The Glimpses of the Moon, Edith Wharton [e reader manga .txt] 📗

from

sorrow to the cinema. What of soul was left, he wondered—?

 

His train did not start till midnight, and after leaving the

restaurant Nick tramped the sultry by-ways till his tired legs

brought him to a standstill under the vine-covered pergola of a

gondolier’s wine-shop at a landing close to the Piazzetta.

There he could absorb cooling drinks until it was time to go to

the station.

 

It was after eleven, and he was beginning to look about for a

boat, when a black prow pushed up to the steps, and with much

chaff and laughter a party of young people in evening dress

jumped out. Nick, from under the darkness of the vine, saw that

there was only one lady among them, and it did not need the lamp

above the landing to reveal her identity. Susy, bareheaded and

laughing, a light scarf slipping from her bare shoulders, a

cigarette between her fingers, took Strefford’s arm and turned

in the direction of Florian’s, with Gillow, the Prince and young

Breckenridge in her wake ….

 

Nick had relived this rapid scene hundreds of times during his

hours in the train and his aimless trampings through the streets

of Genoa. In that squirrel-wheel of a world of his and Susy’s

you had to keep going or drop out—and Susy, it was evident, had

chosen to keep going. Under the lamp-flare on the landing he

had had a good look at her face, and had seen that the mask of

paint and powder was carefully enough adjusted to hide any

ravages the scene between them might have left. He even fancied

that she had dropped a little atropine into her eyes ….

 

There was no time to spare if he meant to catch the midnight

train, and no gondola in sight but that which his wife had just

left. He sprang into it, and bade the gondolier carry him to

the station. The cushions, as he leaned back, gave out a breath

of her scent; and in the glare of electric light at the station

he saw at his feet a rose which had fallen from her dress. He

ground his heel into it as he got out.

 

There it was, then; that was the last picture he was to have of

her. For he knew now that he was not going back; at least not

to take up their life together. He supposed he should have to

see her once, to talk things over, settle something for their

future. He had been sincere in saying that he bore her no ill-will; only he could never go back into that slough again. If he

did, he knew he would inevitably be drawn under, slipping

downward from concession to concession ….

 

The noises of a hot summer night in the port of Genoa would have

kept the most care-free from slumber; but though Nick lay awake

he did not notice them, for the tumult in his brain was more

deafening. Dawn brought a negative relief, and out of sheer

weariness he dropped into a heavy sleep. When he woke it was

nearly noon, and from his window he saw the well-known outline

of the Ibis standing up dark against the glitter of the harbour.

He had no fear of meeting her owners, who had doubtless long

since landed and betaken themselves to cooler and more

fashionable regions: oddly enough, the fact seemed to

accentuate his loneliness, his sense of having no one on earth

to turn to. He dressed, and wandered out disconsolately to pick

up a cup of coffee in some shady corner.

 

As he drank his coffee his thoughts gradually cleared. It

became obvious to him that he had behaved like a madman or a

petulant child—he preferred to think it was like a madman. If

he and Susy were to separate there was no reason why it should

not be done decently and quietly, as such transactions were

habitually managed among people of their kind. It seemed

grotesque to introduce melodrama into their little world of

unruffled Sybarites, and he felt inclined, now, to smile at the

incongruity of his gesture …. But suddenly his eyes filled

with tears. The future without Susy was unbearable,

inconceivable. Why, after all, should they separate? At the

question, her soft face seemed close to his, and that slight

lift of the upper lip that made her smile so exquisite. Well-he would go back. But not with any presence of going to talk

things over, come to an agreement, wind up their joint life like

a business association. No—if he went back he would go without

conditions, for good, forever ….

 

Only, what about the future? What about the not far-distant day

when the wedding cheques would have been spent, and Granny’s

pearls sold, and nothing left except unconcealed and

unconditional dependence on rich friends, the role of the

acknowledged hangers-on? Was there no other possible solution,

no new way of ordering their lives? No—there was none: he

could not picture Susy out of her setting of luxury and leisure,

could not picture either of them living such a life as the Nat

Fulmers, for instance! He remembered the shabby untidy bungalow

in New Hampshire, the slatternly servants, uneatable food and

ubiquitous children. How could he ask Susy to share such a life

with him? If he did, she would probably have the sense to

refuse. Their alliance had been based on a moment’s midsummer

madness; now the score must be paid ….

 

He decided to write. If they were to part he could not trust

himself to see her. He called a waiter, asked for pen and

paper, and pushed aside a pile of unread newspapers on the

corner of the table where his coffee had been served. As he did

so, his eye lit on a Daily Mail of two days before. As a

pretext for postponing his letter, he took up the paper and

glanced down the first page. He read:

 

“Tragic Yachting Accident in the Solent. The Earl of Altringham

and his son Viscount d’Amblay drowned in midnight collision.

Both bodies recovered.”

 

He read on. He grasped the fact that the disaster had happened

the night before he had left Venice and that, as the result of a

fog in the Solent, their old friend Strefford was now Earl of

Altringham, and possessor of one of the largest private fortunes

in England. It was vertiginous to think of their old

impecunious Streff as the hero of such an adventure. And what

irony in that double turn of the wheel which, in one day, had

plunged him, Nick Lansing, into nethermost misery, while it

tossed the other to the stars!

 

With an intenser precision he saw again Susy’s descent from the

gondola at the calle steps, the sound of her laughter and of

Strefford’s chaff, the way she had caught his arm and clung to

it, sweeping the other men on in her train. Strefford—Susy and

Strefford! … More than once, Nick had noticed the softer

inflections of his friend’s voice when he spoke to Susy, the

brooding look in his lazy eyes when they rested on her. In the

security of his wedded bliss Nick had made light of those signs.

The only real jealousy he had felt had been of Fred Gillow,

because of his unlimited power to satisfy a woman’s whims. Yet

Nick knew that such material advantages would never again

suffice for Susy. With Strefford it was different. She had

delighted in his society while he was notoriously ineligible;

might not she find him irresistible now?

 

The forgotten terms of their bridal compact came back to Nick:

the absurd agreement on which he and Susy had solemnly pledged

their faith. But was it so absurd, after all? It had been

Susy’s suggestion (not his, thank God!); and perhaps in making

it she had been more serious than he imagined. Perhaps, even if

their rupture had not occurred, Strefford’s sudden honours might

have caused her to ask for her freedom ….

 

Money, luxury, fashion, pleasure: those were the four

cornerstones of her existence. He had always known it—she

herself had always acknowledged it, even in their last dreadful

talk together; and once he had gloried in her frankness. How

could he ever have imagined that, to have her fill of these

things, she would not in time stoop lower than she had yet

stooped? Perhaps in giving her up to Strefford he might be

saving her. At any rate, the taste of the past was now so

bitter to him that he was moved to thank whatever gods there

were for pushing that mortuary paragraph under his eye ….

 

“Susy, dear [he wrote], the fates seem to have taken our future

in hand, and spared us the trouble of unravelling it. If I have

sometimes been selfish enough to forget the conditions on which

you agreed to marry me, they have come back to me during these

two days of solitude. You’ve given me the best a man can have,

and nothing else will ever be worth much to me. But since I

haven’t the ability to provide you with what you want, I

recognize that I’ve no right to stand in your way. We must owe

no more Venetian palaces to underhand services. I see by the

newspapers that Streff can now give you as many palaces as you

want. Let him have the chance—I fancy he’ll jump at it, and

he’s the best man in sight. I wish I were in his shoes.

 

“I’ll write again in a day or two, when I’ve collected my wits,

and can give you an address. NICK.”

 

He added a line on the subject of their modest funds, put the

letter into an envelope, and addressed it to Mrs. Nicholas

Lansing. As he did so, he reflected that it was the first time

he had ever written his wife’s married name.

 

“Well—by God, no other woman shall have it after her,” he

vowed, as he groped in his pocketbook for a stamp.

 

He stood up with a stretch of weariness—the heat was stifling!

—and put the letter in his pocket.

 

“I’ll post it myself, it’s safer,” he thought; “and then what in

the name of goodness shall I do next, I wonder?” He jammed his

hat down on his head and walked out into the sun-blaze.

 

As he was turning away from the square by the general Post

Office, a white parasol waved from a passing cab, and Coral

Hicks leaned forward with outstretched hand. “I knew I’d find

you,” she triumphed. “I’ve been driving up and down in this

broiling sun for hours, shopping and watching for you at the

same time.”

 

He stared at her blankly, too bewildered even to wonder how she

knew he was in Genoa; and she continued, with the kind of shy

imperiousness that always made him feel, in her presence, like a

member of an orchestra under a masterful baton; “Now please get

right into this carriage, and don’t keep me roasting here

another minute.” To the cabdriver she called out: Al porto.”

 

Nick Lansing sank down beside her. As he did so he noticed a

heap of bundles at her feet, and felt that he had simply added

one more to the number. He supposed that she was taking her

spoils to the Ibis, and that he would be carried up to the deck-house to be displayed with the others. Well, it would all help

to pass the day—and by night he would have reached some kind of

a decision about his future.

 

On the third day after Nick’s departure the post brought to the

Palazzo Vanderlyn three letters for Mrs. Lansing.

 

The first to arrive was a word from Strefford, scribbled in the

train and