the walls of dark velvet curtains.

“So will you come to Essen with me tomorrow?” he asks, leaning forward. “We could stay a month in Hamburg, there is so much to do! But I have
so
hoped you’ll let me show you Essen.”

His eyes are shimmering. He has a young spirit, she thinks. And he is good company. Not too domineering or opinionated, but with firm, clear views of the world. And a desire to know more about everything.

“I’m tempted, Mr. Schultze. But my cousins are waiting. And my time abroad is limited. I must go on with my trip.”

“You haven’t enjoyed Hamburg?”

“I have. Immensely.”

“And my company?”

“Even more.” She looks down at her hands.

“And you won’t, then, come on to Essen for a few days?”

“I . . .”

“Look at me, Anna.” He has never called her by her first name before. His deep, thoughtful voice reaches her very depths.

She looks up to see his face in the candlelight.

“Why won’t you change your plans?” he asks. “I was hoping you could meet my daughters, get a taste of my life . . . see my factories.”

“My cousins are waiting for me to arrive. . . . I’ve looked forward to my trip for so long, you see, and I have so little time to take in what I’ve planned.”