The Goddess Abides: A Novel (3 page)

“Do you remember,” he had written, “do you remember what I said about happiness? One happiness has passed, but hold yourself ready for the next, whatever it is. If you do not see it on the horizon, then you must create it where you are. So long as you live you may find happiness if you search for it, or create it for yourself. Perhaps the search itself is happiness.”

It had been a long letter, speaking only of herself and the future, of life and not of death. Yet he, too, had known death, ho reminded her, for Eloise, his wife, had died many years before. Now he lived alone in their house in the country, which had been their summer home, and he was writing books.

She had replied with a sad short letter, merely saying that his had been the most comforting words she had received, “but there is no happiness on the horizon,” she had told him, “and I find no creative spark within me.”

Then he had sent her a telegram, inviting her to visit him, and she had gone, only to find him the center of a houseful of grown children and grandchildren, temporary visitors, and among whom she had sat as a guest, vaguely welcome, but of no importance. It was he who had made her important, singling her out as his companion, to remain at his side when the others went off on jaunts together. Alone in the vast sprawling family house, he had talked and she had listened. He was writing a book on immortality, and he talked of what he wrote. She had listened with concentrated interest, for Arnold had not believed in life beyond death. In the midst of her anguish as he lay dying, she had admired his firm courage.

“I am very near the end,” he had told her. “And it is the end, my dear. There remains only my gratitude—to you. For your infinite variety—my thanks!”

Those were his last coherent words, for he had been overcome with pain, and in a daze of agony had died a few hours later. On her first night alone in the great house in Philadelphia which was now hers only, she had pondered his words. Was it true, could it be true, that nothing of him remained except the body buried in the churchyard where his ancestors lay? She had puzzled her way among such thoughts, unable to reach conclusion, equally unwilling to believe he was right, and yet compelled to fear that he was. She had no proof of immortality, but then he had had no proof against it, either. In this frame of mind she had been willing, and indeed eager, to hear what Edwin had to say.

“We human beings are the only creatures who are able to think of our own end, without doubt or faith.”

He had made this as a statement one day on her first visit. They sat on the terrace overlooking the distant mountains, and the housekeeper had brought them tea and small cakes and, setting the tray on the table between them, had gone away again. Alone with him, she had dared to disagree with him. Over her teacup she had shaken her head.

“You disagree?” he had asked, surprised.

“Even animals know their end and fear it,” she had replied. “See how wildly they try to escape death! They may not be able to reason or think, but they fight death. Have you ever seen a rabbit in the clutch of a dog’s jaws? Until its last breath it struggles against death. A fish, drawn out of water, will straggle to live. Animals fear death and if they fear, they know.”

He had listened, surprised and pleased. “Good thinking,” he had replied, “but don’t confuse instinct with consciousness.”

She had pondered this and then had inquired, “What is the difference between animal and human being?”

“Consciousness of self,” he had said. “A human being declares himself because he knows his own being. Animals? No. They don’t separate themselves from the cosmos.”

They had come strangely close even on that first visit and, as time passed, had grown into mutual dependence each upon the other, although she recognized that what she felt for him was not love, only closeness. On his part it was frankly love, an old man’s love, the nature of which was not close to her. Whatever it was, love was sweet, and she clung to its persistence. He was wiser than she, and this, too, was sweet. She had never leaned on anyone, for Arnold, she had discerned early, would never be able to know her altogether. They were compatible, but she was the knowing one.

Edwin’s voice recalled her. “Are you still there, Edith?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” she replied quickly.

“Then you haven’t been listening!”

“Not quite,” she confessed.

“You’ve been dreaming!”

“Only thinking—about you and me.”

“Ah, then, I forgive you. And thank you! It’s not good for me to suffer jealousy, you know—at my age.”

“You needn’t. Now go back to your work, dear.”

She put up the receiver, turned to face the day, a bright sunlit day, the white slopes gay with darting figures, and she wasted it wantonly. A multitude of small tasks waited, a silver bowl to be polished and filled with fruit, a trip to the village store which she postponed so that she could sit by the window and gaze again at the mountainside, imagining which of the flying dots of color could be that of Jared Barnow. She had never known anyone named Jared and the strange name added to his attraction. Something new, someone new, had entered her house last night.

…When the sun had set and shadows crept over the mountain, leaving only the peak rose-red against the sky, she busied herself with the evening meal. For two? Or only herself? She would not set the table until she knew. Meanwhile she would prepare enough food—two small steaks, the larger one for him. Then suddenly she heard his footsteps, stamping off the snow, and he opened the door without knocking.

“I’m back,” he said.

“I was expecting you.”

She went toward him as she spoke and to her surprise and somewhat to her horror, she felt an impulse to put her arms about him. She restrained herself. To what absurdities could loneliness reduce her! She must be on guard. A new experience, this impulse, for until now she had only to be on guard against others, her own fastidiousness—coldness, Arnold had sometimes called it, when he was angry with her—until now had been her weapon. In her own being she had known she was not cold, withdrawn perhaps into a space which she had never shared with anyone, an inner space.

“I’m back, as you see,” he repeated.

“No luck in finding a room?”

“I didn’t try,” he said, unlacing his boots.

“I’m rather glad,” she said. “It makes me feel a part of life on the mountain.”

“You’ve never skied?”

“Oh, yes, I loved it when I was young.”

“It’s not too late, you know.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“Nonsense! You look—about twenty-five, say!”

She laughed. “Add ten years and then another seven. I’m forty-two!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Never mention it again,” he commanded. He rose and went toward the door to the guest room. “I’ll just wash up a bit, brush my hair—”

“Everything is ready,” she said.

He paused. “You expected me?”

“I hoped.”

They exchanged a look and he went into the room and closed the door. And she stood, uncertain. Should she change her dark green wool suit? But if she did, would he suspect her of some absurd coquetry? She decided not to change and was glad, half an hour later, for he sat down and began eating with self-assurance and in a silence that was almost ingratitude, she thought. He was only young, she decided, watching him—young and very hungry. It would be absurd to change into her long red dress—or the black one trimmed in silver, merely for this greedy boy.

“How long are you staying on the mountain?” she asked at last, to break the silence. No, she was ready for him to leave, her pride wounded, remembering the foolish impulse she had resisted.

“I must go back tomorrow,” he said. “I have a job in a laboratory. Well, it’s more than that. It’s an opportunity—a chance at last to invent, to discover—do something on my own, perhaps—Brinstead Electronics.”

“A fine firm,” she said.

“You know it?”

“My father was a sort of consultant.”

“I wish I’d known him!”

“He died long before you were old enough to know him.”

The words stung her heart with a sudden wounding of her selfhood. When he had been born she was already out of childhood, a girl quarreling with her patient mother over the length—or shortness—of skirts and defending her right to come home after midnight when she was out with Arnold.

“The whole world knew him,” he was saying.

“I suppose so.”

Why was it difficult to talk? She felt depressed and apart, almost hostile to him because he was so young. Yet last night the conversation had flowed between them, easily and with understanding. She lifted her head involuntarily and realized that she had done so because he was staring at her, his eyes very dark under his brows. When their eyes met he spoke abruptly.

“I like you. Not just because you’re beautiful, either. I’m used to that sort of thing. The girl I’m going with is pretty enough. But you have something—”

He broke off and she made herself laugh.

“Age—that’s all!”

He did not reply with laughter. Instead he spoke almost with irritation. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about age! I’m ashamed of being—foolishly young. I’ve always been too young for what I wanted to do—too young to go to college, too young for a job. I ran away when I was fifteen, just to pass the time until I was older. I finished college too young. I’ve always done everything too young.”

“Where did you run?”

“I traveled—loafed would be better—around the world for two years.”

“So now you’re—”

“Twenty-four.”

She stabbed herself again. “Tell me about your girl.”

He frowned and turned his head toward the window. Over the rim of the mountain a slim new moon hung suspended, a decoration in the sky.

“She’s not my girl exactly,” he replied, still irritably.

“Why not?”

He pushed his plate aside, rose and went to the window. There he stood gazing at the shadowed mountain and the hanging moon.

“I’m in a strange situation,” he said.

“Yes?” Her voice invited.

“I’m always too young for what I want to do, but I’m too old for—for girls.”

A moment of silence hung between them, as tenuous, as quivering, as the new moon, glimmering in the clouds now drifting above the mountain.

“I don’t quite know what you mean,” she said at last, her voice gentle.

“I don’t, either,” he said abruptly and came back to the table and sat down. “More coffee, please. What’s your name, by the way? Your first name—”

“Edith.”

“Edith,” he repeated. “Edith? I never knew anyone with that name. My mother had a silly name—Ariadne. Still, it’s rather sweet. As I said, I don’t remember her, but my uncle said she was a sweet person.”

“What happened to them?” she asked in the same gentle voice.

“They were killed in a motor accident when I was two. Yet I seem to remember someone like my mother, a soft pretty someone—but probably I don’t remember, really—just a dream, perhaps, or even pure imagination.”

“And there’s been no one to take her place?”

“No. My uncle never married. Didn’t I tell you? I suppose he has a mistress tucked away somewhere. We never discuss such matters.”

“No one has ever taken your mother’s place?”

“I’ve never looked for anyone. Mothers are irreplaceable, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, and then after a moment, “but the girl? Is she younger than you really?”

“Not so many years—but otherwise—” He shrugged slightly. “Yet she’s clever enough, intelligent, all that. But I’m too old for her. I’m too old for myself. I’m a burden even to myself.”

She laughed, “Oh, come now!”

He did not reply with laughter. “Yes, I am that. I’m interested in too many things, not people. So much I want to do! I’ve no time for—for marriage and so forth, and that’s what this girl wants.”

“Is she in love with you?”

“She says so.”

“And you?”

“I? When I’m with her, I’m normal enough to feel the stir, you know! But the old part of me knows better. ‘You’ll be bored with her.’ That’s what it tells me—am I mad?”

“No. Only wise.”

“I could do with less wisdom.”

“Don’t say that. It’s given to you as a tool for accomplishment.”

“Of what?”

“Of whatever it is that you want to accomplish.”

“To penetrate the secrets of the universe!”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes shining into hers, and she felt comforted, even elated, for some vague reason she did not wish to comprehend.

“I must leave early tomorrow morning,” he said abruptly, and as abruptly went to the piano and began to play.

Snow fell upon snow, in silence and chill. It began as he left the house the next morning, the sky gray and the mountain clouded in mist. Winter settled over the eastern coast. In Philadelphia, too, it was snowing, her radio had announced.

“I hate to leave this warm house,” he said.

He stood at the door, wrapped in his rough, outdoor coat, its cap falling back.

“You are leaving your skis in the cellar. That means you will be back,” she said.

“Yes, but I mean this morning.”

“This morning,” she echoed.

She could not tell him what she was thinking, what she always thought when snow was falling. Arnold, lying under the snow! Of course she was accustomed by now, if she was ever to be accustomed, that is, and why should it be the snow? In the spring she could contemplate his grave without agony, and in the autumn the bright leaves falling from a maple tree near his grave made the city churchyard almost cheerful. But the snow? The realization of his death, desolate and final, had come at the first snowfall and she was alone here in this house. She had stood at the wide window, biting the knuckles of her clenched right hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. O Arnold, you lying alone under the snow!

Something of that desolation fell upon her now. The house had been full today of this presence, young and strange, yet he was no longer a stranger to her, nor ever had been or could be. Something they shared, something more than music, but what? He had been very gay this morning, almost as though he were glad to go, until at this moment when he stood tall above her, and she saw a look in his eyes, startled and unbelieving.