The Glimpses of the Moon, Edith Wharton [e reader manga .txt] 📗
- Author: Edith Wharton
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liking common people with big purses; in such cases her stock of
allowances and extenuations was inexhaustible. But they had to
be successful common people; and the trouble was that the
Hickses, judged by her standards, were failures. It was not
only that they were ridiculous; so, heaven knew, were many of
their rivals. But the Hickses were both ridiculous and
unsuccessful. They had consistently resisted the efforts of the
experienced advisers who had first descried them on the horizon
and tried to help them upward. They were always taking up the
wrong people, giving the wrong kind of party, and spending
millions on things that nobody who mattered cared about. They
all believed passionately in “movements” and “causes” and
“ideals,” and were always attended by the exponents of their
latest beliefs, always asking you to hear lectures by haggard
women in peplums, and having their portraits painted by wild
people who never turned out to be the fashion.
All this would formerly have increased Susy’s contempt; now she
found herself liking the Hickses most for their failings. She
was touched by their simple good faith, their isolation in the
midst of all their queer apostles and parasites, their way of
drifting about an alien and indifferent world in a compactly
clinging group of which Eldorada Tooker, the doctor and the two
secretaries formed the outer fringe, and by their view of
themselves as a kind of collective re-incarnation of some past
state of princely culture, symbolised for Mrs. Hicks in what she
called “the court of the Renaissance.” Eldorada, of course, was
their chief prophetess; but even the intensely “bright” and
modern young secretaries, Mr. Beck and Mr. Buttles, showed a
touching tendency to share her view, and spoke of Mr. Hicks as
“promoting art,” in the spirit of Pandolfino celebrating the
munificence of the Medicis.
“I’m getting really fond of the Hickses; I believe I should be
nice to them even if they were staying at Danieli’s,” Susy said
to Strefford.
“And even if you owned the yacht?” he answered; and for once his
banter struck her as beside the point.
The Ibis carried them, during the endless June days, far and
wide along the enchanted shores; they roamed among the
Euganeans, they saw Aquileia and Pomposa and Ravenna. Their
hosts would gladly have taken them farther, across the Adriatic
and on into the golden network of the Aegean; but Susy resisted
this infraction of Nick’s rules, and he himself preferred to
stick to his task. Only now he wrote in the early mornings, so
that on most days they could set out before noon and steam back
late to the low fringe of lights on the lagoon. His work
continued to progress, and as page was added to page Susy
obscurely but surely perceived that each one corresponded with a
hidden secretion of energy, the gradual forming within him of
something that might eventually alter both their lives. In what
sense she could not conjecture: she merely felt that the fact
of his having chosen a job and stuck to it, if only through a
few rosy summer weeks, had already given him a new way of saying
“Yes” and “No.”
VII.
OF some new ferment at work in him Nick Lansing himself was
equally aware. He was a better judge of the book he was trying
to write than either Susy or Strefford; he knew its weaknesses,
its treacheries, its tendency to slip through his fingers just
as he thought his grasp tightest; but he knew also that at the
very moment when it seemed to have failed him it would suddenly
be back, beating its loud wings in his face.
He had no delusions as to its commercial value, and had winced
more than he triumphed when Susy produced her allusion to
Marius. His book was to be called The Pageant of Alexander.
His imagination had been enchanted by the idea of picturing the
young conqueror’s advance through the fabulous landscapes of
Asia: he liked writing descriptions, and vaguely felt that
under the guise of fiction he could develop his theory of
Oriental influences in Western art at the expense of less
learning than if he had tried to put his ideas into an essay.
He knew enough of his subject to know that he did not know
enough to write about it; but he consoled himself by remembering
that Wilhelm Meister has survived many weighty volumes on
aesthetics; and between his moments of self-disgust he took
himself at Susy’s valuation, and found an unmixed joy in his
task.
Never—no, never!—had he been so boundlessly, so confidently
happy. His hack-work had given him the habit of application,
and now habit wore the glow of inspiration. His previous
literary ventures had been timid and tentative: if this one was
growing and strengthening on his hands, it must be because the
conditions were so different. He was at ease, he was secure, he
was satisfied; and he had also, for the first time since his
early youth, before his mother’s death, the sense of having some
one to look after, some one who was his own particular care, and
to whom he was answerable for himself and his actions, as he had
never felt himself answerable to the hurried and indifferent
people among whom he had chosen to live.
Susy had the same standards as these people: she spoke their
language, though she understood others, she required their
pleasures if she did not revere their gods. But from the moment
that she had become his property he had built up in himself a
conception of her answering to some deep-seated need of
veneration. She was his, he had chosen her, she had taken her
place in the long line of Lansing women who had been loved,
honoured, and probably deceived, by bygone Lansing men. He
didn’t pretend to understand the logic of it; but the fact that
she was his wife gave purpose and continuity to his scattered
impulses, and a mysterious glow of consecration to his task.
Once or twice, in the first days of his marriage, he had asked
himself with a slight shiver what would happen if Susy should
begin to bore him. The thing had happened to him with other
women as to whom his first emotions had not differed in
intensity from those she inspired. The part he had played in
his previous love-affairs might indeed have been summed up in
the memorable line: “I am the hunter and the prey,” for he had
invariably ceased to be the first only to regard himself as the
second. This experience had never ceased to cause him the
liveliest pain, since his sympathy for his pursuer was only less
keen than his commiseration for himself; but as he was always a
little sorrier for himself, he had always ended by distancing
the pursuer.
All these pre-natal experiences now seemed utterly inapplicable
to the new man he had become. He could not imagine being bored
by Susy—or trying to escape from her if he were. He could not
think of her as an enemy, or even as an accomplice, since
accomplices are potential enemies: she was some one with whom,
by some unheard-of miracle, joys above the joys of friendship
were to be tasted, but who, even through these fleeting
ecstasies, remained simply and securely his friend.
These new feelings did not affect his general attitude toward
life: they merely confirmed his faith in its ultimate
“jolliness.” Never had he more thoroughly enjoyed the things he
had always enjoyed. A good dinner had never been as good to
him, a beautiful sunset as beautiful; he still rejoiced in the
fact that he appreciated both with an equal acuity. He was as
proud as ever of Susy’s cleverness and freedom from prejudice:
she couldn’t be too “modern” for him now that she was his. He
shared to the full her passionate enjoyment of the present, and
all her feverish eagerness to make it last. He knew when she
was thinking of ways of extending their golden opportunity, and
he secretly thought with her, wondering what new means they
could devise. He was thankful that Ellie Vanderlyn was still
absent, and began to hope they might have the palace to
themselves for the remainder of the summer. If they did, he
would have time to finish his book, and Susy to lay up a little
interest on their wedding cheques; and thus their enchanted year
might conceivably be prolonged to two.
Late as the season was, their presence and Strefford’s in Venice
had already drawn thither several wandering members of their
set. It was characteristic of these indifferent but
agglutinative people that they could never remain long parted
from each other without a dim sense of uneasiness. Lansing was
familiar with the feeling. He had known slight twinges of it
himself, and had often ministered to its qualms in others. It
was hardly stronger than the faint gnawing which recalls the
tea-hour to one who has lunched well and is sure of dining as
abundantly; but it gave a purpose to the purposeless, and helped
many hesitating spirits over the annual difficulty of deciding
between Deauville and St. Moritz, Biarritz and Capri.
Nick was not surprised to learn that it was becoming the
fashion, that summer, to pop down to Venice and take a look at
the Lansings. Streffy had set the example, and Streffy’s
example was always followed. And then Susy’s marriage was still
a subject of sympathetic speculation. People knew the story of
the wedding cheques, and were interested in seeing how long they
could be made to last. It was going to be the thing, that year,
to help prolong the honeymoon by pressing houses on the
adventurous couple. Before June was over a band of friends were
basking with the Lansings on the Lido.
Nick found himself unexpectedly disturbed by their arrival. To
avoid comment and banter he put his book aside and forbade Susy
to speak of it, explaining to her that he needed an interval of
rest. His wife instantly and exaggeratedly adopted this view,
guarding him from the temptation to work as jealously as she had
discouraged him from idling; and he was careful not to let her
find out that the change in his habits coincided with his having
reached a difficult point in his book. But though he was not
sorry to stop writing he found himself unexpectedly oppressed by
the weight of his leisure. For the first time communal dawdling
had lost its charm for him; not because his fellow dawdlers were
less congenial than of old, but because in the interval he had
known something so immeasurably better. He had always felt
himself to be the superior of his habitual associates, but now
the advantage was too great: really, in a sense, it was hardly
fair to them.
He had flattered himself that Susy would share this feeling; but
he perceived with annoyance that the arrival of their friends
heightened her animation. It was as if the inward glow which
had given her a new beauty were now refracted upon her by the
presence of the very people they had come to Venice to avoid.
Lansing was vaguely irritated; and when he asked her how she
liked being with their old crowd again his irritation was
increased by her answering with a laugh that she only hoped the
poor dears didn’t see too plainly how they bored her. The
patent insincerity of the reply was a shock to Lansing. He knew
that Susy was not really bored, and he understood that she had
simply guessed his feelings and instinctively adopted them:
that henceforth she was always going to think as he thought. To
confirm this fear he said carelessly: “Oh, all the same, it’s
rather jolly
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