snow covered the world, a dense dirge of white sounding deep into the black web of the woods. clouds moved low in the sky, heavy and morose, unsilvered by the sifting sun. the hills were like the great billows of a milky sea. a silence as of suspense seemed to press ponderous and prophetic upon the land.
england again: sullen skies and the sullen atmosphere of saltire society! autumn had passed in a wizard blaze of gold. sympathies had clashed at the outset like brazen cymbals. at paris millinery had appealed to the one, the louvre had possessed the other. at rome the feminine mind had yawned under the shadow of st. peter’s, while the male had moved musingly amid ruins. florence had proffered nothing to ophelia save opportunities for grumbling over the table d’h?te; raphael and the great michael had called to gabriel from the accademia delle bell’ arti. at ravenna the man had meditated over the tomb of dante. at venice the brackish flavor of the canals had eliminated the least leaning towards romance in the honorable ophelia’s skull. the affair had proved to her one long progress of monotonies. she had yawned through italy as she would have yawned through the pages of the pilgrim’s progress. the antique exasperated her beyond belief; its dim philosophy offended the sensuous greed of the present. she had more than once suggested to gabriel that he had been formed by nature to be a frowsy curio dealer, hoarding medi?valisms in a dusty shop. the temper of neither had improved during the sojourn amid vineyards and olive thickets. the woman’s mood had grown symbolical of etna; the man’s had ascended towards alpine regions of perpetual snow.
an irreligious man may be a very passable creature; an irreligious woman is a production more sinister than a double-headed leopard. love and the adoration of a deity should be woven up in a true woman’s heart like the purple and gold threads of a sacramental garment. atheism in a woman is an offence against the spirit of maternity. the gusset girls had been bred upon an apathetic culture-ground and fostered on certain pert ethical concoctions that based a complacent liberty on reason. they went to church on occasions, and encouraged the bourgeois folk in a creed that they had been taught to regard with benignant condescension. lord gerald detested lengthy sermons and anything bordering on calvinism. in the one brief burst of mental energy of youth he had imbibed the tenets of a certain philosophical school, and these rather flimsy convictions had propped him in an amiable epicureanism for the remainder of his earthly existence.
that she may escape the inherent perversity of her nature, a woman without a creed must indeed be possessed by phenomenal instincts towards saintliness. nor was ophelia strong anything of a saint, even in the most lax rendering of the epithet. she was a woman of the world; a very modern production, an admixture of the extreme pleasurableness of imperial rome with the cool and impertinent independence of the moneyed scion of contemporary life. the smart lady of fashion cannot be expected to garb herself in dowdy and bourgeois morality. the domestic virtues are becoming obsolete in many feminine brains. they are to be classed with samplers, crochet-work, cookery books, tracts, and other relics of vulgar superstition. ophelia strong was one of those ladies who live to the minute, revel in sensations, and believe in the employment of certain fashionable and shady members of the medical profession.
there was little cause for wonder that gabriel and his wife should have discovered traces of mutual incompatibility before many months had elapsed. the one lived for the life within, the other for the life without. marry an acrasia to a st. christopher and you will provide material enough to keep cynics employed for a century. there is no inherent unreason in strife under particular circumstances. a man may as well attempt to cultivate the sahara as to perfect home life with a woman pledged to the demon worship of all that is vain and artificial. the modern fashionable person is an enlightened and independent spirit. a splendid emancipation scoffs at the barbarous ethics of the parlor. ?sthetic and piquant mischief is preferred to sincerity garbed in black bonnet, mackintosh, and galoshes.
thus it may be recorded without exaggeration that a four months’ honeymoon on the continent had not bourgeoned into deep marital blessedness. gabriel and his wife had returned to saltire in a certain dubious temper that did not flatter the future with prospects of peace. there were errors on both sides; inconsistencies in either character. a look of heavy petulance reigned on the woman’s face, and she had become addicted to hysterical outbursts of passion. gabriel still wore his melancholy, werther-like smile. the evolutions of marriage had not astonished his reason. the first squabble in a parisian hotel had prepared him for the mockery that was to be. he was a man who could distil a species of melancholy intoxication from his own troubles. they barred him in upon himself and intensified to his mind the face of the girl who had stirred his blood in the summer that had gone. it is only when night comes that man beholds the stars.
saltire had welcomed the couple with quivering tongues. mrs. marjoy’s spectacles had glimmered feverishly in the saltire drawing-rooms, and her charity had dipped its forked irony in vinegar as of yore. the misses snodley were sentimental and expectant. even john strong’s enthusiasm was still rosy as a peony and bathotic as stale beer. he and lord gerald were much at dinner together, and political problems hung heavy over these titanic minds. it was decreed as a matter of course that the young folk were supremely contented, bathed in a dotage of sensuous bliss. the misses snodley declared that ophelia looked twice the woman since the hallowed influence of marriage had breathed upon her soul. as for gabriel, they could vow that he had the orthodox joy of paternity gravely writ upon his face. and yet mrs. marjoy licked her teeth and sneered.
it was winter, late in january, with snow on the ground and no wind moving. the saltire hills were white under the moon, checkered with the black umbrage of the woods. stars gemmed the bare trees, that rose gaunt, tumultuous, and morose about the tiled roofs of the friary. a warm glow streamed betwixt damask curtains, tincturing the snow. a ghostly quiet brooded calm and passionless in the night. the dark pines on the hills stood like a silent host, watchful, multitudinous, mute.
gabriel and his wife were at dinner, embalmed in the sanctity of matrimonial solitude. a shaven-faced man-servant stood behind gabriel’s chair. candles were burning on the table under red lace shades. a silver epergne full of christmas roses stood upon a richly embroidered centre of green and gold. glass and silver scintillated on the immaculate cloth. the greater part of the room lay in shadow.
ophelia, in a light blue tea-gown, sipped her claret and looked unseraphically at the man half hidden from her by flowers. tension had arisen that day over certain very minor matters, domestic and otherwise. the conversation during dinner had been unimaginative and monosyllabic. the starched and glazed man-servant by the sideboard had stood, chin in air, staring into space.
ophelia dispelled at last a silence that had lasted for some minutes.
“going skating to-morrow?”
“possibly.”
the wife toyed with a savory and looked at her plate.
“do you ever make up your mind on any subject under the sun?” she remarked, with a crude curl of her long lip.
“i never trouble my brain, dear, over trifles.”
“what a limp animal you are. pah, there’s too much pepper in this stuff! take it away, james. and you can go. leave the crumbs; we’ll picnic over dessert.”
the man whisked the plates away, set wines and liqueurs on the table, and departed, closing the door gently. ophelia pulled a dish of preserved fruit towards her and nibbled irritably.
“look here, gabriel,” she said.
her husband began handling a pair of silver nut-crackers.
“well, dear?”
“i wish you wouldn’t be so curt before the servants. they might think we’d been married ten years by your manners. you never seem to consider me. if i wish a thing you immediately contradict me. i suppose my very wishing it is enough to set your temper on edge. you never seem to think i need amusing.”
“my dear girl, i suppose i am dull at times.”
“dull! you put it mildly.”
“indeed!”
“for heaven’s sake, stop cracking those nuts. i have a beastly headache, and you fidget me to death. you men are so abominably selfish. do you ever realize that we have been stuffed down in this place a month; i am getting sick of being bored out of my skin every hour of the day. i tell you, i can’t stand it; it’s getting on my nerves. we must rake up a house-party or do something outrageous. i never imagined you could be such a brutal dullard.”
the man laughed half cynically. the philosophic part of him was amused despite the occasion.
“you forget that we have become orthodox and respectable,” he said, “that we are expected to rent a pew in church, subscribe to missionary enterprises, exist on hash for lunch, and renounce the devil and all his angels. i am sorry i have contrived to become so abominably orthodox. i am only endeavoring to live up to middle-class ideals, dumpling-and-treacle philosophy, the ethics of top-hats and mid-day dinners on sunday. perhaps you might suggest some new and original piece of wickedness.”
the sally had no emollient effect upon ophelia’s petulance. her claws were out; and she was not a woman who could regain her amiability within half a day. she could lose most things, even her purse, with facility, but a grievance clung like a rubefacient plaster.
“one would think you had married me to be amused,” she said.
“yours is the eve’s part of the compact.”
“as a matter of fact, you seem to care more for a shilling volume of essays than for my company.”
“really!”
“no woman should allow a library to exist in her house.”
“my dear girl, you are surely not jealous of schopenhauer?”
“i have never heard of the fellow.”
“perhaps it is as well; he is somewhat caustic.”
the wife gathered her gown and prepared to depart to the drawing-room. gabriel opened the door for her. she gave him a look as she went out.
“i shall expect you in half an hour for billiards.”
“i will attempt to be punctual. tell james to serve my coffee in the library.”
“drat the library.” came the retort.
now whether it was pure perversity on gabriel’s part, or the romantic mesmerism of the work on which he was engaged, an honest eighty minutes had passed before he appeared in the red-and-white salon. clouds had blackened still further the spiritual atmosphere. the fire had died to embers; a cheap novel lay dishevelled on the hearth-rug as though precipitated there in a moment of irritation. ophelia was sitting with her feet on the fender, her chin resting on her clinched fists.
gabriel closed the door gently, picked up the book, appropriated a chair, and sat down. he was even impolitic enough to yawn behind his hand. the storm seethed two paces away, gathering satirical bitterness over the listless fire.
“i hope you have amused yourself.”
the man glanced up, more surprise than apology upon his face. he was in a conciliatory mood; his wife’s voice was more than ominous of injured sentiment.
“i have been writing,” he said; “the hour after dinner is one of my most enlightened periods. my imagination kindles.”
“imagination!”
the twinge of irony was admirable.
“you surely don’t consider such stuff literature?”
“i have hopes for myself.”
the lady tittered amiably and exhaled transcendent pity.
“your conceit is really very amusing,” she remarked. “it is really too funny to think that you take yourself seriously. you—an author! my dear gabriel, you are really too absurd.”
now a man perhaps is never so sensitive as in the matter of mental acumen. scoff at his ability as at a fond and fatuous delusion, a ridiculous piece of egotism, and you bid fair to touch his vanity to the quick. you may insult his figure with impunity, but it is dangerous to blaspheme against his mind.
“my dear girl, i hardly expect you to sympathize with me on such subjects.”
“naturally you consider me beneath your notice.”
“you are not a competent critic.”
“no, i am a woman with common-sense.”
gabriel stared hard at the fire.
“can i expect you to understand the deeper side of my soul?” he said.
“well, dear, the domestic side is shallow enough for me to form a fair estimate of the literary.”
the man winced despite himself.
“you are very kind,” he said.
“i only want to protest against your abominable selfishness.”
“selfishness!”
the wife flung herself back upon her cushions.
“perhaps you think yourself insulted,” she said. “you marry a woman, neglect her, treat her to inconceivable dulness on all possible occasions. you give her the residuum of your intellect, the lees of your leisure. books, books, twaddle, twaddle, from morning to night. i did not marry a library or a second-hand book-store. do you ever consider my position?”
the man still stared into the grate.
“i have given you a home and myself,” he said. “you cannot expect me to dangle at your skirts all day long. i have lived much with books and my own thoughts till now; you must understand that i cannot give up all that was great in my mind before our marriage. is all the selfishness on my side?”
“at any rate, all the dulness seems on mine.”
“what more do you desire me to give you?”
“a little consideration might be courteous. am i to be boxed up in a country-house with a tea merchant’s son who thinks he is a genius and leaves me to exist on novels and coffee. you forget that i am not a frump of fifty. i want to live, although you have married me.”
“live, by all means,” said the man.
“i want some pleasure in life.”
“excitement and fashionable bonbons, i suppose.”
the woman lost the remnant of her temper and flashed up on the instant.
“gabriel, i won’t be jeered at like this. you are an utter brute. stay here and grub in your books like a hermit. i am not going to be a martyr to your vanity. i’m sick of your sour face. thank heaven, i can find amiability outside my own home. i shall take a holiday.”
the man stood up and still stared apathetically at the fire. his shoulders drooped and he looked sullenly dejected.
“try a change, dear, by all means,” he said; “you seem to need it. i am a bit of a bookworm, i know. you must make allowance for me. i suppose you don’t want such a dull dog to travel with you.”
“thanks. i can enjoy myself better alone.”
“very good.”
“there is no need for me to come between you and your genius. no. i am not so vain as to desire that.”
a quarter of an hour later gabriel had drawn back the curtains and thrown open the french window that looked out upon the lawns. snow sparkled at his feet. the trees rose dark and solemn from the immaculate plain of winter; the stars were frost-brilliant in the heavens. near stood a tall cypress with its shelving ledges gleaming white with snow. the keen breath of the night wrapped the man in a clear and spiritual atmosphere.
snow upon the trees and on the hills! snow, pure, passionless, and silent, flickered over by the faint wisdom of the stars! all the sweat and turmoil of the world seemed congealed into soundless sleep. the blood of the earth lay frozen in its great passionate heart. love, hardened into ice, stood a purple pool of lifeless wine. a million centuries might have elapsed till the sun had waned into a half-molten sphere; and the earth, cold and immaculate at last, rushed icy-bosomed through perpetual night. a dead planet, a ghost world, a moon staring spectre-like on the blood-red passions of living stars! a dead planet, treading the universal cycle, cold, sunless, and without sin! the million atomic struggles tombed; the ant-heap of humanity petrified in the past! what, then, are the woes of man, when god’s eyes have watched the death agony of a thousand worlds!
and yet this microcosm outvapors the universe. his passions aspire to stir the faintest ripples of the most infinite ether. framed in the likeness of god, his sphere is limitless, his future unfathomed. the old mythologies raised him amid the stars. mayhap in ages to come he is transmogrified into a radiant being moving amid the vapors of a more stupendous sun.
and gabriel! gabriel thought on matters less sidereal at that moment. the stars were given sedilia whence they might stare upon the portentous tragedy working in the soul of a minor poet. the man had married clay, clay hot from the kiln of fleshliness; it had warmed him, but now it was as cold as the very snow. he had bartered away the spirit, and materialism had him wrist and ankle. the small stars of idealism had toppled out of the heavens. he was setting them back one by one like an artist frescoing the dome of a temple. still, a woman held him by the loins; the church had blessed the embrace, for the perpetuation of demi-gods and the unctuous preservation of morality. the problem was threadbare enough in all truth, and yet problems possess the power of perpetual rejuvenescence. sin, error, and pain, those elixirs of life, keep the world quivering in the primal throes of existence. the christian and the buddhist tug at humanity, head and tail, while death throws pebbles into an open grave.
