The Age Of Desire: A Novel Part 26

Anna smiles and nods. Imagine what people will think when she shares a table for two with Mr. Schultze. She can hardly envision the stir!

And so for the rest of the journey, she dines with Mr. Schultze. She walks with Mr. Schultze. She sits on the deck and reads side by side with Mr. Schultze. Every night before she goes to her cabin, he kisses her hand with the graciousness of a bygone courtier.

"How nice that you have made friends with that older gentleman!" one of the ladies who had shared a table with her says when she pa.s.ses her in the grand salon one morning.

"Yes, he's very kind."

"I do believe I see a blooming romance. Perhaps he will ask you to marry him." The woman, who must be about forty, is the sort of long-nosed, gossipy soul that will pa.s.s on all she is told to the rest of the table, to the ladies with whom she plays whist, to the cabin maid and anyone else who is foolish enough to listen.

Anna laughs. "It's nice of you to be interested in me. But it is a friends.h.i.+p, nothing more."

"Well, we're all cheering for you, Miss Bahlmann. He looks like quite a catch, although since no one can understand him, no one is certain who he is."

"He manufactures steel," Anna says. She is happy to pa.s.s this on to whomever Mrs. Brewer will grace with the tale.

"Indeed!"

"He owns four factories in Germany."

"Well, that does make him sound quite prosperous. And aren't you lucky that you speak German and can converse with him. It appears your journey abroad will not be for naught."

Anna winces.

"My journey abroad will not be for naught, no matter whom I meet. I did not come to meet a man."

"Come, Miss Bahlmann. Every single woman wants to meet a man. It's what we women are made for, no?"

"I am made to aid in the writing of novels, Mrs. Brewer. To make my employer's life simpler. And to teach. That's what I was made for."

Mrs. Brewer purses her lips. She gazes at Anna.

"And do you wish to tell me that even if you had the opportunity to marry a steel magnate, you'd turn it down to be a typewriter for some lady novelist?"

"Yes," Anna says. "That's precisely what I wish to tell you," she says and then rushes away. "I have to meet my friend the steel magnate in the Palm Court." She wonders how long it will be until her conversation is on the lips of everyone on the Amerika.

One night as Anna and Mr. Schultze stroll along the deck under a s.h.i.+mmering moon, he asks her, "Do you think while you are in Germany, you might come and visit one of my factories?"

"Do you really want me to?" she asks.

"Well, I don't know whether you'll be in Essen or Stuttgart. But if you are, I'd be so pleased to show you. My factories are dreadfully noisy, and I'm afraid that the smell of steelmaking isn't very pleasant. But the energy there, the very brawniness, will excite you. I guarantee it."

"Then I'd be very pleased to come if I'm nearby. I would like to experience the world that excites you so much."

He reaches out and takes her hand in his, swings it subtly as they walk, and glances at her, smiling like a shy young beau. She notes the surprising softness of his skin, the sweetness of his touch. She thinks if she had met him thirty years ago, she might actually have fallen in love with him. She can imagine herself moving to Germany as a young bride, making a home for Mr. Schultze, setting his table with silver and laying out his clothes each day. She can imagine watching as he grew wealthy and important. But now, the thought of romance is a puzzle piece that no longer fits. She wishes to gaze on the house where Goethe was born in Frankfurt am Main and the house where he died in Weimar. To drink Italian wine overlooking a field of sunflowers. She wishes to meet many people from many lands and speak to them in all the languages that she knows. And then, she wishes most of all to return to Edith and Teddy, to Gross and White and Cook. To 882 and her books. To the life that has been kindly allotted her, that she does not wish to trade in, as flawed as it may suddenly be.

After Sally and Eliot have each been delivered to their trains to resume their own lives, Carl Snyder lingers in Edith's. He spends afternoons perusing books that Edith has recommended, sitting cross-legged on a bench in the cutting garden. At night, after Teddy has gone to bed, he perches close to his hostess, telling her the books she's given him are the education he never got, having been so caught up in science cla.s.ses as a young man. He watches Edith with that sad, longing look he never loses. He's taken to touching her hand often, kissing her good night. Once he embraces her before bed, and she feels his heart beating wildly against her chest. While Carl's infatuation warms and amuses her, her misery over Morton's inexplicable silence squeezes her every breath. She dreams about him. Nightmares every time. He is laughing at her. He is telling her he never loved her. He is dancing with Katherine.

On the thirty-first, a stack of correspondence arrives in the afternoon post. A postcard from Anna from the Amerika. How joyous she sounds! She says she has made a wonderful friend on board, and is grateful for the beautiful stateroom that Edith has given her. She describes the women in their jewels and the color of the sky at sea. Edith misses her. She cringes at having sent her away to protect her from her own bad temper.

And then Edith lifts an envelope of heavy woven paper. Even before she sees the handwriting she knows who's sent it. She feels surprisingly angry and thrilled in equal measure. If Morton only knew how much he's made her suffer. For a moment, she is afraid to slice it open.

It's better to know, she finally tells herself, remembering with an ache the elation she used to feel slipping her knife into his pet.i.ts bleus each morning. How connected she felt to him back then, as though a glistening strand of spider silk always s.h.i.+vered between them, stretching when they were apart, turning when they turned. Now there is far more than Carl's vast ocean parting Morton's heart from hers.

My dear, I have just received your cable. I am sorry to have worried you. Simply put, I thought it best, seeing as you were suffering from the distance between us, not to write. You did, after all, tell me not to write, and I took you at your word. I felt it better for your new novel if you had no thought of me. And after all the good true moments we've shared, I want you to be as joyous as you were beneath our curtain of lilacs. (Every second of that hour for me was but the promise of dearer moments to come.) I did not want to think of you miserable and pining for someone far away who could give you no peace.

You see, there have been worries with me I can't share with you at present. I count on being able to tell you by autumn that these dreadful problems have sorted themselves, and that I am no longer worried. And then I will be kinder to my dearest friends. It is difficult to be generous when one is under a cloud of anxiety, n'est ce pas? But after your year of concern over Teddy, you know whereof I speak, chere.

Last night I saw La Princesse de Cleves at the Theatre des Artes and thought of you and how you would have enjoyed it. It is too hot here, and the theatre was steaming. Two women fainted. It hasn't rained in three weeks and with this heat, the Seine has never been lower. I fear for the fully filled tourist boats. I imagine they will sc.r.a.pe the bottom and stick there like ugly wads of American chewing gum stick to streets where tourists have dropped them.

You said you couldn't bear the dwindling and the fading of our feelings for one another, and though my feelings have not faded, I thought I was doing your bidding. But if it was only a moment of misery that made you write it, then I am yours,

Morton

He is mine, she thinks, and smiles at the thought, touches the very words. I am yours. All this time he says he didn't write her because he thought it best, and yet . . . is he being honest? How can she be sure from thousands of miles away?

Teddy comes trudging into the library in his socks, perspiring, panting.

"No shoes?" she asks.

"I was mucking out the pigpens. My shoes were covered in mud. I left them downstairs for Laurette to clean. Dear little Lawton always looks sad when I leave. Won't you come down and see him? Carl has. He says he's the finest pig he'd ever seen. I do believe I love Lawton as much as our little babies." He lifts Nicette from the floor and cuddles her against his sweat-soaked s.h.i.+rt. "You have compet.i.tion, Lady Nicette."

"You should take a bath," Edith says. "You smell of the pigpen."

"Nicette likes it. Don't you, girl? You like it that I stink!"

"Put her down and take a bath," Edith says, quietly attempting to push Morton's letter beneath the newspaper that came with the afternoon post.

"What are you up to?" Teddy asks, looking over at her desk. Up to? Does he suspect? Or is it just an innocent question? These days, she hardly knows how to read him.

"Just reading through my mail. Go wash yourself. You make the whole room reek." She envisions his belly, which, with all his drinking, has recently become ridiculously globular, poking out of the bathwater.

"What is that? A postcard from Anna?" he says, grabbing Anna's card with his free hand, turning it over, reading it. Edith pushes Morton's letter even farther beneath the newspaper.

"She's having herself a fine time already. Happy to see it. Dear woman. Do you want to read it, Nicette? It's from Miss Anna! No. You just want to eat it. That would be rude. What? Don't look hurt. It just doesn't belong to you. It was addressed to your Mama. Nicette, Nicette, Nicette, I do love you!" He buries his damp face into her fur-m.u.f.f back.

And then he sets her down and heads for the door.

"All right then, au revoir, p.u.s.s.ycat!"

Edith s.h.i.+vers at how wrongly he p.r.o.nounces the French. "Oh Rev-oy-er." She hears him pad down the hall. Good G.o.d, the man leaves a trail of stench behind him. Edith closes her eyes, wis.h.i.+ng she never had to open them to Teddy Wharton again.

That night, she writes back to Morton. At first his letter felt like a great relief. Especially his hopeful mention of the lilac bower. But then the poisonous anxiety of so many days of silence boils up while she sits at dinner with Carl and Teddy chatting about cattle, and she feels more indignant than relieved. Joyous? He wishes her to be joyous? The absurdity of it makes her want to bang her head against the wall.

Having shed Carl's clinging presence by telling Teddy that the two of them should take a walk along the ridge to see the best view of the sunset, she settles at her desk and begins: At last, my dearest, your letter of the 21st . . . Que voulez vous que je vous dise? [Already she is angry in French. Will she make it through this letter without screaming at him for his cruelty?] Your silence of nineteen days seems to me a very conclusive, antic.i.p.ated answer to my miserable cry! You didn't wait to be asked what was "best"!

But don't read a hint of reproach in this. I have spent three weeks of horrible sadness, because I feared from your silence that within ten days of our good-bye the very meaning of me had become a weariness. And I suffered-no matter how much-but I said to myself: "I chose the risk, I accept the consequences." And that is what I shall always say. [She must make him see he hasn't fully destroyed her-although so many days he did, he has. . . . ]

Only, cher, one must be a little blind-or else a little relieved at the "reasonableness" of my att.i.tude-to read in my note of the 11th anything but an appeal for frankness-a desperate desire to know, at once, and have the thing over. [Could he have truly believed she meant "Don't write"? Was he so insensitive to have believed her? Even poor oblivious Carl Snyder would have known better!] Don't be afraid! I can only reiterate it. Anything on earth would be better (I've learned that in these last three weeks) than to sit here and wonder: What was I to him, then? I a.s.sure you I've practiced my "Non dolet!"

She scolds him for wanting her to be joyous. She excoriates him for suggesting that not hearing from him or thinking about him would be better for her novel. If he were any other man, she would have dismissed him as a complete fool, a manipulator, a cad. But these words were from Morton. Her beloved.

It would be a great joy if you could send me a line once a week-only never, never under compulsion!-And, when your plans are settled-about coming to America,-if you were to tell me it would be kind. Even if you're not coming, I should be rid of the ache of wondering. . . .

Dearest, I love you so deeply that you owe me just one thing-the truth. Never be afraid to say: "Ma pauvre amie, c'est fini." That is what I meant when I said I couldn't bear to watch the dwindling and fading. When the time comes, just put my notes and letters in a bundle and send them back, and I shall understand. I am like one who went out seeking for friends.h.i.+p, and found a kingdom. Don't you suppose I know that the blessedness is all on my side?

That night, she expects to sleep well, but she's miserable in her lonely bed, her pillow a mountain range, her sheets on fire. And then with no sheets, she s.h.i.+vers. With no pillow, her neck twitches and burns. But her physical wretchedness is the least of it. She struggles helplessly between sadness and fury. Feelings she has tamped down for weeks and weeks, now released like Pandora's terrors, flying around her room, biting at her heart. Sighing and flailing, she finally gets up and sharply parts the drapes to look out over the valley. Clouds circle the moon, ever moving, crossing the nearly full orb, weakening its mighty beam. Down below, bathed in milky light, she sees Carl pacing the terrace in his robe. He must have awakened too. Or never slept. Does he suffer from longing as she does? For her. For her! She can hardly believe it. She wishes she could ease him, even imagines going down in her robe to talk to him. To hold him. To kiss him. But she doesn't. Her heart is tied up like a hog headed for market. If only she could send Morton Fullerton to market instead! All summer she has hated her own husband, imagined him dead, for he stood between her and the one soul she's loved more than any other. Now her anger is beaming across the Atlantic to that very soul, to the cafe where he sits at night with his books, his thick coffee. No, it's already morning in Paris. He is walking to his office, his ebony mustache catching the sunlight, his eyes as blue as the cornflowers on china. His crisp, perfect clothes. His polished shoes. She wants to slap him. She wants to hold him. She wants to be near him. She wants to open her clothes again just once for him. Just once! She wants everything she can't have. The pain is excruciating. Cracked ribs, torn muscles couldn't hurt more. She once heard of a man in so much pain he scratched his very eyes out. She would. She could! Instead she cries, lets out a sound like a banshee into the silence. Teddy is drunk, won't hear a thing. Carl is far downstairs. She cries and cries. Until, damp and weak, she tumbles at last into a dead sleep.

In the morning, she drags herself to breakfast. Carl is there, wan and quiet.

"I saw you last night," she tells him. "Out on the terrace. Are you all right?"

"I'm going back today," he says very quietly.

"Are you? I understood you were staying through the weekend." He catches her eyes and stares at her, smiling weakly.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asks, his voice rising with hope.

She hesitates too long. This is how Morton must feel, she thinks. Trapped into a lie to ease my pain.

"I'm going," he says. "You want me to go. I've been here too long."

"I think you should go if you're ready to go," she tells him.

He nods and closes his eyes.

"If someone could take me to the train."

"Of course."

She sees the sorrow, the defeat in his eyes. He is as angry at himself as he is at her. For loving someone so unavailable to him. She understands that also . . . far more than he knows.

That afternoon after Carl has gone, a letter is delivered telling her that Walter will arrive at The Mount the following Friday on his way up to see his ailing mother before he leaves for Cairo, where he has been appointed a judge at the International Tribunal. Edith feels a sense of relief that could only be compared to letting out a breath after holding it until one's lungs burn. The thought of laying her sadness in his large hands eases her immeasurably.

On the morning of Walter's scheduled arrival, Teddy is preparing to go fis.h.i.+ng for a week with a Peter Van Gelder, a New York friend who drives up in his own motorcar. It's starting to rain, and, already in a nervous buzz, Teddy insists on packing too many accessories and jackets and three pairs of waders because he can't decide which he likes best. When Teddy goes back into the house for more, Peter leans toward Edith.

"Edith, do tell me. Is he quite all right? He seems a bit wild."

Edith steels herself. If Teddy doesn't leave the house, she thinks she might go mad. She's been looking forward to Teddy's leaving almost as much as she's been counting the days until Walter's arrival.

"Nothing to worry about. He's a bit overexcited lately. But not sad like he was in Paris." She can see in Peter's eyes that he's weighing whether he should take Ted on the trip at all.

"You'll have a wonderful time," she rea.s.sures him. "You know how much Teddy loves nature! You're doing the kindest thing by taking him."

Teddy arrives back just in time to keep Peter from speculating further.

When they drive off, Edith stands in the rain waving gaily and feels alive for the first time in days. By afternoon the sun is not just out, but glistening, as Walter arrives in the wagon. His lanky body, which always strikes Edith as taller than she remembered, and his energetic certainty fill The Mount with a fresh sense of hope.

"My darling!" he declares, doffing his straw boater and enfolding her in his arms. "When I am with you, I feel at home."

She loves his dry, exotic scent, no doubt bought years ago in Paris, his elegant clothes always so rich-today a beautiful white linen summer suit, velvety at the edge from too much was.h.i.+ng. She wishes he would hold her in his arms for an hour. No one makes her feel more at peace than Walter!

In Hamburg, Thomas Schultze insists on staying for a few days to show Anna around, and he begs her to change her itinerary to accompany him to Essen to see his factories. But even after hours of walking together through the streets and over the ca.n.a.ls of Hamburg, enjoying the musical theatre and dining in the cafes, she cannot imagine their s.h.i.+pboard friends.h.i.+p going further than it's gone. She has never seen this turn in her life as an option and it confuses her. Why should Thomas, wealthy and smart, choose Anna of all women? Why should any man choose her? At her age. Her hair more white than golden . . . and still a maiden.

After a vibrant staging of Die Brautwerbung, they stop for a gla.s.s of wine in a small restaurant near her hotel. The room is dark and a sole violinist bows sad melodies that twist and lose themselves in the walls of dark velvet curtains.

"So will you come to Essen with me tomorrow?" he asks, leaning forward. "We could stay a month in Hamburg, there is so much to do! But I have so hoped you'll let me show you Essen."

His eyes are s.h.i.+mmering. He has a young spirit, she thinks. And he is good company. Not too domineering or opinionated, but with firm, clear views of the world. And a desire to know more about everything.

"I'm tempted, Mr. Schultze. But my cousins are waiting. And my time abroad is limited. I must go on with my trip."

"You haven't enjoyed Hamburg?"

"I have. Immensely."

"And my company?"

"Even more." She looks down at her hands.

"And you won't, then, come on to Essen for a few days?"

"I . . ."

"Look at me, Anna." He has never called her by her first name before. His deep, thoughtful voice reaches her very depths.

She looks up to see his face in the candlelight.

"Why won't you change your plans?" he asks. "I was hoping you could meet my daughters, get a taste of my life . . . see my factories."

"My cousins are waiting for me to arrive. . . . I've looked forward to my trip for so long, you see, and I have so little time to take in what I've planned."

Disappointment crumples Thomas's mouth. But he nods.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Yes."

There is a long moment of silence. Anna sips her wine, feeling a tumultuousness inside that the wine can't settle. She is afraid he will argue. And she will say yes just to please him. She doesn't want it to come to that.

But Thomas is not the sort of man to argue or cajole.