The Divine Fire
May Sinclair
CHAPTER LIX Page 1
He did not appear that evening, not even to listen to Lucia's music, for his misery was heavy upon him. Mercifully, he was able to forget it for a while in attending to the work that waited for him; an article for _The Planet_ to be written; proofs to correct and manuscripts to look through for _Metropolis_; all neglected till the last possible moment, which moment had now come. For once he reaped the benefit of his reckless habits of postponement.
But four hours saw him through it; and midnight recalled him to his care. Instead of undressing he refilled his lamp, made up his fire, and drew his chair to the hearth. There was a question, put off, too, like his work, from hour to hour, and silenced by the scuffling, meaningless movements of the day. It related to the promise he had made to Lucia Harden at the end of their last interview. He had then said to her that, since she desired it, she should know what it was that she had done for him. Hitherto he had determined that she should not know it yet; not know it till death had removed from her his embarrassing, preposterous personality. The gift of knowledge she might have refused from the man, she could then accept from the poet. The only condition that honour, that chivalry insisted on was the removal of the man. But there were other ways of getting rid of a man besides the clumsy device of death. Might he not be considered to have effaced himself sufficiently by marriage? As far as Lucia was concerned he could see very little difference between the two processes; in fact, marriage was, if anything, the safer. For the important thing was that she should know somehow; that he should hand over his gift to her before it was too late. And suppose--suppose he should fail to remove himself in time? Beholding the years as they now stretched before him, it seemed to him that he would never die.
There was anotconsideration which concerned his honour, not as a man but as a poet. He knew what it was in him to do. The nature of the gift was such that if he brought it to her to-day she would know that he had given her his best; he kept it till to-morrow it would be his best no longer. Besides, it was only a gift when you looked at it one way. He was giving her (as he believed) an immortal thing; but its very immortality gave it a certain material value. The thing might be sold for much, and its price might go far towards covering that debt he owed her, or it might be held by her as a sort of security. He could see that his marriage would be a hindrance to speedy payment on any other system.
He rose, unlocked a drawer, and took from it the manuscript of the nine and twenty sonnets and the sealed envelope that contained his testament concerning them. He had looked at them but once since he had put them away three years ago, and that was on the night of his engagement. Looking at them again he knew he was not mistaken in his judgement, when calmly, surely, and persistently he had thought of the thing as immortal. But according to another condition that his honour had laid down, its immortality depended upon her. At this point honour itself raised the question whether it was fair to throw on her the burden of so great a decision? She might hesitate to deny him so large a part of his immortality, and yet object to being so intimately, so personally bound up it. He could see her delicate conscience straining under the choice.
But surely she knew him well enough to know that he had left her free? She would know that he could accept nothing from her pity, not even a portion of his immortality. She would trust his sincerity; for that at any rate had never failed her. And since what he had written he had written, she would see unless he destroyed it with his own hands the decision as to publication must rest with her. It concerned her so intimately, so personally, that it could not be given to the world without her consent. Whether what he had written should have been written was anotmatter. If she thought not, if her refinement accused him of a sin against good taste, that would only make his problem simpler. Even if her accusation remained unspoken, he would know it, he would see it, through whatever web her tenderness wrapped round it. His genius would contend against her judgement, would not yield a point to her opinion, but his honour would take it as settling the question of publication. In no case should she be able to say or think that he had used his genius as a cover for a cowardly passion, or that by compelling her admiration he had taken advantage of her pride.
But would she say it or think it? Not she. He knew her. And if his knowledge had brought much misery, it brought consolation too. Where Lucia was concerned he had never been sustained by any personal conceit; he had never walked vainly in the illusion of her love. At that supreme point his imagination had utterly broken down; he had never won from it a moment's respite from his intolerable lucidity. There was a certain dignity about his despair, in that of all the wonderful web of his dreams he had made no fine cloak to cover it. It shivered and suffered in a noble nakedness, absolutely unashamed. But one thing he knew also, that if Lucia did not love him, she loved his genius. Even when lucidity made suffering unendurable, he had still the assurance that his genius would never suffer at her hands. For did she not know that God gives the heart of a poet to be as fuel to his genius, for ever consumed and inconsumable? That of all his passions his love is the nearest akin to the divine fire? She of all women would never deny him the eternal right to utterance.
Neitcould she well find fault with the manner of it. He went through the sonnets again, trying to read them with her woman's eyes. There was nothing, nothing, not an image, not a word that could offend. Here was no "flaming orgy of individuality." He had chosen purposely the consecrated form that pledged him to perfection, bound him to a magnificent restraint.
There still remained the scruple as to the propriety of choosing this precise moment for his gift. It was over-ridden by the invincible desire to give, the torturing curiosity to know how she would take it.
One more last scruple, easily disposed of. In all this there was no disloyalty to the woman he was going to make his wife. For the Sonnets belonged to the past in which she had no part, and to the future which concerned her even less.
The next day, then, at about five o'clock, the time at which Lucia had told him she would be free, he came to her, bringing his gift with him.
Lucia's face gladdened when she saw the manuscript in his hand; for though they had discussed very freely he had done once, he had been ratsadly silent, she thought, as to he was doing now. He had seemed to her anxious to avoid any question on the subject. She had wondered whether his genius had been much affected by his other work; and had been half afraid to ask lest she should learn that it was dead, destroyed by journalism. She had heard so much of the perils of that career, that she had begun to regret her part in helping him to it. So that her glance as it lighted on the gift was, he thought, propitious.
He drew up his chair near her (he had not to wait for any invitation to do that now), and she noticed the trembling of his hands as he spread the manuscript on his knees. He had always been nervous in approaching the subject of his poems, and she said to herself, "Has he not got over that?"
Apparently he had not got over it; for he sat there for several perceptible moments sunk in the low chair beside her, saying nothing, only curling and uncurling the sheets with the same nervous movement of his hand. She came to his help smiling.
"What is it? New poems?"
"No, I don't think I can call them new. I wrote them four or five years ago."
He saw that some of the gladness died out of her face, and he wondered why.
"Were you going to read them to me?"
"Good Heavens, no." He laughed the short laugh she had heard once or twice before that always sounded like a sob.
"To read?" She held out her hand.
"Yes, to read, of course, but not now."
"You said the other night that you would have been glad to know that you had done something for me; and somehow I believe you meant it."
"I did, indeed."
"If you read these things you will know. There's no other way in which I could tell you; for you will see that they are part of what you did for me."
"I don't understand."
"You will, though, when you've read them. That," he said meditatively, "is why I don't want you to read them now." But then it struck him that he had blundered, introducing a passionate personal revelation under the dangerous veil of mystery. He had not meant to say, "What you have done for me was to make me love you," but, "I have done a great thing, and what you did for me was to make me do it." For all that she should know, or he acknowledge, the passion was the means, not the end.
"I don't want to be cryptic, and perhaps I ought to explain a little. I meant you'll see that they're the best things I've written, and I should not have written them if it had not been for you. I don't know whether you'll forgive me for writing them, but I think you will. Because you'll understand that I had to."
"Have you published any of them?"
It seemed to him that the question was dictated by a sudden fear.
"Rather not. I want to talk to you about that later on, when you've read them."
"When will you want them back?"
"I don't want them back at all. I them for you to keep."
"To keep?"
"Yes, if you care for them."
"But this is the original manuscript?" She was most painfully aware of the value of the thing.
He smiled. "Yes, I couldn't give you a copy, because there isn't one."
"a reckless person you are. I must make a copy, then, and keep that."
"That would spoil my pleasure and my gift, too. It's only valuable because it's unique."
"Whatever it is it's sure to be that."
"I don't mean in that way altogether--" he hesitated, for he had touched a part of his subject which had to be handled gently; and he was aware that in handling it at all he was courting rejection of the gift.
"And you are going to leave it with me now?"
She did not look up, but kept her eyes fixed on the sheets that lay in her lap, her hands lightly covering them. Was it possible that her finger-tips had caught the secret of the page beneath them and that their delicate nerves had already carried it to her brain? Was she considering she was to do?
"You will see that one page is left blank; I couldn't fill it up till I knew whether you would accept the dedication."
"I?" She looked up. She was no doubt surprised; but he thought he could read something in her look that was deeper and sweeter than surprise.
"If you could, it would give me great pleasure. It's the only acknowledgement I can make for all your kindness."
"Please, please don't talk of my kindness."
"I won't. If it were any other book, it might be merely a question of acknowledgement, but this book belongs to you."
"Are you quite sure--" She was about to question his right to offer it, which was as good as questioning his honour, as good as assuming that--She paused, horrified as she realized what it was that she had almost assumed. Kitty had often told her that she erred through excess of subtlety. It wouldn't have mattered with anybody less subtle than Keith Rickman; but he would see it all. He did.
"Quite sure that I oughtn't to offer it to anybody else? I am quite sure. It was written four years ago, before--before I knew anybody else. It has nothing to do with anybody else, it couldn't have been dedicated to anybody else. If you don't accept it--"
"But I do." Her eagerness was the natural recoil from her hesitation. She was so anxious to atone for that shocking blunder she had made.
"I say, how you do take things on trust."
"Some things."
"I wanted to keep you _because_ you didn't want to stay. I knew then that I could trust you. But I confess that most people might not have seen it in that way."
"Well, I can't let you take these sonnets on trust. For this time, your principle doesn't apply, you see. You can't say you're accepting this dedication because I don't want to give it to you." Though he laughed he rose and backed towards the door, suddenly anxious to be gone.
"Isn't it enough that I want to accept it?"
"Of course," she said to herself, "it would have been wiser to have read them first. But I can trust him."
But as she was about to read them a knock, a familiar knock at the door interrupted her. "Kitty!"
She laid the manuscript hastily aside, well out of Kitty's roving sight. She had noticed how his hands had trembled as he brought it; she did not notice that her own shook a little in thus putting it away from her.
Kitty Palliser, up in town for a week, had come less on her own account than as an impetuous ambassador from the now frantic Edith. She too was prepared to move heaven and earth, if only she could snatch her Lucy from Tavistock Place. But her anxiety was not wholly on Lucia's account, as presently appeared.
"How can you stand it for a minute?" said she.
"I'm standing it very well indeed."
"But what on earth do you find to do all day long, when," said Kitty severely, "you're _not_ talking to young Rickman?"
"All day long I go out, or lie down and read, or talk to Sophie."
"And in the evenings?"
"In the evenings sometimes I make an old man happy by playing."