Post-Game Report: Waters That Pass Away

Caution: This post-game rant is going to be a sprawling, rambling mess, so seat yourselves comfortably. And once again, here are the links to the spoiler-laden chapter recaps for the latecomers:
Book I: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. (with a Halftime Report)
Book II: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

I have a dog whom we didn't train very well as a puppy. She's a great companion, but she won't fetch, she snarls at not only strangers but people who shouldn't be strangers anymore, and does all kinds of ridiculous things to the sofa pillows. But the one thing that confuses me above all is what she does when you point to something, because she'd rather look at your finger than the place where the finger's pointing.

That in a nutshell is one of the insurmountable issues I had with Waters That Pass Away. Nannie Winston is my dog and she wrote a 300+ page story about my finger.

To illustrate, let's go back for a moment to Book 1, Chapter 7, which focuses on the disgraceful deeds of Andrew Tompson. When I approached this chapter in the play-by-play, I mentioned the modern critic's favorite mantra: show, don't tell. With those words in mind, I want you to have a look at what's going on at the very end of this chapter, especially in light of what came immediately before.

We have just burnt several pages, with prose so deeply purple it might as well have been navy blue, dealing with the white hot passion Tompson holds for Helen Galbraith. Everything we've learned about the man so far is (once again) spelled out in big bold letters. We've read maybe the second or third redundant account of his overheated emotions and how she will bend to his will...oh yes, she will (arches eyebrow). We've been told, flatly and rather artlessly, what we're expected to think of him, rather than just letting his creepy, stalkerly actions speak for themselves. But when it comes time for something to actually happen, for the man to act decisively for once in his life...well, you tell me...

With this purpose clearly defined in his mind, Tompson walked on at an unprecedented pace, heeding no one who passed him by. Reaching Madison Square he still walked on, down Fifth Avenue. At Eighteenth Street he paused a moment, looked about at the numbers of the houses in that vicinity, then facing towards the east, crossed over to Broadway, and continuing east from this point he finally disappeared into a house which appeared to possess the double character of a residence and place of business.

It is useless, and would be degrading, even if not uninteresting, to follow Andrew Tompson into this house, and to listen to the exact conversation which he held there with one who should not, under any conditions, never have touched his life. It is sufficient to say that when, at an early hour of the morning, Tompson turned into his own home, he was perfectly aware that he had been guilty of a dastardly act. He had placed the matter of Helen Galbraith and Mr. Westmore into the hands of a skilled detective! The truth he must have. The events of the future must come within his knowledge, so that he could deal with them according to his own purposes. This was his excuse, and so entirely had he yielded to the promptings of his lower nature, that he honestly felt himself justified in adopting any course which might realize the end he had in view. (pp. 147-8, my emphasis)

So to summarize, we've been told in excruciating detail the state of mind that led him to the decision to hire a private detective, complete with extensive editorializing. We've been shown what he was doing in the hours immediately before his fateful decision. We've been told of the immediate aftermath of the detective decision. We're even given a turn-by-turn Google Maps-esque narrative of the moments before he entered the man's office. The only thing we're not privy to is the actual meeting itself...in this case, we're not even given a frustratingly vague summary from the narrator. In fact, we're told it's not even worth talking about. Don't give it another thought.

The whole episode is infuriating, all the more so because it happens over and over again. We're told the sad story of Marie Levier and her bastard child through a third party, which is followed by a “what is to be done” debate by Mrs. Elliott's League of Busybodies, but Helen's visit to the girl, which we're assured was long and exhausting, is dismissed in one desultory sentence, and the whole episode is never mentioned again. Forget about showing adultery (seriously, that was too much to ask), it's hard to accept Helen as a woman being befouled when the author can't even bring herself to use the word “adultery.” Even worse, Westmore vanishes from the story for the entire length of their affair. After the initial “darling” at the end of Book 1, he only shows up again once it's time to dismantle the evil that he's done, and not a second sooner.

The whole narrative is maddening like that, circling around key events from an extreme distance without actually landing on them. I understand that the author was probably a genuinely pious woman, and didn't set out to write anything other than a sincere corrective, but if you're going to write a story about sin, you're going to have to write about the sin at some point. That's not what we get.

What we do get—in spades—are a number of rambling conversations, apparently about whatever the the author was thinking about at the time and usually completely superfluous to the story. We're also given an exhaustive history of Alexander Galbraith, telling us—again, not showing us—how godlike and imposing he was when he was operating at full-power (and with all his limbs), but he doesn't actually do anything in the present-day story but stare out the window and slowly waste away. It's an amazing amount of space wasted on a character who was utterly incidental to the plot.

And so many Mary Sues! Would it have killed Ms. Winston to introduce a flawed but sympathetic character? The wrong decisions and the delusions were reserved almost solely for the selfish, evil antagonists. And yes, Helen Galbraith was a sinner, but you convince me that she was genuinely flawed. Her major grievous mistake had a lovingly crafted element of perfection, since she was coerced into a liason so she could keep the job that kept her husband from dying of starvation. Once you realize what type of characters the story has been populated with and where they line up on the moral axis (and none of that was left to guesswork, since it was spelled out at every juncture) nothing that happens (or nothing that you've been told just happened) really surprises you.

Did I mention that I couldn't stand this book? This is the one time I missed having a hard copy version so that I could have the joy of throwing it across the room after I finished the last page. That's not to say there's nothing you can take away from the book, since Pliny the Elder said that even a bad book can teach you something. The digressions give you a quick trip through the attitudes of the times, and the book itself is an extreme example of sentimental style of writing that, let's face it, just doesn't work today, but was deemed Quite Worthy in 1899. In that way, it's educational...just not particularly entertaining.

MVP Of The Book: I was very close to declaring myself the MVP, just for finishing it without pulling my hair or eyes out, but in the end I have to hand it to Sherman Elliott, so rugged and manly that his sweat smelled like Old Spice before anybody knew that was what Old Spice smelled like, for delivering in the final chapter the one monologue that felt like it had flesh and blood behind it, rather than reaching for the mechanical effects of leaden melodrama that dominate the text.

One of the many textual games I play to keep myself engaged is to find the messages that actually speak across the chasm to us, and the last paragraph of Mr. Elliott's homily seemed to be staring holes in The Way Things Are Now—both in 1899 and 2008. When he says “Those that crave great positions, rather than true greatness—those who undertake tremendous labor for the fame attached to it rather than for the sake of adding a finer and more enduring quality to human labor—these become often popular heroes—but also only for a time,” he might as well be talking to you, buddy. It also served to open up the whole “sit still and suffer” concept as more than a callous turn of phrase (although let's be honest, it strikes modern eyes in a very different way). You can tell this is where the author's real emotional investment lies, and she puts those words into the mouth of Sherman Elliott. It's a shame Ms. Winston didn't come through until the end was in sight, and even then was only able to hold it together for two pages.

Would you recommend it to a friend? Oh, God no. I can't think of anybody I've ever known who would appreciate this story as straight entertainment, and if they're looking for a so-called “problem novel,” they don't have to go here.

Is this (still) a summer book? Definitely not. The book was well enough regarded in its day—but not, as I found out, well enough regarded to avoid being retitled when it was reissued a few years later—but for modern audiences, it's the exact opposite of a light read. Waters That Pass Away is the type of book that the stereotypical view of 19^th century popular reading was built around. It was an ordeal to finish (it took a whole frickin' month, folks...you want me to go faster on the penalty rounds, start paying me), and I've been told that even my recaps were rough sledding; that's only because I want you to hurt like I do. Unfortunately, that doesn't bode well for the rest of the list, since for a style to become a stereotype, there obviously has to be more than one book like this on the list. My heart is overcome with terror...

Before I let it drop, it's also worth mentioning that to go directly from The Hooligan Nights, where any morality was suggested by a character's actions but judgment was left to the reader, to Waters That Pass Away, where every page tells you at length what you're supposed to think, makes me realize what a vegetable feels like when it's being blanched.

No nagging question this time. Let's just get this over with...

Coming soon: The long-awaited Round 4! I've got an idea of my own, but as always, I'm open to suggestions.

Waters That Pass Away Book 2, Chapter 8: Flawless Victory...But Not Mine, Sadly

(If some of this Waters recap seems a bit hurried, that's because finally I can see the end in sight! Take me home!)

As we reach Book 2, Chapter 8, the final step in our long ordeal, Sherman Elliott has finally noticed that envelope on his desk, the one that has “Important—to be read at once” written across it. He opens it, reads it, puts it down, and asks his private secretary to summon Westmore immediately. Oh, you couldn't possibly think we were done with the concentrated evil of Old Man Westmore? The evil so monumental that the author can't even bear to talk about it? And since Helen left him, he'd managed to regain some of his old hubris in the interim.

Westmore would have gladly have delayed this meeting as long as possible. Yet he did not apprehend any great difficulty; Mr. Elliott could not afford to break with him and create a scandal, having his family and his editorial position to maintain, and no money of any consequence. The first rude shock, when Helen had imparted the condition of things to him, had stunned him terribly—making him fear that his reputation and great power were hopelessly lost. However, he had spent several hours considering the matter, and had decided that through its financial side he would be able to settle the whole thing satisfactorily and finally. Bracing himself, therefore, for the unpleasant interview which he could not avoid, he presented himself in the private office of the editor about eleven o'clock at night.

“He will die game!” Mr. Elliott commented mentally, when he saw Westmore. The two men sat down opposite one another. (pp. 302-3)

Elliot cuts to the point immediately, that Helen has spilled the beans on everything, and when Westmore tries his “that wily temptress” gambit for the first time (“I suppose you think, Elliott, that a man is to remain immaculate before every kind of temptation.”), the editor lowers the boom. “I do not believe for a moment that Mrs Galbraith tempted you. Nothing you say will make me believe it.” In addition, he makes it clear that he's become increasingly aware of the whiff of brimstone that Westmore's character puts out when the wind is right. The fate of Helen Galbraith was just the cherry on the cow chip sundae.

Well, what is to be done? Elliott has that decided, too; the present business associations between the two men must come to an end. Although he puts up a token fight, he seems perfectly fine with it, if that's the bullheaded direction his associate wants to go. Get on your bike and pedal your overprincipled ass out of here, Sherman. Oh, but Elliott isn't planning on going anywhere.

Wait, what?

“I am going to speak to you very plainly, Mr. Westmore,” said Mr. Elliott, “and I do not wish to be misunderstood. The association must end, but you are the one who must go. You have no right to hold the place you hold. Your character in no way justifies the influence you can exert whenever you wish to do so. This paper is a great paper—its power is unlimited—it should be in the hands of true-hearted men who will exercise their power at all times as it should be exercised. When I came to you I did not know what kind of man you were; but now that I know, I consider myself bound so far as I can to restrict your power—to force you to retire from the situation. You must accept the terms I have to offer—for I intend to remain.”

“I do not understand you—what do you mean?—what are you aiming at?” asked Mr. Westmore anxiously, beginning to fear that after all he might be beaten.

“I mean this,” replied Mr. Elliott, still speaking quietly. “There was a time when I could not have commanded capital; but to-day that is different—no man in New York can command it more readily than I can, and from a high class of men. I propose to buy this paper, and run it entirely myself. You can put your own price upon it—but all the world knows what its stock is worth.”

“But suppose I do not consent to sell,” Westmore stood directly before Mr. Elliott—he spoke as quietly as the later had done,—but it could be seen that he was furiously angry.

“Then your whole character is revealed to the town.”

“And you would also expose your dear friend, Mrs. Galbraith?” he asked contemptuously.

“I do not need this last piece of wickedness to undo you; the reputation of Mrs. Galbraith is safe in my hands. That deal of last fall in connection with those western mines—that, you know, would be sufficient.” Mr. Elliott spoke very slowly watching the effect of his words. The effect was instantaneous. Westmore started, his face turning very pale. (pp. 306-7)

Well, since you put it that way...

As Helen before him, Mr. Elliott makes it clear that he didn't do this out of spite or personal interest. In fact, in doing this, he anticipated taking on a debt that he'd never live to completely pay off, but when you're the editor of a great metropolitan newspaper, you have a moral obligation to do the right thing. (Are you listening, New York Post? Oh sorry, that was “great metropolitan newspaper.” And I see I already did a Post snipe during this book, so never mind.) With that, the matter was settled, although Westmore, unreflective to the bitter bloody end, never forgave Helen Galbraith for her part in his ignominious fall from influence.

The next morning, fully recharged from his chore, Mr. Elliott shares Helen's letter with the missus, who is so shaken that she reads the sorry history twice. Obviously something must be done, so Sherman sets out alone to make it clear that the Elliotts have her back. He arrives not a moment too soon, as there's now a dead body in the parlor. Gradually, Helen unburdens herself completely, and in response, Elliott gives her a small sampling of Eternal Truths. This is what the author has been building to through the whole book, so we might as well take it at full blast...

“'Expect a grain of wheat fall into the earth and die, it abideth by itself alone; but if it die, it beareth much fruit.' This, it seems to me,” he said, “is what you must learn. You started forth in life confident of the promise of eternal youth, of eternal success. But this is never to be in any life. Youth must go—success must give way—we must learn to die to our own ambitions—even to what often seem to be our aspirations. We may try to escape a personal knowledge of the deeper truths, of the more searching and awful lessons of life; but if it be necessary for our own development that we learn them, God will surely bring us face to face with them—will instruct us, if even by severe methods, where we need instruction. There is no food which the soul needs but truth, and when once it is fed upon truth, all that is material, all that is physical will fade away, and the spiritual will come into our lives with clear and compelling dedication. I know, Mrs. Galbraith, that these things are true.

“One must often wait long,” he continued, “for the hour that he is strong enough to grapple with and master the weakness, or the wilfulness, or the rebelliousness, of his own nature. But when that hour is come, as will surely be the case, if one is not 'disobedient unto the heavenly vision,' there will come a transformation like the descent of the heavens upon the earth, and the whole world will not be fuller of unspeakable splendors than is the human soul that has endured, and pressed forward, and achieved the entire conquest of self.”

He saw that Helen followed his words with attention, and that they seemed to bring some kind of help, or light to her.

“Possibly,” he went on, feeling that something concerning his own experience might draw her nearer to him, and add impressiveness and value to what he had already said, “possibly, no man comes closer to the heart of a people in modern life than does the editor of a great daily in a city like New York. In such a position a man stands shoulder to shoulder with all the great movements of his time, and with all the men who are behind these movements. If the editor will observe closely he will see that one great law works through every grade and every development of life. For a time, often, men, who are purely self-seeking, who aim to lift themselves by means of association with a great cause, seem to succeed, but only for a time. Those that crave great positions, rather than true greatness—those who undertake tremendous labor for the fame attached to it rather than for the sake of adding a finer and more enduring quality to human labor—these become often popular heroes—but also only for a time. I have seen it repeat itself over and over. My own career has taught me that the only men who, at the final count, are the winners in public life, as in private life, are those who learn to seek other things than the gratification of their own ambitions, or their own wills. In saying this, I am not seeking to point you to a state of self-abnegation where life is barren and cold and fruitless. Such, however, would not be the result of the kind of self-surrender of which I am speaking. The life which I have in my thoughts is one filled with labor and righteousness and the pursuit of truth—and you will find in it what you will find in no other life—no matter what has seemed its promise at the start—you will find in it happiness and eternal hope.” (pp. 313-5)

Oddly enough, this was the first passage in the book that I could genuinely get behind, because finally we've reached a section that doesn't feel as artificial as a wind-up toy, even if it is still a trifle stiff. I'll touch on this fully in the post-game report, since it deserves revisiting, but for the moment I'll say this excerpt deserves to be in a far better book than this one. It definitely hammers home the Book of Job vibe I got from all that “sit still and suffer” talk.

On Mr. Elliott's pledge that friendship is a sacred bond (“not even love is more sacred than friendship”...oooooo-kay), Mrs. Elliott soon takes charge of the household for the duration of the funeral preparations. Eventually the Elliotts remove Helen from her cottage completely, allowing her to finally catch her breath and mend body and soul. Turns out she really needed it, because after Alex is buried in his hometown, she slides into an exhausted torpor.

After several weeks of recharging, she becomes conscious of a desire: “Yes, I want the sea! that is it!” Obviously the sea wasn't coming to Grammercy Park any time soon—global warming hadn't even been invented yet. So they make the arrangements for a quiet cottage on White Island in the Isles of Shoals, which seems to do the trick in spades.

Alone now, except for the eternal sound of the sea, Helen gave herself up to the welcome loneliness and freedom of her life. During these days she seemed to be always awake and out of doors, and the sunrise became as familiar to her as the sunset. She began to feel that for the first time in her life she was brought face to face with the vast powers of nature, and that she was gaining a new sense of the relations of man to his Creator. Often in the soft, moonlit summer nights, while she was leading this sea-bound, solitary life, she would go alone down to the water's edge and sit there in silent awe and wonder at the majesty of the solemn sea and of the great forces of the universe. At such times as these, the mingled mysteries of human pain and human grief were unfolded to her vision; and then it was she began to feel that the future might yet hold sacred duties for her. The thought of Galbraith was always with her; but principally as he had been in his young manhood, stretching forth his strong, willing hands towards the work which he longed to do. At times the thought of him in that different life—bereft of his arms, succumbing day by day to the miseries and agonies of a slow death—this thought would come; and when it came she felt it was more than she could bear in her solitude. But as the days went by, and the influence of sky and sea wrought upon her, the lesson which all of this was meant to teach commenced to be learned by her; and the life of which Mr. Elliott had spoken—the life filled with labor and righteousness and the pursuit of truth—this life commenced to seem possible to her.

[...]Now she saw that up to this time, even in those days of fiercest battle before Galbraith's death when she sought to surrender entirely her own will, that up to this time, through all the past, her life had been but a struggling, rebellious one. Never had she been willing to sit still and suffer, never submissive to accept what had come to her; but always fighting to alter the condition of things, always striving to find a way of her own. (pp. 318-9)

Not long after, the Elliotts made an unannounced visit to see how Helen was coming along, and in their conversation by the shore, Helen makes clear that she's ready to go back, to find that world of “labor and righteousness and the pursuit of truth.”

[“]My aim now is to redeem the time—to find again the way which I have lost—in fact, so to live that I may prove myself worthy to have been the chosen companion of so large and beneficent a soul as was Alex Galbraith's.”

“Then you are ready to go back with us?” asked Mrs. Elliott, gathering Helen's hands in her own as she spoke, and pressing them against her heart.

“Yes, my friend, if you will have me,” Helen replied.

“Now and always,” said Mrs. Elliott. “We need you—your work needs you—no woman in the world has a place more ready for her than you have.”

“You are too good! You are too good!” Helen's tears could no longer be held in check.

“We are not good, dear; we only love you,” said Mrs. Elliott, putting her arms about Helen's shoulders and drawing her closely to herself. (pp. 320-21)

“Then, I have a plan, dear,” said Mrs. Elliott. “There are my girls on the East Side. Some one must help me about them.”

“And I—am I to be that one?” Helen asked eagerly.

“Yes, my dear, if you will.”

“Ah, I thank you, that is what I want—it will bring me what I seek.”

“Then the future has hope in it already,” said Mr. Elliott.

And so it came to pass that to-day there goes in and out among the homes of sin and degradation in New York city a tall, pale woman of wonderful grace and beauty, who, clad in a simple robe of black, is looked upon by many weary, fainting souls as their Vierge Consolatrice. The sympathies and merciful kindnesses of this woman knows no limitations. Her life is dedicated—the seal of a great cause has been put upon it—and at last she walks steadily onward, her heart purified and subject to the will of God. (p. 322)

Sure, that makes it sound like she became a non-Catholic version of an nun, but nothing can kill this moment for me. The glory shines all around my keyboard, not just because Helen Galbraith has discovered redemption through helping others, but because this dire, interminable book has finally ended! Huzzah!

Next: Post-game or post-mortem? Either way, once again I try to make sense of it all. Say a prayer, light a candle...

Waters That Pass Away Book 2, Chapter 7: Lie Still And Suffer

We rejoin Mrs. Galbraith (Book 2, Chapter 8) with the advanced state of distress we were expecting already in progress. She finds out in short order that Mr. Galbraith has been unconscious since Mr. Tompson left, and that Jane was hesitant to disturb him. “I do not believe you could have disturbed him,” Helen answers portentously. Duhn-duhn-duhnnnnnnnnnn.

“Alex! Alex!” She put her lips close to his ear as she spoke these words. She commenced to rub different parts of his body, but the only sign which he gave was to breathe a little more heavily, as if a dim consciousness stirred in him.

“Alex! Alex!” But the faint echo of her own words died away without response.

“There is nothing we can do, Jane. Go for William Johnston and send him at once into Newark for a doctor, the best one he can find.

When Helen was left alone she paused for the first time since coming into the house to give herself some attention. She took off her hat and coat and threw them upon the center-table; in doing so she noticed several ends of cigarettes in the ash receiver, evidently left there by Tompson that afternoon. He smoked them so incessantly, especially when he was talking with Galbraith, that the mere sight and odor of them seemed to bring his bodily presence before her. She turned away in disgust, and going over to Galbraith kneeled beside him. Removing his shoes, she commenced to stroke his feet, which seemed to her cold and lifeless beyond all restoration.

“So Andrew Tompson was here!” she said reflectively. “He and Alex talked a great deal—had hard words over something.” (pp. 287-8)

And as she is left alone, we are reminded that she spent the day cutting ties with her old life so she could return to her older life, the one that's disintegrating in front of her at the moment. “She was part of no one's life and no one was a part of hers.” Well, except for Jane, but seriously, are we counting the hired help in that number now? I mean come on, we might as well count the parlor piano or the hall tree if we're counting the maid! Right?

Into the midst of this lovingly hand-crafted misery comes a messenger boy with a note from Evil Andrew, unapologetic as ever, but really, what happened to that rolling boil he was working up? The letter sounds like a pitiful attempt at reconciliation. “[W]hile I condemn heartily the course you have chosen to pursue, especially since a very different course was open to you, I still have a full confidence in your large powers of perception and penetration. I believe in time you will be able to do me justice, and to look upon me in the light of the true friend I have aimed to be, both to you and Galbraith.” Our boy Tompson, unafraid of his conduct and unreflecting on its consequences, is making a supreme sacrifice by hanging behind in the “abominable” resort of Atlantic City so that if the Galbraiths came to their senses—fat chance of that happening now, bub—they can come down to the Boardwalk. But one week is all he can bear to wait with all those grubby middle class tourists and their sticky hands. Naturally, Helen tells the messenger boy “no answer.”

Saying aloud to no one in particular that Andrew killed her husband triggers another breathtaking streak of self-flagellation. Gird your spirit and have your sackcloth and ashes ready.

“No, he did not do it!” a voice spoke to her. “Andrew Tompson did not do it. You did it! You, his wife,you, Helen Galbraith!”

“But he came here,” protested Helen, “and talked to Alex in such a way that he could only see my sin, but not my suffering. Ah, my sin is nothing, nothing to the suffering I have endured! If there is any power in the agony of a soul to wipe away guilt, mine should be wiped away!” She turned toward her dying husband, and throwing herself at his feet, all pride, all scorn went out of her. Her dejection and her humiliation became complete.

“My poor boy! My poor boy!” She stroked his limbs with hands which had become almost as cold and rigid as his own feet. “I was so mistaken, sweetheart! I have loved you so much! To keep you with me and make you comfortable and happy during your last days, no sacrifice seemed too great! This has been my only wish—this has been all!”

Her head fell upon his body. For a long while, it seemed to her, she remained thus, unable to rise, or to protest further. As she lay there, she could feel distinctly each beat of his heart, and every moment the beats became fewer and fewer, fainter and fainter. Had she possessed the whole world, she would have given it to bring him back to consciousness, if only for one hour, that she might pour out her heart to him and make him understand. It was useless to upbraid or hate Tompson. No matter how contemptible his conduct had been, it lessened in no way her own responsibility; and the voice speaking in her, resting the sin principally upon her, was right and truthful, she knew. Yes, she had done it—had killed Galbraith—and she alone! It was foolish to cry out against fate. This cup of bitterness she had prepared for herself, and she had no right to ask that it should pass from her. To drink it to the very dregs was now all that remained to her, and to do this submissively rested upon her as a final and supreme obligation! To lie still and suffer—to accept the uttermost justice of God's wrath—to achieve a supreme renunciation of self—these things now alone remained to her. (pp. 293-4)

“To lie still and suffer.” At no point is the book of Job epigram that gives the book its title more appropriate, because there's a dark, vengeful, fatalistic Old Testament tone to that phrase that I just couldn't get on board with. Maybe my understanding of redemption through Christ is a bit off, but I thought that was something you do to avoid God's wrath, not to wallow in it. It's a jarring enough transition from “lie still and suffer” to modern mainstream Protestantism, but try going from there to Prosperity Gospel and see if you don't get spiritual whiplash.

(Of course, that was my second thought on “lie still and suffer.” I'm sad to say that my first thought was "A guy looks for a phrase that perfectly describes his experience with a book and the moment he gives up looking, one hits him square in the face...")

And from here, we spend a few pages working Helen's misery into a high froth, but frankly I'm so disgusted with the process that you'll have to forgive me if I mow all of that down to get to The Main Point of all this.

“Fair and pure spirit! Fair and pure spirit!”

Something moved her to repeat the words.

“Fair and pure spirit!”

Earnestly she looked a Galbraith, still holding his face in her hands. Oh, that he could open his eyes, only once again, and looking into her face with full consciousness, could read there her entire love for him! Oh, that he might be able to listen, only once again, to her words, as she made to him that full confession which she so longed to make! Her hands clasped themselves more firmly about Galbraith's brow. Her lips touched his.

The solemn stillness of his beautiful features seemed to bring some kind of peace to her troubled spirit. Her thoughts went back to the events of the morning just passed. She stood again face to face with the vast possibilities of womanhood. She saw again to what heights it may rise—to what perfections it may attain, provided the heart be pure and subject to the law which must be obeyed. (pp. 297-8)

At last the doctor arrives, whose suggestions for Mrs. Galbraith's comfort are ignored. She's there until the bitter end, which we're assured won't be long now. Helen is also told that last window of consciousness she was hoping for, to make a clean breast of everything, isn't going to happen, either. The doctor gradually leads her into conversation, and she gives him at least a taste of their history, “the beauty and the charm, and also the sadness and the tragedy.” He figures if he can't do anything for the husband, he can do at least that for her.

At dawn, Galbraith's breathing becomes very faint, and when Helen realizes this, her voice breaks the silence.

“Alex! Alex! do you hear me? It is I—Helen. Look at me—speak to me—one word only! Can you not, my love, can you not? Alex! Tell me in some way, that you understand—that you know—that you forgive me! I have loved you only! Alex! do you not hear me?”

The features of the dying man moved—moved for the first time since he had been stricken. Slowly a subdued form of life seemed to come over them. Once again his features moved—then his eyes opened—the light of the new-born day came through the window and shone full upon his noble face. For a moment he looked into the eyes of his wife who in response could only cry “Alex!” His countenance relaxed, a smile played about his lips, and in a moment he was gone.

A sob of anguish, then a cry of despair. The doctor sprang to his feet. Helen lay upon the floor. The doctor moved forward to lift her; as he did so his glance fell upon Galbraith, and he was astonished at the radiant expression upon the dead man's face.

Without a divine miracle had been wrought. The glory of the sun spread a mantle of royal splendor over the fields, the meadows, and the woods. The atmosphere was luminous with serenity and a limpid clearness. It was the first day of summer, and the whole earth seemed to have been made anew under the cover of night. Surrounded by the darkness one had felt the world to be sorrowful and worn and dull; but now that a new day had touched it, hope returned to it as the tide returns to the shore, and out of the unseen depths a new life appeared to break. (pp. 300-1)

Next: Something resembling atonement, I'm sure, since it's the last chapter. Something resembling a resolution? I'm not quite as sure about that...

Waters That Pass Away Book 2, Chapter 6: Behold The Wrath of Zeus Galbraith!

Obviously there's a first time for everything. As Book 2, Chapter 6 opens, Andrew Tompson's mother decides to actually try being maternal after she noticed the “vindictive spirit” which had overtaken her boy. She obviously is a bit rusty at it...

“It is rather late, is it not, to have made no plans for your summer?” Mrs. Tompson had just poured her son a second cup of coffee, and while administering to it the one lump of sugar which he invariably took, she asked her question, not very sure, however, of the wisdom of doing so.

“Well, yes, possibly,” Tompson replied, employing himself in breaking apart a piece of dry toast, and without looking up. Certainly, the conversation had not opened propitiously; but Mrs. Tompson was emboldened to pursue it a little further, as she observed the very anxious and absorbed manner of her son.

“I should like to go away this week, if I felt sure about you,” she continued. In making her plans his mother very seldom waited for him, and it surprised Tompson now to learn that she was doing so. He looked up and was annoyed to see an expression of anxiety stamped upon her usually serene face. For a moment he watched her, continuing at the same time to drink his coffee, and when he had finished it and put down his cup, he replied, somewhat impatiently:

“Now, my dear mother, that is all nonsense. Just make your own plans as usual, and leave me to do the same.”

“But I feel that you are not well this year, Andrew,” protested Mrs. Tompson, using now a more positive tone with her son that she was in the habit of doing.

“I am quite well, I assure you, mother. I have only had an abominably dull winter, that is all.”

“Then, why not try a change?”

“Oh, I will! Possibly I'll go to Norway a little later” And with this reply it was evident Tompson meant to close the conversation; for he rose abruptly from the table, without excusing himself, and going over to a rear window in the dining-room, commenced to look out upon the well-arranged flower-garden into which his mother had transformed their back premises. (pp. 265-6)

Let's face it, “Get out of my country, you're freaking me out over here!” isn't the type of advice I look forward to hearing from my mom...unless she's buying the ticket. Nevertheless, she insists that he make some type of arrangement before the week is out, and he agrees.

Interestingly enough, we're still covering the same day as the last two chapters, so it's quite the coincidence (Wait, what's that other word? Oh yes, “plot contrivance.”) that Andrew decides to spill his guts to Galbraith—a “genuinely friendly service,” he had convinced himself. And of course, here's how you're supposed to feel about it: “What was to become of Galbraith, the poor, dying, armless artist, his faith in his wife destroyed for him by his best friend, he did not ask himself. If Tompson cared about this—and he must have cared, if only a little, for he was not a monster, mere a cold, selfish, revengeful man—he did not permit himself to think of it from this standpoint.”

Alex and Andrew pass a bit of time chatting about the travel plans, and here's a twist you wouldn't see coming from miles away: Galbraith thinks Andrew should spend his time discovering America, tramping around the woods and the riversides. Being a pretentious snob who, in a previous century, would be wearing powdered wigs and dabbing his pale face with dainty lace hankies, this horrifies Tompson.

“Now, Tompson,” said Galbraith falling into something like his old-time, enthusiastic form of speech, “that is simply because you do not really know what it is to be wrought upon by the spiritual side of nature. If you talk about companionable things, what is so intensely human, so companionable among all inanimate things as a river, with a life and character and voice of its own?”

“I admit there is much charm in rivers, but we, I am sure, are viewing them from different points of observation. I like to sail upon them—to watch their ebb and flow—under comfortable circumstances. You like to scramble along their banks, to get into the most intimate relation with what I might call, for want of a better term, their domestic side.”

“You have summed it up very well—very well indeed,” responded Galbraith with a low, amused laugh. “Yes, that is it, the only way to discover the hidden, finest beauties of nature is to get behind the scenes.”

“Possibly,” replied Tompson, “But I am not much of a person for that kind of thing, so I suppose I am not capable of judging. I am not a bit interested in the processes of development either in art, or nature or human life. Results—final, complete results—interest me; for these I have a taste.” (p. 271)

It's not too long after this exchange that Galbraith notices that something's up his friend's butt and asks him about it. Tompson has a last-minute bout of cold feet, but decides that revenge is more important than friendship. After Galbraith assures his friend that if a man knows “something without a knowledge of which [a friend's] manhood would suffer,” he is under obligation to spill the beans, Andrew does exactly that. Of course, true to our author's form, we're not made privy to even the slightest detail of the “whole, hideous story” which Andrew proceeds to tell, just that his courage builds during the telling and Galbraith believes that Tompson has lost his frickin' mind. Afterwards he even asks Andrew if he's lost his frickin' mind. “I am prepared to give you actual proof of all I charge, if you will permit me,” he responds. And although he's physically incapable of giving Tompson the beatdown he's finally realized his “friend” so richly deserved, he's more than up to the task of putting a metaphorical boot up the jerk's ass.

“And you have done all of this—you have doubted my wife and spied upon her—and created a story of hideous guilt concerning her—all of this you have done for love of me, I am to understand, am I?” said Galbraith. He rose as he spoke, and his manner and tone became so menacing that Tompson instinctively retreated a step or two.

“You, yourself, gave me permission to speak,” he stammered, for Galbraith's words placed his conduct in a light which did not attract him.

“Yes, to be sure—from your standpoint,” replied Galbraith, “but that piece of deceit is like the rest which seems to have distinguished you in this matter.”

“Certainly,” protested Tompson, “the long years of friendship between us made me owe you much.”

“Yes—much!—much!” cried Galbraith, taking the very word out of his mouth, and he stepped forward a few paces. His armless body seemed now no longer shrunken and worn, as he threw himself back to the fulness of his fine height. The fire of a splendid scorn, of a boundless contempt, shone from every feature of his strong face, as his excitement rose. Indeed, so like an avenging god did he seem, as he advanced upon Tompson, that the latter retreated step by step before him.

“You owe me much indeed!” continued Galbraith.—“Much indeed! You owe me loyalty, and faith, and truthfulness—and in all of these you have failed! I shall not reproach you—a man who can be guilty of such conduct as yours is, I consider, impervious to reproach. Some day you will find your own punishment. Were I not armless I might strike you to the earth, and so build about you a still greater monument of guilt. However, I am spared this sin by my own condition. It occurs to me that you might not have dared to come to me with the kind of story you have brought, had I possessed the physical powers to deal with you as men in a case of this sort deal with one another. This is just the kind of cowardice one naturally expects from a man who would do the things you have done. But I shall not speak of revenge. I am a man too near the grave for that—I shall leave the settlement of that to a higher power. But,” he continued in a voice of such force and violence, that Tompson withdrew still further from him, “there is something I can settle!—Something I can do!—You shall promise me,” as he spoke he had followed Tompson, who was now crouching against the wall upon which hung the compy of Bouguereau's La Vierge Consolatrice, which so resembled Helen—“You shall promise me,” repeated Galbraith, “that this is the last time, as you say it is the first, this story is to be told to a human ear! If you do not promise, there will be found those to avenge who will not spare you! Do you hear me and do you promise?” Galbraith thundered the words into Tompson's ears, pressing him violently against the wall as he made his demand.

“Yes, oh, yes! I promise! I promise!” So great had Galbraith's wrath become, that Tompson feared, despite his opponent's armless condition, he might yet find some means of breaking his head, then and there, did he not commit himself to the promise required of him. (pp. 275-7)

After this explosion, there were only two other things Galbraith wanted Andrew to understand: he didn't believe a single word of what he had just been told, and he was never to darken the Galbraith cottage with his presence again.

Flawless victory? Not exactly, because the strain of Galbraith's explosive anger had taken more out of his energy reserve than his inner nature was comfortable giving up, so once the source of that anger had passed, Galbraith passed out. After he started to come around again, it took a while for him to recollect where he was, let alone what had just happened in the past hour.

[H]e remembered that Tompson had gone away in obedience to his own orders, and that he had looked at him sorrowfully and appealingly as he had passed out of the room. Perhaps, it occurred to him, Tompson might not be far distant yet; if he could but go to the front door, he might call him back, and send him away less dejected. Poor Tompson! he would call him back, and try to show him better things than those he had fed his mind upon! In order to realize his wish Galbraith attempted to rise from his chair, but something seemed to bind him to it. For some reason he could not move his legs, and his shoulders seemed pressed back and fastened to the cushions against which they rested. He made a movement as if to stretch out his arms, and get hold of a straight-backed chair in front of him, which he thought would support him, if he could but reach it. But, strange thing! his arms were useless too—and besides, they seemed so numb and dead! What had happened to his arms! And his whole body, why was that so powerless, why did every limb seem bound by cords which he could not break? Nothing about him was alive and active [...] (pp. 279-80)

Forgetting that he doesn't have arms anymore is what they call in the medical profession “a baaaaaaaad sign,” and the Campbell's Condensed Cream of Pastoral that follows (which, to be perfectly honest, I don't have the guts to quote, even though it actually works in this context) makes it sound like his life is flashing before his eyes. Uh-oh.

While all this is going on, Helen is on her way home, and she still has the joy (joy joy joy) down in her heart.

The strain of the day had been very great, and Helen was grateful for the hour which her journey home required. What a load was lifted from her shoulders! Once again she had the right to look out towards the future. Once again it was permitted her to return to Galbraith in honesty and sincerity. In some way, she believed, she would be able to provide for him. Some path would open before her—some work be given her to do.

“Why! why!” she could not refrain from asking herself, “had she not been able months ago to exercise such faith as this—why had she then so mistaken her way and laid up to her account all the guild of the past?” Of course, there was still much bitterness in such questions as these. She was too fresh from the strife for this not to be so. But now she was free! free! and she had delivered herself by the strength of her own hand! What joy, what gladness, what hope this meant, none but those who have been bound can know! (pp. 282-3)

There is just one more task to make the day of atonement complete: she has to come clean with her husband, giving him a much fuller accounting than she gave to Mr. Elliott. Which is only fair, since he'd be salty as hell if she told Sherman Elliott more than she told her husband. Of course, since he's busy dying at the moment, these are all theoretical points, so instead, let's enjoy Helen's last moment on her mighty clouds of joy before the rug is pulled out from under her one more time.

The sky, bare from horizon to horizon, with its infinite depths of color, its sublime serenity, its profound silence, seemed a true symbol of God's greatness and power. For a moment she stood looking above and beyond. A spirit of worship filled her soul. Something told her—something which she dare not question—that she was absolved; and that, after all, great suffering was worth the while. Then turning away from the glorious promise of summer which the whole earth seemed to express—from the radiant splendor of the air, hoping great things, believing great things, convinced of the complete surrender of her own will, she passed into the cottage. (pp. 284-5)

Next: The death scene! And this time I mean it!

Waters That Pass Away Book 2, Chapter 5: The Unapproachable Godlike Perfection of Helen's Victory

At last Westmore graces our narrative with his presence once again (Book 2, Chapter 5), and as far as he's concerned, the past six months have been especially kind to his life, both in the business and in personal spheres. Although the narrator warns him of hubris, he sees his life as going from victory to victory, with the word “fail” being an impossibility. And of course, when he thinks of the personal joys, he doesn't think of his family (“there was really a good deal to be said on his side concerning his domestic discontent”). He thinks of Helen Galbraith.

Looking over the extensive horizon of his individual world, nothing brought him the satisfaction, the deep sense of personal gratification and pride, that his thoughts of Helen brought him. He felt that he was indeed an extremely fortunate man. Helen in every way filled his senses with delight. She was his perfect ideal of a woman made into real flesh and blood. Her dignity, her modesty, even the spirit which she repulsed him at times, all these were enchanting to him. Had she been willing to permit it, he would gladly have surrounded her life with every condition of beauty and comfort—would have lavished upon her every kind of luxury. As he thought of her now, he felt inexpressibly annoyed and troubled that she was willing to accept so little from him—and even that little with apparent unhappiness and discontent.

Mr. Westmore was not oblivious of the fact that Helen had altered very much in personal appearance during the past year. [...] That this something was a truly tragic greatness, because behind all of Helen's conduct there had been the most supreme spirit of self-sacrifice—this Mr. Westmore did not quite perceive. In fact, in no event could he have rightly perceived this kind of thing. Such perception was denied to him by nature [...] He wanted very much to bring into her life some kind of joy and brightness; and he looked forward anxiously to the time when he thought this might be possible. So far as he could see, with Galbraith dead, there could exist no reason why Helen should not look out upon a new life, and take it up with hope and happiness. (pp. 244-5)

Well, there is the small matter that she thinks you're evil incarnate, but every relationship has these minor hurdles to clear. Also, there's that pesky lack of anything resembling conventional morality, which, of course, is told to us as flatly as possible so we don't have to figure anything out for ourselves.

The great point was to get her to view the situation as he viewed it—to believe that, when fate has denied one a legitimate happiness, no moral law should have the power to hold one back from seizing upon whatever chance happiness life may lay at one's feet. This Westmore considered an entirely sensible view of life; and he thought that if Helen could only be induced to look upon it with favor, there would then exist no reason whatever for her not accepting his love on natural terms, as he wished her to do.

“Why must people have so many moral ifs?” Mr. Westmore asked himself aloud. “They are but the obstacles to success—even to happiness,” he continued. After a few moments he added, again in an audible tone: “Had I been so scrupulous as she, I should never have got my fortune out of Wall Street as I have done.” (p. 246)

Yes, I'm rushing through yet another one of these lengthy meditations at a mad gallop, but dammit, something actually happens in this chapter! We leave Westmore for the moment confident that “the rights of the master in this situation, as in all others, it would seem, [remain] with him.” Such a pity that Helen, fresh out of the carriage from her art-inspired spiritual rebirth, is busying herself cutting ties with him. After spending an hour writing a lengthy letter to Mr. Elliott in her workroom at the newspaper, she went about the business of destroying all of her personal papers left in the little office and hopped another coach to deliver the “bad news” to Westmore in person.

Without doubt the way lay plainly before her. The higher demands of her own soul pointed alone in one direction—she must not now shrink from inflicting pain, for to do so was to spare herself the most necessary part of her retribution—was to seek her own will, was to yield to her own weakness. Yield she would not! Her own will should go—should be surrendered. She would submit herself unflinchingly to the conditions of regeneration which had been revealed to her—a purified heart, subject to the will of God. (p. 251)

Westmore, still dreaming lazy dreams of the day Helen's husband drops dead, is pleasantly surprised to see her show up unannounced...until she starts talking.

“Mr. Westmore, I have come here to tell you something which I preferred not to write to you; because, had I written, you might have concluded that I was not strong enough to stand face to face with the consequences of my own deeds.” She paused, but as he made no reply she continued:

“Be patient a few moments and I will have done. I am coming to my point. It is useless for me to go back to the things which have brought about the relationship which has existed between us. On my side, there is only one thing to be said; and I do not wish you to doubt for a moment the absolute truth of this statement. I have never thought of you in any other light, except as the person who could obtain for me a paying position, as you have done; and who, by your continued favor, could retain me in it. Beyond such power as this, I have sought in no way to influence you—though enough power to procure this for myself did I seek to gain over you. And to gain this and render it profitable to myself I have been willing, as you too well know, to make any kind of personal sacrifice. I feel sure that you understand why I did this. You must know that it was for love of my husband; that I might save him from domestic discomfort, from privations during the short time his life is to last. Of cthis I cannoth speak further, and I feel that it is not necessary, for I believe even you have been able to understand somewhat the kind of love mine has been.” Again she paused, but he remained silent, standing erect and looking fixedly at her. She went on:

“There is another point I cannot dwell upon; but I must mention it. The suffering which has come to me out of this sin I have committed has been far greater than I could ever hope to make you understand. [...]

Really convenient of her to mention this, since apparently Westmore doesn't even understand the concept of sin. But hush, this is her glory moment...

[“]I should not even attempt to make you understand it, for it would be impossible to you, I know. To say that this suffering has been an hourly agony of the soul is hardly to give a suggestion of what it has meant to me. But the important thing is, that this suffering has revealed to me what a thoroughly false moral view I possessed, and how absolutely impossible it is for wrong ever to lead to right, or for evil to produce good. Though I have sacrificed myself in love for the comfort and support of my husband, I see now that I have done him the greatest wrong, the greatest injustice that I could possibly have done him. It would have been kinder to let him die from any kind of privation, than to have subjected myself, as I have done, to a course which his beautiful soul would look upon as worse than death. I think when I came to you for help I must have been insane with despair—this is my only defense. Still, I recognize the fact that there was something morally wrong, something morally weak about me, of which I was ignorant; otherwise I should have known from the first how to distinguish correctly between sin and goodness—between falseness and honesty.” (pp. 253-4)

Um...you...go, girl?

She has only one more confession for him: she was going to play along until Alex was safely beyond the mortal coil and stop all of this nonsense cold, but the events of the day had made that type of deception utterly impossible. Therefore, she had to walk away from him completely, and today was the day.

Westmore, thoroughly unprepared for this eventuality, listened to all this gobbledygook patiently, and a part of him felt that she had broken the bonds and “freed herself over from the power he once had over her.” But come on, Westmore isn't gonna get beaten by a girl! His argument: What about my needs? “I love you. You are necessary to my happiness, and I cannot allow you to withdraw yourself from my life.” And when she remains insistent, he starts losing his cool, rapidly shifting into full-boil melodrama mode.

“But I insist upon your discussing it,” he replied. I insist upon the point I have made—that you should consider me in this matter. If you hold my happiness entirely in your hands, I take it that you owe me a debt—that you have no right to withdraw yourself from me—to rob me of the only true pleasure life holds me, simply to test a theory of yours—to work out something you choose to look upon as a moral regeneration. I tell you it is all nonsense!” he said sternly, drawing nearer to Helen. “You owe me a certain debt. I have the right to demand its payment of you. If you think so much of justice, there are more accounts to settle than the on you are keeping with your husband!” A note of scorn was in his tone; drawing nearer to her, standing so that he could easily touch or grasp her hand, he continued: “You belong to me! You belong to me!” he threw the words fiercely into her very face. “You yielded yourself to me when you were in need, because you found that I could come to your rescue—and now that you weary of the bargain, and when you have become essential to me—you think to take the matter wholly into your own hands, and go your own gait to please yourself. But I will not permit it. No, no, Mrs. Galbraith,” said Westmore with a piercing laugh, “the old fox is far too wily for that kind of a game!” (p. 256)

The only thing missing is “Mwah-ha-ha, me proud beauty!” Maybe he'll tie her to a log in the sawmill before we reach the end.

She simply says “If you prefer to misunderstand me, I have nothing further to say,” and pulls the key to the little room at the newspaper out of her coat pocket, which he promptly slaps out of her hand. She makes a move for the door, with a few dozen words about how she intends to lock him out of her life forever, but as her hand touches the doorknob Westmore springs forward and grabs her violently by the shoulders. “Woman! Woman! What are you doing! Do you not know that I mean what I say, that you are essential to me!” She shakes herself loose and he whips out his trump card, but honestly, if you didn't see what followed coming the moment she sealed that envelope to Elliott, you're just hopeless.

“Go then!” he said. “But you will never hoodwink Sherman Elliott as you have done me! That position on the paper ends with to-day!” This he felt to be his strongest card, and he had reserved it for the end; he though that if anything would bring her back to him, this would. The violence of the thrust which he had given her unsteadied her for a moment, but she recovered herself quickly, and she seemed very tall and thin and white, as she replied:

“That position on the paper is already ended. An hour before coming here I wrote to Mr. Elliott. And I told him everything. I withdrew myself absolutely from his employ, and begged of him not to seek me out—to let me go in peace.”

“You told him everything, did you!” exclaimed Westmore with horror, thinking only of the part he was to play in this revelation.

“Yes,” she replied. “I regretted to have to bring you in to anything of this kind, but it was unavoidable. I could not explain the matter without telling just how I had procured the place with him—but I insisted that the sin connected with it had all been my fault—all my own weakness. I also asked him especially, for the sake of what he and his wife represent to me—for they represent perfect justice and wisdom and love—not to let what I had told him affect severely his judgment of you. I don not think you need fear any injustice from Mr. Elliott.”

“Then you have done your worst!” said Mr. Westmore, sinking into the nearest chair, and giving himself up to despair. He recognized that he was beaten, and beaten in a horrible manner, which he had never thought of as possible. Westmore had no scruples against dishonest conduct; but to have the true inwardness of such conduct laid bare to others—to be made for them a subject of discussion, of this he had a complete, unutterable horror.

“You have ruined me, you have completely ruined me!” cried Westmore from his collapsed position. (pp. 259-60)

Westmore was picturing an unsealable rift between himself and Elliott, although Helen assured him that she asked for clemency from the editor's terrible swift sword of righteous indignation. Nevertheless, the old man felt totally defeated and utterly helpless. As befits someone who has been positioned as a saintly goddess made flesh, her victory is flawless, although she mercifully refrained from ripping his spine out and holding it over her head in defiance. On the contrary, it is especially flawless because it wasn't tinged with even the faintest hint of malice, which would at least give Westmore something to cling to. And of course, you can tell he learned the wrong lesson: “For the first time the thought came to him that he was getting to be a weak, old man, with whom a beautiful woman might play at her pleasure.” Of course it's impossible for him to learn a lesson, because how can he be pure, concentrated evil if he has the capacity to change?

The only thing left to him is a pitifully transparent level of damage control:

What a fool he had been! As he thought of his affairs he saw how it would be impossible at present for him to run away merely upon a few hours notice. His many important investments could not be left as they now stood. Plainly, there was nothing for him to do but remain, to face Sherman Elliott and his indignation, and to save himself as far as possible by representing Helen as a conscienceless tempter from whom no man she sought to ensnare could possibly escape. Men, he felt, should understand and sympathize with one another in such matters; and he thought with some scorn of a man like Sherman Elliott, possessed of the finest physical strength and robustness, going about the world with that aloofness of his and making of himself a genuine Sir Galahad. Such a man was incomprehensible to him, an suggested only weakness and hypocrisy. Yet he knew in his heart that he feared Elliott's judgment, and that he was not worthy to stand beside him in any of the great matters which make true, manly life. (pp. 262-3, my emphasis)

Well, that was easy. One evil monster down, one to go...

Next: The return of Andrew Tompson and his vindictive spirit!

Waters That Pass Away Book 2, Chapter 4: An Epiphany...FINALLY!

The day after Mr. and Mrs. Elliott's visit (Book 2, Chapter 4), Helen received a note from Mr. Elliott suggesting that she take up Bastien-Lepage's Jeanne d'Arc as the subject of her next article, along with whatever personal reminiscences of the artist she could bring together. It was a part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's permanent collection even then, and presumably ran the risk of being taken for granted, but “these things are available for our people, and may become a real influence in their lives, if presented to them in the right spirit.”

The note arrived too late in the afternoon to act upon immediately, so Helen decided to use the lead time to pick Alex's brain about Bastien-Lepage. Enlivened by “a renewed faith in the vigor and strength of true manhood” that Sherman Elliott had given him (and don't think that talk hasn't stopped creeping me out yet), Galbraith is happy to oblige. Godlike brilliance or no, our Alex G. is still a talking doll with a five mile string when it comes to the arts.

“He was a great figure when I first went to Paris. He was looked upon as the artist's artist—the man whom all the artists loved, and whose work they adored. His position was very firmly fixed at that time, for it was only a few years, you know, before his death. But earlier he had had a terrible fight. His spirit, however, was always courageous and resolute; and while his physical strength was never great, he won the battle completely before he laid down his arms to die. Yet the burden which he bore crushed him, I do not doubt. He died at the very height of his promise. It was felt by all who were supposed to know that he would do still greater things than he had done; but it was not to be. I remember so well the last great saying of his which came to us students, repeated by an intimate friend of his. Bastien was showing to this friend his study of the body of Gambetta. To Bastien himself death seemed yet a great way off. To this friend he said—“I am not afraid of death. It is nothing to die; but the point is to survive, and who is sure of influencing posterity? Come, I'm talking wildly,' he said, calling himself up with a halt, 'let us paint true, the rest is nothing.'” (pp. 225-6)

Both of the Galbraiths are familiar with the picture, and it made quite the impression on Alex during its Salon showing. He believes that while the overall picture is less than “correct,” Jeanne D'Arc herself is “perfect,” especially when you reach the face. It taught him a very valuable point of view: “how it was possible for an artist to impart intensity of human feeling and divine inspiration through a human face.” And the same principle, he continues, could be applied to landscape painting. Ooookay, trees don't have faces, but let's just throw him a frickin' bone or else we'll be here all day.

We follow Helen to the Metropolitan, and as always, she's wallowing in the slough of her own personal despond.

Once again she was fully alive to the realities amid which she stood, and comprehended in its deepest sense the extent of the appalling evil which now enthralled her. She was in the room with the picture which she had come so far to study, but having looked up at it once she turned away, and sinking down into a seat near by, remained like one stunned. A realization of the conditions of her present life rushed upon her overpoweringly. When the horrible sacrifice had been first made she had scarcely been responsible for her actions. In fact, she was for a time so insensible to impressions, that she could now only with difficulty recall the events of those weeks that succeeded her surrender of herself to Mr. Westmore. She had then seemed to possess only the power to accept, in a sort of blind agony, the consequence of her conduct.

Since that time she had certainly learned, as no one ever learns except from bitter, personal experience, how a sin, though committed in the desire to obtain good for another, can so eat into the spiritual structure of life, can so deface the finer, richer adornments of the soul, that there remains not a quality of the mind or of the heart which in time does not suffer contamination. Even her devoted, absorbing love for Galbraith, Helen saw, had been affected by this evil which had crept into her life. She loved Galbraith as devotedly, as absolutely, as she had ever done—but with a difference. She had but a blot upon her life, and nothing now could ever efface it. With this consciousness in her heart—with the pain born of it stabbing her hourly, her love for Galbraith was no longer the simple thing it had been. No matter what he was still to her, no matter what she had been willing to suffer for him, or what she was still willing to suffer, she could never feel herself worthy again—could never feel that she had the absolute right to him which had once been hers! How, she asked herself a thousand times a day, how was she to get this awful thing entirely out of her life—to free herself from the bondage, the spiritual, mental bondage, in which she was held—so that she might walk forth again with a cleansed heart, a purified purpose, facing life openly, frankly, unreservedly as it was her nature to do? (pp. 230-1)

Which only serves to remind me that we lost track of Westmore roughly 65 pages ago. Considering that he's the one making Helen Galbraith miserable on a regular basis, it's not understandable. And considering that we were paying meticulous attention to him when he was just being a creepy stalker, but he's completely absent now that his strong arm method of adultery is the only thing driving the plot (such as it is)...well, to say it's a significant oversight is to say that John Merrick suffered from a bit of puffiness around the eyes. (And to say I wish that line was one of mine isn't to say I wish I could remember where I stole it from. We still have the right to avoid self-incrimination in this country, y'know...)

As she finally stood before the painting, “a ray of light seemed to flash suddenly across the face of Jeanne, revealing it to Helen as it had never before been revealed to her.” Suddenly this wasn't a job anymore so much as a spiritual epiphany, the clear eyes of Jeanne boring into her soul, “and the way which she so ardently desired opened before her now for the first time with anything like clearness, or distinctness.” She tried to make the rounds of the room to calm herself, but again was drawn back to the picture (especially the face) in rapt meditation until her artist friend St. George Turner—the one who showed her the etchings—approached. After running down the things which work against the painting (short version: everything but the figure of Jeanne), they finally come back to why it works for them anyway.

“Nothing convinces me of his greatness,” said Helen, “than the selection he has made here of his subject. It is like an inspiration to have selected such a subject, and to have succeeded with it as he has done.”

“No doubt,” said Turner, “the life itself of Jeanne d'Arc is something like a divine revelation—it was so remarkable that nothing else explains it, even in this materialistic age of ours. Bastien-Lepage, it seems to me, felt it in this way, and tried to convey this impression. No one but a true poet, possibly, could have felt this as he did, and could have so expressed it.”

“His picture is certainly an angelic vision made into flesh and blood,” said Helen.

“Well, it is another illustration, I heard one of our best men say, of how, from age to age, one noble spirit reacts upon another noble spirit. The hero and the poet! They mutually understand one another; otherwise they could never so completely complement one another.” (pp. 237-8)

Young Turner leaves Helen to prepare for his upcoming trip to France, while she ponders the revelations of the day. Writing about the picture now was out of the question: “A sacred line had been drown for her about that picture—its influence had gone too deeply for it to be treated merely as any other newspaper subject might be treated.” Besides, she feared that if she said anything about the painting now, she'd say more about her personal matters in a highly public place than she ever intended to. Still, she's been given a lot to ponder.

More clearly than anything else she saw the real height to which true womanhood may rise. If such great things had been revealed to a simple peasant maid, unlearned, untutored, whose only strength was a pure heart subject to the will of God, why might not other women—those who could read the true version of the vision—why might not these also rise above the ordinary plane on which most lives are lived—rise and free themselves from insufficiency? They can, they can, a voice outside of herself seemed to say to her—but only when the necessary conditions have been fulfilled: that their hearts be pure and subject to the will of God. For the first time now she saw this distinctly as the inexorable law—the spiritual force which alone has the power to regenerate and to save. A flood of light broke around her—the clearness and brilliancy of it dazzled her for the moment—then steadying herself, she grasped the truth which it brought with it; and in her hand she knew that she held the golden thread which, followed up, would lead her out of captivity.

“Yes! yes!” she cried in her soul, “that was why, when that was how it came about—but thank God, it is over now!”

She turned away from the Jeanne d'Arc—it had taught her its lesson—and now she had many things, great things to do. As she came out from the gallery, out into the beauty and freshness of the spring afternoon—for midday was long ago passed—her spirit seemed literally to leap within her—no height seemed too high, too difficult, for her to ascend. (pp. 240-1)

“Thank God, it is over now!”? We still have close to a hundred pages left! You're just mocking me at this point, book. Anyway, if that means that things might actually start happening instead of being talked about offstage, here's to hitting the heights...

Next: Westmore finally pops up again! And I'm sure he's part of the “great things” Helen feels she has to do...

Waters That Pass Away Book 2, Chapter 3: A Day In the Country, A Night of Private Misery

Chapter 3 of Book 2 takes us to the Elliott house, and another round of “Where's Poochy?” expository dialogue about Helen and Westmore...together only in the conversation, of course.

“I wish, dear,” she continued, still stroking her husband's brow and temples, “that you could give up the management of the paper as a whole, and do only editorial writing. I am sure that it would suit you much better, and the strain would be far less.”

“No, I like being at the helm,” he replied. “I like to steer the thing according to my own ideas. I am not good at following. It even keeps me wrought upon all the time to think that Westmore's money as at the back of me.”

“But Mr. Westmore allows you perfect freedom, does he not?” she asked.

“Yes—perfect,” he answered, “so far as my general policy is concerned; but, my dear—I must say it—I am developing a genuine dislike for Westmore. Somehow, the fellow leaves a bad taste in my mouth. He's entirely too sharp and eager.”

“You do not think he is dishonest, do you?” asked Mrs. Elliott anxiously. She had never had any personal liking for Westmore, but she knew that it was wiser, so long as her husband and he remained associated in business, to adopt an unquestioning attitude toward him.

“Well, no, not just that, my dear—I cannot say that of him,” replied Mr. Elliott. “But to me it is something even worse than bare dishonesty—something far more subtle. However, do not let us talk of him now. For the immediate present things must remain as they are.[”] (pp. 204-5)

The chat turns to Helen Galbraith, who Mr. Elliott notes has become “strangely tragical in appearance.” “[T]he work is too heavy for her; and yet she is always urging me to give it to her—to let her go here and there—and when I grant her request, she goes at the work as if it were the only thing in the world which she really enjoyed.” In response, the Missus proposes an excursion to see the Galbraiths in their natural habitat, which he thinks is a dandy idea.

The Elliotts walk in on one of the Galbraiths' homely little scenes of unspoken devotion...and misery. Unspoken misery, of course, because what kind of marriage would this be if either partner actually opened up?

Buckle in, read-along pals. I feel compelled to share the whole thing.

It was yet early afternoon, and Galbraith had not taken his seat at the window. He half reclined in a comfortable chair, while Helen, seated upon a stool at his feet, read to him. The windows of the room were open on all sides, and the fresh spring air and sweet odors from the out-door world came in to them refreshingly. Galbraith followed Helen's reading with interest, yet it was evident that he was weary, very weary. He had been passing through an exceptionally bad week; his appetite was indifferent, and the ability to sleep had nearly gone from him. He showed most painfully the effects of this strain under which he had been sustaining life. Moreover, his soul was heavily burdened. The great change in Helen impressed him more and more distressingly from day to day. That she never complained, but watched with untiringly anxiety for every desire of his, that she might minister to it at once, made things none the less easy for him to bear. At times the conditions of his life and hers seemed to wring the very heart out of him. He could no longer speak freely to Helen of the many perplexing thoughts which clouded his mind and wrapped his soul in darkness. He dared not trust himself to speak, to arouse to active expression the terrible grief concerning which he knew Helen was constantly fighting to keep silent. Living in such an atmosphere as this, it had come about that they read aloud together more frequently than in former days. This, without demanding much personal talk, gave them a means of close, personal intercourse; it helped and soothed them both—and often the thoughts which they expressed over their books contained some individual word, comforting and sweet to think upon, which otherwise might never had been spoken. (pp. 208-9)

I paid close attention to those last two sentences...are they really communicating, or are they just throwing other people's words at each other, turning up the volume to fill the ominous silences? God forbid that he does something to activate her grief, since she'll probably want to talk about it for hours (blah blah blah your needs...I'm dying of an unspecified disease over here!), which makes me think of this as the pre-electronic version of turning on the TV and insisting that nobody talk except during the commercials...only without the commercials. That, of course, is the exact opposite of the close, personal communication that would, y'know, resolve the plot, so it just goes on and on like that, but it's such a sentimental scene that when the Elliotts walk in on it, they're afraid to make a noise and break the spell. Either that or bring the curse of the Tomb of the Pharaohs down on their head, since, as we've been reminded repeatedly, this is a place of death.

Mrs. Elliott was a frequent visitor in the past few months, as the author failed to tell us until this point, but Mr. Elliott had never laid eyes on Alex Galbraith until that moment, and yet in short order the two men fall into “sympathetic conversation.” And by “sympathetic conversation,” of course, we mean “another one of those lengthy position statements which would make Ayn Rand blush.” Considering Alex has so little to do in this book, it's almost understandable, but that doesn't make it go down any easier, especially since it's pretty much the same conversation he had earlier with his malevolent friend Andrew about finding an American original. Of course, now we have a new sounding board, so we should give him his shovel for the sandbox.

“We Americans have a rooted belief in instinctive knowledge, or knowledge by absorption,” continued Galbraith. “A keen, sensitive, catholic feeling for works of art cannot spring into being full-grown, with a perfect control of all its powers, as many of our worthy citizens are inclined to believe; it must be developed. The best way to foster and develop such a feeling is to have our eyes opened by learning all we can from books and pictures, from science and art. Out of universal knowledge like this, special knowledge will the more readily emerge. A true knowledge of beauty comes to no people who have not laid for it a broad and deep foundation.”

“Everything artistic in America is looking up tremendously though, I am sure,” replied Mr. Elliott. “In painting and sculpture, in architecture and landscape gardening, everywhere there is a distinct advance. I am no artist, or art critic, but I am deeply interested in these matters, and I make a point of observing their progress and helping it on all I can. The process of development will be slow here as it has been in other countries—possibly slower in America than it has been anywhere else—because the American is too eager for results, and he tries to circumvent nature by a plan of forcing. Of course, he gets an artificial result, and has the trouble also of going again over all his work, having found that he must submit himself unflinchingly to the unvarying laws of nature.” (pp. 212-3)

In other words, the “American school” will drag its ass when it comes to finding itself because these snotty punks are so hung up on forcing their effects, but not willing to bust their asses in the long hours it takes to build their fundamentals. Or to make it short and glib, we could have a great American art movement if it wasn't so full of Americans.

You're feeding Galbraith a setup line like that? Oh, you mad, impetuous fool! Galbraith, his strength returning to him now that his passion is being stirred, recalls a Paris exhibition he attended in 1883 loaded to overflowing with “the choicest paintings of the greatest period of modern art.” He wasn't impressed so much by individual artists as he was by “what this collection meant as a whole,” the culmination of generations of hard, mind-wracking work. “Now, if America could take to heart such a great object lesson as this [...] and be content to bide her time—to work out, according to the laws of nature, a national art—using all her vast possibilities slowly and wisely—what a result we might have!” Again, no indication of what a “national art” might be, except to say “France did it, and why can't we have nice things like France?” Well, if France jumped into a world war, would you do it? Twice?

And then, we come to what may very well be a double-edged section of today's sermon—that is, if I thought this story was capable of having a single-edged scrap of dialogue.

“Are we as a nation,” continued Galbraith, keeping up his walk, “capable of the tremendous self-denial, the resignation to daily discouragements which are needed to carry a people through the sublimating period when its finer taste is being shaped and fixed to meet the highest standard? Sometimes I think that we have not this power of self-denial, and that we may never have it. A people can gain their spiritual light, their guidance up to the heights, only from the lives of their prophets. A great national art can be created and infused into the life of a people by masters alone, masters taken from among themselves, who, being a part of the people's life, can interpret to them essential truths, make plain to them obscure points and cause the barren places to blossom and glow with beauty for them, as no genius, but one born and bred amongst them, can possibly do.” (p. 215)

Then he ruminates on the “brotherhood of men” who, through their struggle, made the French arts the paragon against which all others are judged. It's worth repeating the list he comes up with at this point: Delacroix, Rousseau, Dupré, Corot, Diaz, Millet, Daubigny, “and the others” (there's a Gilligan's Island moment if I ever saw one). Fascinating that an impressionist, as I believe it was established rather early on Alex was, rattles off a list of those who pursued the battle against “sleek mediocrity” and doesn't come up with a single French impressionist, supposedly dismissing them as “the others,” like the hostile group on the other side of the Island. He's one of those self-loathing daubers, we can assume...

And what the hell, here's one more Galbraith quote to make you wonder if the 20^th century would be his own personal nightmare.

“The trouble is,” he continued, “art in America is looked upon as a business—is considered as a means to wealth and social distinction; and I might say exactly the same of literature. But this brings us back to that old principle from which we can never escape,—that it is impossible to serve God and Mammon. Art must be looked upon as an end in itself, worthy of all one's soul and heart and intellect. Unless our American painters can be brought to look upon it in this light, we can have no great art, giving to the common facts of daily life in a strange, new interest and a transfigured beauty. Everything depends on the spirit with which we approach a subject.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Mr. Elliott, “the key to every situation we carry in ourselves; our work only gives us back what we seek.”

Evidently Galbraith's talk had done him good. He went back to his easy chair and took a seat near the window, his face wearing a look of contentment and satisfaction such as Helen had not seen there for a long while. (pp. 216-7)

Referring to a push towards abstraction, he says “The artist's preeminent duty is to paint true. His business is to see what there is in what he wishes to paint—then to reproduce the truth as he finds it.” At this point, when this limp Socratic dialogue has me screaming "Drink the hemlock!" at the page, the ladies steer things to less serious themes and (of course) tea and dainty cakes. Then the party makes a tentative move of breaking up. Mr. Elliott, staring into Galbraith's eyes with hearty man-admiration, asks if there's anything he can do for Alex. “Yes—one thing—see after Helen!” What, right now? Because she's right over there. After the room is clear, Alex muses out loud how great Mr. Elliott is. I'm not even being facetious this time; “great” was the word he actually used.

Then we get a stroll in Helen's garden—which, of course, is awesome—and the Elliotts finally make their way home. Now that she was left alone with her thoughts, Helen's mind drifted to what an evil person she was.

In the fast gathering darkness there came upon her, as it did nearly every hour in the day, an overpowering sense of her own mistakes—of her terrible sin. She buried her face in her hands and sank down upon the doorstep of the cottage. Tears did not come to her, for her soul was filled with something which no tears could express. It seemed to her, as she crouched there, that a darkness the like of which had never before closed over a human soul had closed over her. Out of her memory there came to her scenes from her early life, scenes in which she had always been the central figure, the spotless, virgin type of pure girlhood. She had been too pure even to think of purity. She had simply taken life and lived it freely and joyously, her faith resting upon God. How often had she as a girl lingered out of doors in the gathering twilight! It had been the time when she dreamed her dreams and thought of all “the wonder there was to be.” Amid all of these voices from the past there came now an unexpected one whispering to her of a faith which she had lost, and for which she had found no substitute. A voice within her seemed to repeat slowly the words:

“Mine iniquities have taken hold upon me, so that I am not able to look up; therefore my heart faileth me. Be pleased, O Lord, to deliver me; O Lord, make haste to help me.” Was it a prayer? She had hardly repeated it as such, but as if there were some saving virtue in the mere memory of those words which she had learned long ago in childhood, there came to her, like an answer, those other words of that daring preacher who proclaimed—“Sin shall not have dominion over you!”

When she reentered the house she found Galbraith asleep, so quietly closing the window by his side she crept away to the kitchen and to her duties there. (pp. 222-3)

Next: Um, another gallery visit? Isn't it a bit alarming that book 2 is repeating every incident that was in book 1 so far, and in the same quantities? The book is actively mocking me now... And yeah, I know France didn't jump into those world wars, it was pushed. Get off my back, imaginary Francophiles in my head...