Part 26 (1/2)
”You--you are going back?”
”Of course, Shane.”
”When?”
”Five, six, seven years, unless I die, or am killed. Certainly I shall go back.”
”Yes, but in five, six--hum!”
”But what, Shane?”
”I once knew a woman, Hedda. She was--as you are. Just having friends.
And she was as handsome as you are, too. She didn't have your head, your poise. She liked beauty, as you do. But this woman looked forward, as I don't think you do. She saw herself always going down. She saw herself in the end like the helmet-maker's daughter, in some archway of the city, seeking a couple of pence.... And she was afraid, horribly afraid....”
”She was a silly woman.”
”How, Hedda?”
”She didn't know two things. That luck changes; destiny is sometimes as kind as it is cruel. And also, when you are old, the money of the archway will bring you as much joy, a drink, a bed, a meal for the morrow, as do the diamonds of youth. The old don't need much, Shane.
They haven't far to go.”
”But you, Hedda. Aren't you afraid of--the archway, and the few pence--”
”No, Shane. That will not be my way.” The broidery dropped to her lap.
Her eyes, blue as winter, looked away, away. ”I shall survive it all, barring death of course, and in seven, eight, ten years, I shall drop all this and go back, and be a lady in the land of my birth, a quiet, soft-voiced woman in a little house that has glinting bra.s.s in winter and flowers around it in summer. And I shall be very kind to the poor, Shane.... And all young things that are baffled or hurt can come to me, and tell their troubles, and I shall understand. And oftentimes, sitting in the long Northern twilights, I shall think: Is this Froken Hagen, who is all the world's friend, the girl who was once despised in Buenos Aires?... And I shall choke a little, and think: 'G.o.d is good!'”
”You are very sure of yourself, Hedda.”
”Yes, Shane. I know my own capabilities. I know, too, my own limitations. I know I can always be of service. But I know, too, that there will be no love ever for me, nor any little children of my body, nor any big man to protect me and my house ...”
”This other woman--I killed her to save her from the archway--she dreaded so much ...”
”You were very silly, Shane,” she snipped off a thread with the scissors. ”People outgrow fear, and it may only have been a pa.s.sing mood, that would have gone with the moon or the season. You know very little about women, Shane.”
He laughed bitterly. ”I have been married twice, and once I loved a woman greatly.”
”From what you tell me,” her voice was calm, ”you have never been married. You made a mistake as a boy. And once again you bought a woman, as you might a fine dog, admired her, as you might admire a fine dog, and gave her a little pa.s.sion, which comes and goes, knocks, pa.s.ses on--but no trust. And once you were infatuated with a hysterical woman, and it all ended hysterically. No, Shane. I don't think you know much about women.”
”You know so many things.” He was irritated. ”Perhaps you know what is wrong with me.”
”Of course I do, Shane. Anybody would know. You are so important to yourself. All the world is in relation to you, not you in relation to the world. And people are not very important, Shane ... I know.... You look for things. You don't make them. You want everything. You give nothing. You haven't a wife, a house. Your father gave poems. But you haven't a house, a child, a wife, a book. You only have a trading-s.h.i.+p.”
”But I trade. I do my share of the world's work.”
”Any shop-keeper!”
”I handle my s.h.i.+p.”
”Any mathematician....”