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Other documents randomly have
different content
 Tom was haggard in the sunlight. His eyes were hot and rimmed in
shadows.
He nodded. “Of course, Davie,” he said. “Go now, if you want to. I shall
be glad to keep the place.”
The two friends looked at each other. David wanted to take Tom’s hand:
he wanted to cry. Tom stood there, stiff, graceless for once, and did not help
him....
Thus easy it had come like leaves on the tree in Spring; like Sun out of
the mists of dawn. David thought very little about it.
He went on going to see Helen. He took his trunk and his books and his
violin and moved them into an ample furnished room on the West Side. He
was to have a bathroom of his own. He would be comfortably fitted out.
On the last day, he held out his hand. He said:
“My trunk will be called for to-day, Tom. I have taken a room.” He gave
Tom the address which he had written on a piece of paper.
Tom took it between his thumb and finger. “Thank you, David.” He had
not looked at it.
Mrs. Lario came in, behind a large tray that held their breakfast. Quickly
she set the table. She laid a newspaper, longitudinally folded, beside each
plate. She left. Tom and David sat down to their last breakfast.
Usually, they read their papers. It helped to stem the arid draught of their
silence. Now, they placed their papers unread away. Tom looked at David.
He made no effort to speak. His temple was pulsing. David was trying to
eat. He looked at his food. He leaned back in his chair, and also his thoughts
seemed to incline away. He said to himself: “I must be natural. What am I
doing?” He found that he could not eat his breakfast. He had a swallow of
water, a spoonful of oatmeal. He could taste what he had eaten. It seemed to
be still in his mouth. He raised his head and looked at Tom.
For an instant they saw each other.
A terror came upon David, a great pain. He could not bear this. Was this
not his friend whom he was leaving? For whatever reason, to whatever end,
this was Tom, and he loved him, and he was cutting an artery that throbbed
with blood. He could not linger. He felt himself being swept toward a sort
of precipice. He was afraid. It was as if he held in his hands some precious
life, and he and it were being entranced toward the brink. Every vein in his
head beat hard against his going: cried for his moving.
He got up. He was trembling. Tom smiled no longer. There was a
passion in his eyes, as if this getting up of David were some fatal execution
he had awaited and steeled himself to meet. His face was bloodless.
“Good-by, Tom,” David put out his hand.
Tom took it. He held it limply. Then he pressed it hard.
“Good-by, Boy,” he said....
Helen Daindrie had a friend, “my young friend” she called her with just
a touch of condescension, a girl who had studied the violin abroad with the
greatest masters and who was once more in New York. She was to make her
official bow in the Fall. Helen Daindrie asked a few of her friends to come
and hear her.
“I have invited Cornelia,” she said to David. “Will you call for her and
bring her?”
David had not seen Cornelia more than twice in the past three months.
He had not seen her once of his own initiative. When she asked him to
come, he obeyed. He always would. Despite himself, he had the feeling for
her that a young man might have for a maiden aunt: he was deeply, even
ideally fond of her, but she seemed to live in another world, there was no
way of contact nor of expression for his fondness.
Since he was living alone, he had not seen her at all.
She greeted him, when he came, as usual, cordially, with no hint of the
empty months without him. Her eyes no longer searched him with hot,
comfortless inquiries. It was as if she had done everything she could to be
acceptable to David. She was quite ready.
“Just a minute, while I throw on my cloak. It’s very warm, isn’t it? It
isn’t going to rain?”
“I don’t think so. It’s a glorious night.”
“A glorious night? Do you think we have time to walk a little?”
He watched her finally settling her hair before the mirror. She was
“dressed-up” in a slim white gown. She was ugly. Her head outweighed her
body: it gave her a gaunt and naked look in her white dress. The yellow skin
of her face broke the paltry shimmer of her gown into green and gray.
“I’m afraid,” said David, “we might be late if we walked.”
 “Very well.” She came up to him and smiled. “Come.” She opened the
door.
“Well, Davie, tell me how have you been?”
It was hard for him to speak. It was impossible for him to smile as he
wished to. Cornelia seemed inadequate to his young hunger. He was angry
at himself for this. He owed her better. He was not a very good and loyal
friend, he supposed. Tom was right in what he said, however wrong in what
he was. He walked beside Cornelia to the car, through the sweet May night:
and in order to hold himself beside her and take her arm at the crossing, he
needed to forget her....

On the top floor of the house of the Daindries was a wide quiet room
which Helen had fitted out for her own. Its easy spaces were conserved and
rounded by the uncluttered furniture. Nothing was large and ponderous to
defeat them. Two lamps stood wide away on little tables. Their low light
brought out the warm dark stroke of the couch and absorbed the rugs. The
gray walls had a retreating texture.
The guests sat very hushed and hidden in the shadows and the music. A
tall girl swayed by the piano: she was raw-boned and gaunt above the light
of the lamp. Her docked hair flung away from the sheer strong forehead.
She played with a restraint that burned: it was her restraint that she flung
circling and lowering from her sharp shoulders down upon the hidden
guests.
The guests sat, suddenly tamed, suddenly cowed. They were the world to
David—a motley mass made one by the dark and the music, that would rise
up again and be a tearing thing against his life. Now they were breathing
hard; something had shut them up in their own narrow breasts.
The girl stepped toward them, away from the piano. The piano was
silent. He who had sat at it and followed her mood, who had trailed like a
wake in a muffled sea upon her passage was now withdrawn. The girl stood
like one naked above the room. The music she had played and the guests
lay trammeled spirits at her feet. She moved and stepped upon them. She
lifted her violin to play alone. It was Bach she was playing.
She was a sharp high figure cutting the dark room. Her violin was a hard
creature that sobbed and was soft. She and her violin and the huddled life of
the world within the room were the music that was Bach.
 As she played she moved. She moved up and down: she was very free
with her sweeping arm and her long legs walking as she played. From her
freedom came an uttered Law and fell upon them all.
They were struck by the clear strokes of her playing and her walking up
and down: they were showered in the fire of this molten music....
David recaptured himself. He seemed to be sitting in a black pool of life.
All of the lives of these about him were one: they were melted together.
They had no being apart, they had no light. They were a black pool, stirless.
Now he felt somewhere still a glow: under the black hush and above the
strokes of the music. His senses went seeking a glow that he felt somewhere
still.
He sat on a couch. Next him a woman: next her a man. The music
flooded and beat and these had no life against it. They were a dim base on
which the music dwelt. Still he knew that this glow he felt was real and was
near. It was a presence to him. His eyes wandered to find it.
Against the music and himself and the room, his eyes went, seeking the
magic more real than the music whereby he might come to life. They found!
She was sitting far back at the other end of the couch: she was lost in the
black pool of the room as no one else, so that he could not see her. Yet
David knew her, glowing alone, and knew what precious thing this was
which he had found in the world. Once more, and as never before, it came
to him, that he had never known her: that he had never seen her. She was
hidden there with her true magic, in a false real world, and he could not
know her now, nor see her. But he knew that he wanted to know her, and
that he wanted to see her.
He sat with a new quiet holding him tenderly. The girl played on. A
passionate fantasy flooded forth from the round mouth of the violin. It
rocked the room. It tore at these submerged ones living there and shredded
them in its measured frenzy. But David was quiet and sure. The world was a
mad wild place for this moment dominioned: the music lashing it was also
wild and was sunless, it was a river buried under rocks of the earth and
making them tremble. The glow he had found was a warm place where he
would dwell.
The girl had stopped, she was leaning over her violin, she was packing it
away.
 The guests moved slow and uncertain, like the maimed creatures they
were. Their voices were splinters of their broken selves.
They began to leave.
Cornelia stood near the door. She was looking for David. She saw him.
She saw that he did not want to escort her home. Very dimly his
conscience was stirring in his mind. If she disappeared, his conscience
would go also. It would leave no trace.
She was very shrunk and pitiful in the long swell of the music. She knew
he must not see her another moment. His conscience might win and he
might take her home: he would never forgive her. She saw a new world in
his eyes, turning his eyes from hers.
She slipped out.
And all the guests were gone.
There was no one in the room save David and this Helen he did not
know. She stood there, straight and small in the center of the room. She
looked at him.
He came to her. Everything he did was slow. He had a sense of an
eternity in which he was about to step. The passions of his life seemed
shivered fragments beside the steadfast vastness of this moment.
She was near him now. He had her warm pervasion all about him. He put
his arms around her waist. Her arms were stiff at her side. As she leaned
faintly back from the pressure of his hands, her face turned upward. So he
drew her in, until her mouth was his....

Cornelia was home. Straight she went into her little bedroom and lit the
gas. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was pale, but a dim flush
flowered her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and deep with a dry passion. She
looked at herself; aloud she said:
“This is I. This is Cornelia Rennard.” Her voice ceased, she went on
speaking. “I am beautiful. For one time, I am beautiful. If he could see me
now——” It was so. It was a pity he could not see her now.
She turned away, she took off her dress. Carefully she smoothed out its
folds: she placed it away. She had a housegown of warm quilted silk-
brocade—it was brown. She put it on. She fastened it tight about her and
made the belt sure about her waist with a knot.
 She went to her desk and sat down.
She took a calendar date-book and laid it before her. There was an
engagement inscribed for the following Sunday. The rest of the days were
blank. She began to write.
“Sunday: prepare sketch for the Trenton fountain. Evening, Purzes for
dinner. Tuesday: ask Mr. Bailey about Philadelphia. Friday: Jack and Clara
to tea.”
She filled ten days with her mental notes of engagements. When she had
done so much, suddenly she grasped the book in her two hands as if to tear
it. Her hands stopped in suspense. Her face turned upward.
“It has to be,” she said, once more aloud. “It is a lie.... What is a lie?”
She was smiling. “Cornelia——” she tenderly spoke, almost maternally to
herself, “when one does a thing, do it well.”
She laid the date-book open at the center of the desk.
With a swift thrust she opened the drawers. She closed them. No. There
was nothing there to be concealed.
She was up. She smiled; once more she took a pencil and turned the
pages of the book to a day two weeks away. She wrote:
“Ask David to dinner.”
Then, she straightened and crossed the room.
A batch of painted sheets were in her arms. Her water-colors, her
incomprehensible confessions. She laid them forth on the table, looked long
at them. They were very lovely, these delirious designs, these flauntings of
form and color. Color rose in them to form, form faded and died away to the
realms of color. But she looked at them and shook her head. They meant
nothing to her.
“What nonsense,” she breathed.
Then: “Perhaps some of my statues may live. That first bronze——”
She swept the sketches back into her arms, she thrust them into the
hearth. It was cold and black. In a moment it blazed. But the sheets burned
slowly, imperfectly. The fire went out. She had to scatter them and work
upon them and light them several times with many matches before they
were ash.
At last it was done. Stubborn confessional!
 She laughed at the daubed papers that had not wanted to die.
She turned out the light and went once more into the bedroom. She
opened the window wide.
The balmy night swept over her head into the room. Street slumbered.
Brutal lines of the street seemed broken into curves: its hard stillness rose
now and swayed, fell murmuring beyond her eyes.
Cornelia leaned heavy on her arms. She could feel the weight of her
body against her elbows. This was the night and this was the world. The one
world she had ever known: the one night also.
Why had all of it been? She saw herself. She must have been above and
beyond herself; she saw herself from the back. She was leaning there, a
slender girl, out of the window. She was a narrow form, swathed in warm
brown silk-brocade, with a neck that was a little too long for such slight
shoulders. And her elbows ached. And the window framing her led into the
world. It was a round place: it went twirling about in interminable ether. It
flung near blazing monsters like the Sun, that also were lost in the black,
blind spaces so that their conflagrations were sparks flecking the universal
slumber. Upon this twirling ball was life. Everywhere she looked, was life.
One spot of earth was a city of creation, one drop of water was a
multitudinous welter. Here, somehow, she. She could look beyond herself
and the window and the gyring City. She could see the world and the stars
and the Sun lost like specks in the universal slumber.
This was her yearning. Let her sleep! She was tired. Let her be one with
slumber beyond creation. Out of slumber creation had come, creation which
was a scum of eggs on a black flower. Let her brush it away. Let her brush it
clean.
What she yearned was a thing more sure and real than world. Her eyes
went out from behind where she stood yearning, passed the world in a flash.
So small it was. Passed the stars that were dim above houses. The black
Nothing was All. The stirrings of suns were flecks upon glow of black
spaces.
She leaned there and yearned, and argued; she could not move.
She sobbed dryly.
She stayed there long. Then, in dim eyes, she left the window, she threw
herself upon the bed.
 She fell asleep.
She awoke.
It was very dark. About her was nothing. About her was no obstruction.
She was aware of her breathing as of an intruder. She rose from her bed. All
of the weight was within, all of the clutter was within, all of the pain was
within. She moved outside herself with a vast, sweet freedom, for outside
her was nothing.
She went to the window and jumped out.

How long David had held Helen in his embrace, he did not know. It was
almost like sleep: measureless. Now waking from her arms, he felt her there
like a world in which he dwelt.
She was drawing herself away. She took his hand.
“You must go, now, Dear,” she said. “It is late, you know.”
She smiled up into his serious dazed face.
“You will come to-morrow to dinner, will you not?...” Still he said
nothing. He was looking beyond her.
“I am so eager to have my family really know you.”
1917-1918.
 Typographical errors corrected by
the etext transcriber:
they paddling=> they paddled {pg
10}
short shift of him=> short shrift of
him {pg 167}
paused momently=> paused
momentarily {pg 287}
It has esstranged=> It has estranged
{pg 305}
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