Anthony The Absolute

Women are incomplete creatures.

But – come to think of it – so are men.

Outside, the early April twilight settled down and deepened without our knowing it. It was she who first noted the fact. I was writing down notes on my extra-ruled paper to show her just where she had repeatedly missed our scale by a fine fraction of a tone, and she was bending close in the effort to see. Suddenly she sat up, drew in a quick breath, blinked a little, then reached over and switched on the electric light.

This act broke the tension of our work. We talked on about it for a little while, planning to get at it again in the morning. After a time she rose. But instead of going into her own room she moved over to the window and looked out across the dim, tiled roofs of the Chinese houses toward the walls and trees of the Legation Quarter that were darkly outlined against a glow of electric light.

I had lifted her momentarily out of her solitude. Now she dreaded returning to it. I felt this, with a glow of exultation in my heart that frightened me. But my impulses were too strong to-night to be governed offhand. I followed her to the window and stood beside her looking out, while my pulse raced.

“It’s a wonderful old city,” I heard myself saying.

And though I did not look around, I knew that she inclined her head by way of reply.

Then for quite a long time we were silent. But my muscles were tense. There was a suggestion gathering head in my mind that I knew had to come out. I waited, resisting it with less and less vigor frum moment to moment. I was afraid of it.

Finally it came. I said, “I wish we could have dinner here together.”

Then I dug my nails into my palms, standing very still there, and tried to breathe.

I felt her relax, and move a little.

“I am not hungry,” she said.

After a minute, as I still waited, she added – “Though I don’t know that it makes any difference – if you wish.”

“Of course not,” said I clumsily – “just having a little food brought in.”

So I rang for the China boy, and cleared the phonograph and cylinders and papers and ash-tray off my little iron table, and we had dinner there. Though first she slipped into her room, drew the door to, and changed from her gray kimono to a simple blue frock that I thought very becoming.

After the meal, we sat back without saying anything in particular until she grew restless, and finally pushed her chair back.

“I wish,” said I, “before you go, that you would sing that Franz song again for me. And let your voice out a little. I want to hear it.”

I thought her eyes grew suddenly moist. But without the slightest hesitation, without rising, even, she began the song – “Aus Meinen Grossen Schmerzen.”

But she was still holding her voice in. “Louder,” I urged. “Come, come! Sing!”

She could not resist my appeal. Out came the tones, round and rich, and colored with the inexpressible sorrow that is the life-breath of that exquisite song.

I leaned right forward on the table. I could not take my eyes from her broad white throat and the softly rounded chin above it and the finely muscular lips that framed themselves around the tones with a slight flaring out that suggested the bell of a trumpet.

The tears came flooding to my eyes. There was timbre in that voice, and a wonderful floating yet firm resonance. When it swelled out in the climax I could feel the sound vibrations throbbing against my ear drums. Then it shrank in volume, and died down until the song ended in a breathless sob that yet was perfect music. And after she had done, and was sitting there motionless, brooding, with downcast face, it seemed to me I could still hear those sad, breathless words, and could still feel that gentle throbbing against my ear.

“You have learned how to sing that song,” said I.

“Yes,” she replied, “I have learned how to sing it.”

We were in a sort of poignant dream – I still gazing at her; she still downcast, with the light gone out of her eyes.

Then, directly outside my door in the hall, we heard a man clear his throat. An old man, unmistakably. And we heard heavy footsteps creaking slowly off toward the stairs. God knows how long he had been listening there!

She said nothing. Merely sat with her hands in her lap. But she seemed to me to go limp. Certainly her face grew slowly pale until it was quite white, as I had first seen it.

“I should have known better,” I muttered. “I am a fool!”

She did not reply at once. After a moment she rose, then hesitated, resting a hand on the back of her chair. And her eyelids drooped until I could see the long, long lashes against her white skin.

“It was n’t your fault,” she said, very low.

She moved toward her own room. I rose, and followed part way. “The morning will be a better time – to work,” I managed to say. “It will be quieter then.”

She hesitated in the doorway; then slowly inclined her head, as if in assent. It seemed to me that she was making an effort to smile.

“Good-night,” she murmured.

“Good-night,” said I.

She closed the door after her. But there remained a narrow opening where the upper part had shrunk away from the frame.

I stood confused, looking about my room. The table was still cluttered with our dinner things.

I got my long raincoat out of the wardrobe that serves me for a closet. I unscrewed a hook from the wardrobe and, climbing on a chair, screwed it into the woodwork directly above the edge of the door. Then I hung my raincoat from it. Thus I cosed that narrow opening between her room and mine.

When I went out for my walk, a little later, I came squarely on Sir Robert He was standing at one end of the clerk’s desk, peering through his monocle at the board on which were recorded the names and room numbers of the guests.

It is an odd and frank custom, that. It is doubtless done for the guidance of the Chinese servants, who know us only by our numbers.

He turned and met me squarely, as I was about to walk by.

“So,” he said, wrinkling up his face into a smile and pecking at me with his monocle. His left eyelid drooped unpleasantly. “So – you, my friend, are the fortunate inhabitant of number sixteen. I was captivated by the lady’s voice. I congratulate you – again.” Then, still smiling as he observed my rising anger, he added – “But, my dear Eckhart, you must not look at me as if I were an intruder – not after the lady has sung like that. I could hardly refuse to listen.”

He grew thoughtful, and looked past me toward the door. “Women and song!” he mused. “Women and song!.. You are a sly devil, Eckhart.”

He turned, raised his monocle, and again studied the board – with an insolence that was calmness itself.

He was searching for the name of the woman.

I grew hot all over as I stood there watching him. In a moment – a second – he would find it. But no, he was looking everywhere on the board except in the space next to that occupied by my name. Clearly, it had not occurred to him to look there.

I moved closer and peeped over his shoulder. I had not before observed this board, beyond noting in a general way that it hung here by the clerk’s desk. I found myself suddenly wondering if she could possibly have been so careless —

There it was – directly under mine. Her own name!

Yes, there was – “Mrs. H. Crocker.” Why she has written herself down so irrevocably I can not imagine. In her dreadful predicament a false name is so clearly indicated.

Still, come to think of it, she herself does not yet know how dreadful that predicament is. I had forgotten that.

I wonder if it is that she consciously and deliberately refuses to sail under false colors. Or if, as is possible, it never occurred to her.

Sir Robert’s eyes were still searching the board. They had traversed two rows of names. They were now moving up the third row, closer and closer to numbers sixteen and eighteen.

Then I saw him start. He had found it. He lowered his monocle and carefully wiped it with the handkerchief that he kept in his sleeve Then he leaned forward and looked again.

I heard him give a low whistle of sheer surprise.

I could n’t stand that. I hurried outdoors and plunged off on my walk.

He was not in sight when I came back, more than an hour later. So I haven’t to face that cynical, drooping eye to-night, at least.

It is pitifully indiscreet of her to use her real name this way – in the circumstances. But oh, I am glad, just the same!

April 6th. Night

WE worked hard this morning, she and I. And a little this afternoon.

That is the thing, of course – work. It steadies me. And it is her only hope. For she has a life to build, poor child!

April 7th

HER name is Héloïse.

I like it. It fits her. Or it would fit her real self. Despite the fact that she is now in a disheartened, quite apathetic phase, I catch glimpses of a Gallic effectiveness about her. It is in her face, in the poise of her body, in the way she wears her clothes.

Yesterday, all day, I successfully avoided Sir Robert. This afternoon, for a moment, he caught me; but I deliberately said good-day and walked off. It was rude. But he, as an Englishman, would not hesitate an instant to be rude to me if the fancy took him. Curiously, he is anything but rude to me. I believe he stations himself where there appears to be a chance of waylaying me. He is even foregoing the big hotel in the Legation Quarter and having some of his meals here, in his room, directly across from hers. Which is disturbing – rather.

April 8th. Noon

WE have a perfect half scale, at last —c to g.

I shall now drive ahead after the rest of it. It has been a rather more exacting task than either of us foresaw. But she is persistent. If anything she throws too much nervous intensity into her work. She has asked me for copying to do, and even secretarial work. With her reasonably complete musical education she is quite competent to take down from the phonograph the notation of melodies and themes. She shuts herself in at night and works over my papers and music sheets until she is quite exhausted. I have tried to remonstrate; but she insists that she likes having the work to do. Poor child!

She has told me a good deal about her musical life. Not the least of her troubles is the fact that it would take at least two years of the very best coaching to fit her for opera. She has no repertoire to speak of. She has dreamed of the operatic stage from her earliest girlhood. But while she was young the opportunity was lacking. Her father was a high-school superintendent – a man of fineness and principle, I take it, but desperately poor. Her mother, who had been a singer, died when she was a child, the father two years ago. And then after her early marriage to Crocker, her life took a new and strange direction. She says nothing about Crocker. What little she does tell of this more recent part of her life she tells in a very quiet, reserved manner, implying an understanding that I will display no curiosity to learn more.

Yes, she accepts me as a friend. And she still thinks I know nothing of her beyond her bare name. I lie to her a dozen times a day, in my silences. But I don’t see what else I can do. Certainly I can’t offer her money. I can’t buy her a ticket over the Trans-Siberian and send her off to Europe to study for opera. I am foolish enough to have moments of wishing to do just that; but it is, of course, an impossible thought. And to tell her the painful knowledge that is at present locked up in my mind would simply shock and hurt her to no purpose that I can perceive.

We have at least one meal a day together. Yesterday we shared all three meals – breakfast in her room, luncheon and dinner in mine. It seemed the natural thing to do. Excepting the breakfast – that was perhaps a trifle odd. But all during the night, at intervals, I heard her stirring about in her room, and saw that her light was on. Toward morning, feeling rather disturbed about her, I got up, and, at length, dressed. This was about six o’clock.

At six-thirty I stepped out on the narrow little French balcony outside my window. It is less than a foot wide, this balcony, and has a fancy wrought-iron railing.

She also has a balcony, and while I stood there she came out. She was dressed. And she seemed so frankly glad to see me, that I suggested the breakfast. She looked very tired about the eyes. Indeed, I am not sure that she does not grow a shade more tired, a shade slimmer, each day. She eats next to nothing at all.

Certainly, each day she works harder. I am going to think out some way in which I can offer to pay her for this work. It is most assuredly worth something. As it stands now, she even insists on paying for her share of the meals.

Night

SIR ROBERT spoke to her to-day. As luck would have it, I was not at hand.

It has been cloudy, and when she went out for her walk this afternoon she forgot to take her umbrella. She is not timid about the weather, anyway. I have thought once or twice that she likes storms.

She was on her way back to the hotel when the storm broke – not far from the Arcade, where the moving pictures are shown. She took refuge in the entrance to the Arcade until the worst of the rain appeared to be over, then started out again through the wet.

Sir Robert appeared at her elbow, with an umbrella. She did not observe whether he had been following her or merely happened to meet her. He walked to the hotel with her. This was all she told me; but I am sure it was not quite all that occurred.

She asked if he was n’t a judge.

“Yes,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” said she – “it was something he said.”

Which was all I learned about that episode.

It did not seem to disturb her materially. I was glad it did n’t. I made a strong effort to conceal my own foolish anger over it, and trust that I succeeded. At any rate, we dropped the subject.

April 10th

THIS afternoon, late, I came into the hotel from a walk in the rain and went directly upstairs. I had my rubbers on.

The upper corridor was nearly dark, particularly to my eyes that were fresh from the street and the bright lights of the office.

I saw a dark object by her door – a man, undoubtedly, crouching there.

I stopped short, and watched, he had a white paper in his hand. He fumbled with this for a moment, then slipped it under the door, pushing it clear through into the room with a pencil. Then he got awkwardly to his feet, and stood hesitating. By this time my eyes were partially accustomed to the dim light, and I knew it was Sir Robert. He did not see me. After a moment he tiptoed heavily across the hall to his own door, just opposite and entered, cautiously and silently closing the door behind him.

I walked straight along the hall, past my own door, and stood before his. I had a mind to go in there and strangle him.

But what was the use? He was an absurd old man, that was all. But none the less, as I stepped back and entered my own room, I found myself shivering oddly. There was an uncomfortable pressure at the back of my head, and my heart was skipping beats.

It is the first time in my life, I think, that I have been seized by the impulse to do physical harm to a fellow creature.

Before putting on my pajamas to-night I stood and looked at my bare chest and arms in my broken mirror. My chest is narrow, my skin white. My arms are thin. Possibly I could n’t have strangled him, if I had tried. I wish I were strong.

A little earlier than that, before she closed our door, I asked her if Sir Robert was annoying her in any serious way.

The question made her very grave – graver even than usual. She looked at me, then dropped her eyes, and said nothing. But after a moment she looked up again, made one of those efforts to smile that are pain to me, and shrugged her shoulders. That was all.

April 11th

SIR ROBERT is always hovering about the office and the lounge when I appear, and he always tries to engage me in talk. I can’t understand it. He is insistent. He acts as if I fascinate him. Twice to-day I fairly ran away from him. I was afraid I would strike him. It makes me physically uncomfortable to have him so much as stand near me, even if he does not try to take my hand in greeting.

I fear I am not managing this matter very well. I am acting aimlessly, and in a sort of panic of the soul. This won’t do.

April 12th

THIS afternoon he caught me squarely at the clerk’s desk. He extended a cigar and suggested that we stroll into the lounge and have a chin-chin. I observed that his hand was unsteady, as if the palsy had reached and touched him.

On the spot I made up my mind to face him out. I accepted the cigar, and down we sat.

He asked if I had attended any of the theaters in the Chinese city that lies to the south of the Tartar Wall. When I replied in the negative, he suggested that we do a little exploring together of an evening.

“The ancient Chinese character is nowhere better preserved,” said he, “than in these theatrical performances. And the music, of course, is the pure old strain, quite uncorrupted by Modernism or the West. I can boast of some familiarity with the Chinese drama and music, and even a little acquaintance with the language. It would give me pleasure to act as your guide.”

“Thank you,” said I, a bit too shortly. “Later on, perhaps. Just now I am very busy with my records.”

He smiled – all wrinkles. That left eyelid drooped and drooped.

I pulled savagely on my cigar, chewing it so hard that the end crumpled between my teeth and filled my mouth with unpleasant little particles of tobacco leaf.

Then he laughed – with an effort, I thought. It was not a successful laugh.

So we sat for a few moments, in silence and smoke. So men sit often in this queer tangle of life – smoking, smiling, speaking the commonplace phrases that are the current small change of human intercourse, yet hating each other in their hearts.

“I say, Eckhart” – it was a little later on that he came out with this – “you know who she is, of course.”

There was no good in pretending ignorance. God knows I am not quite the child I sometimes seem, even to myself. So I nodded.

He looked narrowly at me. I met his gaze. I was just a thin, nervous man, a little bald, sitting quietly there and smoking, yet all the time that drooping left eyelid irritated me so that I wanted to reach right over and tear it off his face. But I only nodded.

“Dangerous game, my boy,” said he.

That was his assumption, of course – that to me, too, she was merely a quarry in the endless, universal pursuit of woman by man. Out here on the Coast, of course, from the point of view of the hard world about us, any lone woman is quite legitimate prey.

He was still studying me.

“I ‘m wondering how much you know,” he went on.

“About what?” said I, confused.

“About that woman and the fix she is in. You know who her husband is, surely.”

I bowed. “He was on the ship.”

“Yes,” grunted Sir Robert sardonically, “he was on the ship. And you saw what he did in the Grand Hotel at Yokohama, didn’t you? He nearly killed a waiter – a Chinaman, who was quite defenseless. But of course you saw it. I recall that you were dining with him at the time.”

“He was drunk,” I said huskily, as if in extenuation.

“Yes,” repeated Sir Robert dryly. “He was drunk. Rather dangerous at such times, is n’t he?”

“Yes, but he quit drinking – after that. Cut it all out.” I could not keep my voice from rising a little. I felt my confusion increasing – my thoughts were all adrift, swept here and there by currents of feeling that I could not fathom.

“Oh, he did?” Why would n’t that old man take his unpleasant eyes off me! “Oh, he did? You are in his confidence, then. And of course you know even more” – he paused, very deliberately – “regarding his state of mind, his reason for coming out here to the other side of the world, all that?”

I sat limp in my chair, still chewing that crumpling cigar.

Sir Robert leaned back. He was seated on the leather sofa. He let his head rest on the shabby upholstery and studied the ceiling. In one hand he held his cigar, in the other his monocle, tracing patterns in the air with them. His hands are not thin, but the skin on them is crisscrossed with fine wrinkles like the skin on his face and neck.

“My boy,” he began, after a rime, “I’m going to offer you a little counsel. You won’t take it, but I am going to offer it. Probably, at your age, I should n’t have taken it either.” He sighed. “I am an old man. For forty-five years I have been observing men – and women. I have seen – well, a good deal, one way and another. And the one fact I have come to be sure of… You know, Eckhart, the great mass of human beings – in Europe and America, at least, labor under the curious delusion that the race has finally worked out something of a civilization. Curious, but they do. It is rot, of course. All rot. There is no civilization. Life is quite as primitive as ever. Only we have developed extraordinary ingenuity at covering life up. That’s it. That’s our greatest triumph – covering up! At best, it is pretty messy business. And all we can be sure of is that every man owes it to himself and his legitimate offspring to save his skin at all costs, and incidentally, to capture what little he can of the common booty.”

He made me nervous. I couldn’t sit there indefinitely and listen to his sordid philosophy.

He was quick to catch my mood, and went on more to the point. This shiftiness is the seasoned lawyer in him, I suppose. He is pretty keen, after all.

“Look here, Eckhart – there’s no sense in men like you and me beating about the bush. Crocker got blind drunk at Nagasaki, and missed the Shanghai boat. That night he told me the same story that he had doubtless told you. Or did n’t he?”

I nodded. As he had said, there was no use beating about the bush.

“Then I’ve only this much to say, my boy. It’s the one thing I’ve learned from life. Never – never – fall in love with a woman. Play with them, yes. Use them. But for God’s sake don’t let yourself fall in love with them!”

He was speaking with a curious emphasis. His gaze had drifted upward again toward the dirty ceiling. And now it was suddenly my turn to sit and watch him.

“Don’t do it!” he went on. “Don’t do it. They fasten their lives on you, they smother you. If you don’t marry them, it’s bad enough. If you do, it’s worse. You are an extremely gifted young man. I do not know that I ever met a man with a keener mind or one that impressed me as having more driving, vital force with which to shape a career. You are out here now, right in your best years, full of enthusiasm for your work. Don’t let any woman into your life. Good or bad, whatever the phrases mean, a woman is n’t happy with a man until she has trimmed the scope of his life down to the compass of her own understanding. She has to get it right into her hands, and choke it. Then life begins to mean something to her. Personally I have come to the conclusion that I get on rather better with the bad women, so called. They don’t expect so much. In a way they are squarer – better sports, as you Americans say. Remember, my buy, ‘He travels the fastest who travels alone.’.

I was becoming tired of his wandering thoughts. Generalizations are a bore, anyway. They are always loose, and generally wrong. Then, too, I may as well admit that he was disturbing me deeply, this loose-minded but shrewd old man.

“Look here,” I said abruptly, “you know of this obsession of Crocker’s?”

He bowed.

“Can’t we do something to restrain him?” He slowly shook his head.

“You don’t mean to say that we can’t stop a man who is bent on murder?”

“Our motives might be regarded as – well, not exactly clear, yours and mine,” mused Sir Robert. “Besides, he hasn’t done anything. You can hardly restrain a man from becoming indignant if an acquaintance breaks into his house and steals his wife.”

“But she is n’t his property, like his watch!” I exclaimed.

He smiled tolerantly at me. “In a sense, she is,” said he. “In a sense. The weight of law and tradition is against you there, Eckhart.”

“Traditions are nothing to me!” said I, hotly.