FullReads

“That picture is worth the price of the whole book,” said Jimmie, and hung over it. Then suddenly he straightened up. “There should be children in this old house.”

I knew then what I had missed from the tree. Elise had a great many gifts–exquisite trifles sent to her by sophisticated friends–a wine-jug of seventeenth-century Venetian glass, a bag of Chinese brocade with handles of carved ivory, a pair of ancient silver buckles, a box of rare lacquer filled with Oriental sweets, a jade pendant, a crystal ball on a bronze base–all of them lovely, all to be exclaimed over; but the things I wanted were drums and horns and candy canes, and tarletan bags, and pop-corn chains, and things that had to be wound up, and things that whistled, and things that squawked, and things that sparkled. And Jimmie wanted these things, but Elise didn’t. She was perfectly content with her elegant trifles.

It was late when we went out finally to the studio. There was snow everywhere, but it was a clear night with a moon above the pines. A great log burned in the fireplace, a shaded lamp threw a circle of gold on shining mahogany. It seemed to me that Jimmie’s writing quarters were even more attractive in December than in June.

Yet, looking back, I can see that to Jimmie the little house was a sort of prison. He loved men and women, contact with his own kind. He had even liked our dingy old office and our dreary, dried-up selves. And here, day after day, he sat alone–as an artist must sit if he is to achieve–es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille.

We sat around the fire in deep leather chairs, all except Elise, who had a cushion on the floor at Jimmie’s feet.

He read with complete absorption, and when he finished he looked at me. “What do you think of it?”

I had to tell the truth. “It isn’t your masterpiece.”

He ran his fingers through his hair with a nervous gesture. “I told Elise that it wasn’t.”

“But the girl”–Elise’s gaze held hot resentment–“is wonderful. Surely you can see that.”

“She doesn’t seem quite real.”

“Then Jimmie shall make her real.” Elise laid her hand lightly on her husband’s shoulder. Her gown and golden net were all flame and sparkle, but her voice was cold. “He shall make her real.”

“No”–it seemed to me that as he spoke Jimmie drew away from her hand–“I am not going to rewrite it, Elise. I’m tired of it.”

“Jimmie!”

“I’m tired of it–“

“Finish it, and then you’ll be free–“

“Shall I ever be free?” He stood up and turned his head from side to side, as if he sought some way of escape. “Shall I ever be free? I sometimes think that you and I will stick to this old house until we grow as dry as dust. I want to live, Elise! I want to live–!”

* * * * *

But Elise was not ready to let Jimmie live. To her, Jimmie the artist was more than Jimmie the lover. I may have been unjust, but she seemed to me a sort of mental vampire, who was sucking Jimmie’s youth. Duncan Street snorted when I told him what I thought. Elise was a pretty woman, and a pretty woman in the eyes of men can do no wrong.

“You’ll see,” I said, “what she’ll do to him.”

The situation was to me astounding. Here was Life holding out its hands to Elise, glory of youth demanding glorious response, and she, incredibly, holding back. In spite of my gray hair and stiff figure, I am of the galloping kind, and my soul followed Jimmie Harding’s in its quest for freedom.

But there was one thing that Elise could not do. She could not make Jimmie rewrite his play. “I’ll come to it some day,” he said, “but not yet. In the meantime I’ll see what I can do with books.”