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...

Waters that Pass Away Book 2, Chapter 2: Andrew Learns Nothing From His Last Big, Stupid Move

Hey, it's the evening of the day from the last chapter! (Book 2, Chapter 2) Hey, it's Tompson, and he's at the club! And before he embarks on a fresh round of self-centered evil, he's telling us about what a drag it is to be able to travel.

“Possibly to be a cosmopolite is not such an ideal existence as you imagine,” replied Tompson, lighting a fresh cigarette and commencing to pace anxiously up and down.

“I should think to be a cosmopolite the happiest existence in the world,” said young Andrews, thinking somewhat ruefully of his own clipped wings, as contrasted with the very free ones of Tompson.”

“I can assure you, it is a baleful spirit to be inflicted with, that of the cosmopolite,” replied Tompson, pausing and seeming to consider the qualities of his cigarette, as he continued: “To move about the world from one country to another, is to lose, to a great degree, the sense of the sanctity of home and of the absoluteness of the habits and customs of one's countrymen. [...]

Some modern readers wouldn't view that as a bad thing, really, the idea you receive from a proper trip overseas that your inviolable social tenets are nothing more than local customs, many of which are ignored past the border. But let's see how far he's willing to chase the rabbit down this hole.

[“]While one loses this—and the loss is more than you would imagine—one ends usually by finding all places more or less provincial. In travel you form the habit of comparing things, which gives you a sense of being very broad, but which really means that you come to find life insipid and flat in every country.”

“Then you think that the men who remain at home, learning how to be content on a bone, are not such unlucky dogs after all?” asked the Colonel, seeming, in the enjoyment with which he puffed away at a good Havana, to be a most happy reply to his own question.

“Certainly Paris, I should think, with its unequaled brilliancy, could never tire a man of the world like yourself, Mr. Tompson,” protested young Andrews.

“Possibly no,” replied Tompson, “should I always remain in Paris, and so maintain from one end of the year to the other a purely Parisian point of view. But you see, for instance, after living for awhile in London, upon returning to Paris one feels the contrast, and naturally falls back upon the habit of comparing things. In this way, the enjoyment of all places is lessened for the man who travels extensively and observes intelligently.”

“But how delightful, how charming to be able to make these comparisons!” insisted young Andrews, not in the least convinced.

“I have no doubt, Andrews,” replied Tompson, speaking in a tone which an older and more experienced man of the world often uses with a younger and less experienced one, “that you get more out of life here, with a week or two at Bar Harbor in the summer, than I do out of the whole of Europe.” (pp. 186-7)

I recognize the effect that's being reached for here—Tompson is a jaded wanderer who, by going everywhere, recognizes he's losing his roots to anywhere. It's an idea that means more in the modern culture than it might have then, so it's a damn shame this will probably be tossed on the rubbish pile in the mad rush to the next thwarted love scene. It's also a damn shame that it's couched in yet another “America! Hell yeah!” discourse. All this home-grown-over-European noise has popped up far too much and from the mouths of far too many disparate characters to be just a coincidence, and not a deeply-held belief that the author can't keep down. “You will find that it all comes down to what I have said—that even Paris, the meeting point of the nations, is essentially provincial.” Let's see what the American Heritage Dictionary has to say about that word “provincial”:

1. Of or relating to a province.
   

2. Of or characteristic of people from the provinces; not fashionable or sophisticated: "Well-educated professional women ... made me feel uncomfortably provincial" (J.R. Salamanca).

3. Limited in perspective; narrow and self-centered.

Yep, that's our Tompson, all right. That's the whole world view of the book, really. The overall impression I've taken away so far is that the author believed Helen Galbraith would've been much happier if her universe began with a stew in the oven and stopped at the far end of her garden path.

It's too bad that Andrew is spouting all that “stay in your own backyard” doggerel, since his mom has been feeling really crowded in recent days and would like him to take one of those trips. However, he has to stick around. Cunning plans don't come to fruition on their own, bub. “He believed that he had found a means by which he could, in a measure, control Helen Galbraith and bend her—possibly—to his own purposes. She might, if she was so determined, continue to refuse his love and assistance, but she could no longer restrain him from baffling her in any other course she might decide upon!” (pp. 188-9) Since he felt her sins were bigger than his, any means would justify his end in his eyes. Which means that once again, it's time for him to drink a bit of liquid courage as we travel ahead of him across the state line to visit the Martyr Family!

As we land in the cottage, Helen is trying to talk Alex into actually going outside for a change, but apparently even talking about walking makes him weary beyond recall—obviously wheelchairs are also beyond the Galbraiths' universe—so she leaves him alone yet again. Helen's whole sick-o'-livin'-and-fear'd-o'-dyin' stance has progressed to the point where even her monumentally self-involved husband can't ignore it.

How painfully conscious he was of these changes in her he scarcely dared to consider; for he felt that it was anxiety and work for him that had brought them to her. Poor, devoted Helen! Little did he realize the strain under which she was living. Nevertheless he understood the situation sufficiently to see that she endured much labor and suffered greatly at times; and to see these things and yet to be compelled to sit there in entire helplessness, unable to alter them, was terrible indeed for him. Nothing which he could now do could lift, even temporarily, the burden which rested upon her young life. (p. 192)

Hey, here's a thought...start with “Honey, is everything okay? Did anybody try to take possession of you at work today? My friend over there wasn't trying to get his freak on with you, was he?” But no, that would mean making it about somebody else. And remember Rule #1: she can tell nobody about her agony, because there's no story if there's no agony.

Helen takes a slightly longer route than her usual walks, which gives Andrew Tompson the perfect opportunity to creep up on her unannounced. And since no detail is too small to steal from the the last time we saw this scene, there are birds prominently featured here, too.

“Yes I was absorbed for the moment in those swallows. I was thinking of how direct and swift they are—and yet how silent.”

“Swallows have no song, you know,” he said, “but they have little clinking notes which some people, I believe, find not unmusical.”

“They must possess much feeling and much energy to fly as they do,” she said, looking up the slope in the direction which the birds had taken. “I should think that swallows, with that dashing flight of theirs, were less in need of song than most other birds.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Tompson.

“Because,” she answered, “their flight must express, even better than song can, any strong emotions which they may have.”

“Then you believe more in actions than in words?” he asked, eager to think it so, in the hope that his own persistent silence of late, enforced by his tireless activity, might have what he considered its just reward.

“Of course I do,” she said positively, looking at him with one of her penetrating gazes before which he could not stand without a slight wincing.

“Have I ever talked much about all the things which have befallen me?” she asked, looking even more searchingly, as she put these words to him, in his clear-cut, cynical face.

“No, I only wish that you had!” he replied. (pp. 195-6)

Before he loses his courage again, Andrew then proceeds with what passes for his “masterstroke” and tells her what passes for “everything he's found out.” In this book that means that he knows her “secret and immoral connections with Mr. Westmore.” There's a hostile edge in his voice as he gives her a combination of a dressing-down for immorality and—yet again—a question as to why she wasn't immoral with him.

“Westmore is a married man,” he continued, “and any hold you have on him will avail you very little. Now, Helen—“ has he spoke her name his voice fell, becoming almost soft. To be just to him, this love which Tompson had for Helen was the best kind of love which he had ever known, and in its behalf he felt that he was now about to make a splendid sacrifice of himself. “Now, Helen,” he repeated gently, if not tenderly, “I can look into your future, and it is very dark, very gloomy. But I love you—yes—I love you—despite everything.” He paused again, but she said nothing, only continuing to look steadily at him, so he went on. “I want you to get out of this—to get out of it at once. Let Westmore and the Elliotts and journalism and the whole complications go—let them go to the ends of the earth—only you get out of it—and—“ he paused again—he had only now come to his main point—he was about to play his highest trump—as he spoke he looked squarely into Helen's face, meeting unflinchingly her own steady gaze. “And,” he continued, “let them go—then come to me!” Another pause. “And after awhile, when everything is over, I will marry you!” As he finished speaking, he congratulated himself that he had played a very magnanimous part, and that no man could rise above him in the sacrifice he was willing to make of himself. His former fears of failure receded, and he became quite hopeful of the final success of his plan. Why should it not be so? Certainly he had not believed that Helen would ever stand still as she had done and listen, without a word of protest, to what he had just said to her. (pp. 199-200)

Jeez, for a “jaded” man, he sure is unspeakably naive. And really, “any hold she has on Westmore”? What did that ridiculous offstage detective tell him? Because this so-called bombshell sounds exactly like what he'd decided before he hired the man. Did the gumshoe actually do any work, or did he just itemize his bar tab when Tompson came back and fed him whatever noise he wanted to hear? Now that's a story I'd actually like to read. More's the pity...

Considering the gambit that he was so proud of is exactly the same thing he tried earlier (only this time with the zesty flavor of blackmail!), it shouldn't be surprising at all that Helen's reaction is exactly the same, only more so. She gives him a look of “living fire” as she shuts him down a second time.

“And you, Andrew Tompson! You have called yourself the friend of Alex Galbraith! You, who spy upon his wife, the wife whom you pretend to love! You find that for motives of her own—I will not say what these motives were—she has ruinously sacrificed herself—and you come to her to save her, as you say! In doing so, you not only tell her that you are an abominable traitor, but you even more fully reveal yourself, by offering to still further degrade her; and then—as if you had not already heaped scorn upon scorn—you insinuate that when her husband, your friend—the friend of many years! the one for whom she has in deep, mistaken devotion sacrificed herself—that when he is dead and well out of the way, you will make everything all right for everybody concerned by marrying the poor wife that is left!”

Of course she's not going to tell her motivations, because that would actually change things, and to change would mean to make an effort. As if the way this played out before wasn't humiliating enough, get a load of how this one ends.

“Helen! Helen!” he piteously cried. “Do you not see that I love you? That I condescend to anything that I may save you, that I may call you my own?” A fierceness seized him and springing forward he sought a second time to obtain hold of Helen's hands. She drew aside quickly, but as she did so, Tompson fell forward, striking his palms against a pile of stones heaped together in the fields. Though somewhat hurt and considerably shaken Tompson pulled himself up speedily; but in the meantime his anger had risen, and the reply which Helen now gave him seemed only to increase it in a large degree.

“I can only see,” she said, “that you are a mean, contemptible, false man, who beneath a cultured exterior, conceals a thoroughly narrow and selfish soul. And had not my poor husband been guilelessly honest and pure, he would have seen the same long ago.” (pp. 201-2)

After making it clear this is a refusal “now and for all time,” Andrew warns her that she'll live to regret her decision. “There are many ways by which a determined man may reach his end.” And without even making a motion to visit his friend, he shows himself out of the woods. Well, at least she doesn't have to make dinner for the insufferable twerp this time...

Next: Well, here's something new...the Elliotts meet Mr. Galbraith. Guess at whose house?

Waters that Pass Away Book 2, Chapter 1: Aftermath of a Befooling

Because there's no such thing as being too on the nose in this story, Book 2, Chapter 1 opens with another Biblical epigraph, the one that gives us the book title: “Thou shalt be stedfast, and shalt not fear: because thou shalt forget thy misery, and remember it as waters that pass away.” (Job 11:15-16)

It's springtime as the curtain rises, but a shadow hangs over Helen Galbraith, who should be enjoying the “fresh, new life which she knew was all about her,” except for the concentrated evil that had settled over her since Westmore had “taken possession” of her. (At least that settles what happened in those missing hours...right? Right? Damn it, these euphemisms are driving me nuts! It makes it sound like she defaulted on a mortgage!)

Of course, nobody could be told. Nobody. Silence has worked so well up to this point, so why stop now? If she told Alex, he would not only bring an end to her work, but probably the relationship, too. “What now became of her was of no consequence. Galbraith and his short remaining life alone were of consequence.” As for Westmore, the initial plan was to never speak to him again, but he made it clear as crystal that he held all the cards, baby, and if she didn't play the game on his terms, say goodbye to that position at Mr. Elliott's paper. And really, it's not like a published columnist could ever find another job in the New York market if she got fired. Because that would mean it's a highly competitive market, and in that direction lies the mouth of madness! (*snicker*...yeah, I know, "play along, for the love of God!")

Even her friendship with the Elliotts, that one speck of daylight in this newly sin-cursed world, was coated with a film of dread, since she got it by being a friend to the Devil. With that in mind, it's time for some more heart-pounding walking wounded action!

As Helen walked along Twenty-first Street this morning, no one meeting her could have failed to notice the extreme pallor of her face, and the great lassitude of body from which she was suffering. Her old dignity was there, but the tragedy of her life had written in indelible lines its story upon her face which was now beautiful only with a beauty that seemed to have nothing to do with youth, or freedom, or hope. Even rapid walking, and the cool, fresh morning air brought no color now to her soft, well-shaped cheeks; and her lips did not part with a smile at the sight of a child or a flower, as they had formerly been accustomed to do. In fact, Helen's beautiful face had really become almost painful to look upon! Her outward calm and dignity was only a mantle in which she wrapped a grief too deep and significant to be confided to any one. Helen was well aware of the painful change in her appearance, but this had not the power to trouble her. A terrible coldness like the coldness of death had descended upon her heart, reducing it to a state of fixed insensibility; the consciousness of this filled her at times with apprehensions as to her own sanity. Looking about her this morning she saw that the great city was filled with new life, with the rich, glad promise of summer. And yet these things did not move her—seemed in no way to concern her. She asked herself if she was never to get back her innocent, healthy joy in the simple things of nature—would she always remain cold, unmoved like this? As these questions arose in her mind, she felt more desperately alone than she remembered ever having felt before. Not even the sweet and cherished friendship of Mrs. Elliott could be to her what she wished it to be—what it should have been—because, after all, it was a stolen thing to which she had no right. (pp. 167-8)

And while all these morbid thoughts dragged their muddy feet through her imagination, she found herself in front of the Calvary Parish Church (that's what the author calls it, anyway) on Fourth Avenue, and the spirit (pardon me, The Spirit...not to be confused with The Spirit) moved her to go inside and pray.

Her head bowed in unconscious prayer as these thoughts took firm hold of her confused and disordered mind, clearing her vision and bringing back to life certain things which for a long time had been as dead in her. After all, had she not been entirely wrong in seeking to devise means of help out of her own resources instead of accepting the decrees of God? What agony is such a thought! It was too late indeed to retrace her steps, no matter how misdirected they had been! And there was no longer any doubt of it that her steps had been misdirected. She had found the wrong way, and had done her own soul irreparable injury, even though her only aim had been to protect and save Galbraith! This she had been coming to see more and more clearly from day to day; now she saw it fully and in all its broad relations, as it bore upon her own life and upon that of others. What then was left for her? Was she to find hardness alone as the essence of life, and was its iron band to be drawn closer and closer about her heart, crushing out love as well as hope? “No! No!” her spirit cried. “It could not be!” Life had once been too beautiful, too full of joy and trust and sweetness, too near to all of God's best things for it to go out in this way, in eternal darkness! Her beautiful head sank into the embrace of her arms, as they rested suppliantly upon the back of the pew over which she knelt, and in the quiet, deserted church Helen Galbraith's voice could have been heard, penetrating the silent naves and reaching to the very altar itself, as she cried out in anguish, “My God! My God! My God!” With that cry, the bands that held her a prisoner seemed to snap asunder, and compassion for herself, as great as that which she had felt for Galbraith, swept over her heart. (pp. 170-1)

She got just enough daylight in her heart to muster a prayer for guidance, which didn't turn off the self-pity faucet, but was probably a sign that something is about to happen (finally!).

That “something” comes to us in the form of a sad tale which had come to the attention of a party of women gathered in Mrs. Elliott's parlor for the purpose of “practical, philanthropic work.” “In a great city like New York, Mrs. Elliott argued, there must be many women, outside of the pronouncedly bad, who, baffled and stunned morally, could be reached in some way.” As if that wasn't too close to the knuckle, considering that Helen Galbraith was part of the clique now, their goal was to help those women “who were openly recognized as having fallen away from their natural heritage of sweetness and purity.” For that reason, the case of Mary Levier attracted their attention.

To give you the Reader's Digest version, Mary Levier was a servant in the home of a mutual friend and was engaged to a young mechanic. They seemed to be in love until the young man talked Mary into going to a picnic on the Hudson River...alone. Cue dramatic music.

After the day in question, she became more and more morose and “morbid,” and her young man, who was once only a weekly visitor, made nightly visits to attempt to see her...always in vain. Then one day the girl offered her resignation to the lady of the house and the whole awful story spilled out of her: the picnic ended with the young man “overstepping the line,” and now she hated him passionately, even though he wanted to marry her. Yep, he took possession. On her own 30 yard line, yet.

Even after it became clear she had a baby on board, she wasn't about to accept even a cent of support...which is a honkin' great surprise, since I've been led to believe that the best way to hurt somebody you hate is to soak them for everything you can get. Or maybe I've been watching too many judge shows...

Mrs. Elliott concludes the story, then asks the big money question: “Now, I want to know how one is to reach and influence the moral nature of a girl like that. From my point of view, Mary Levier, servant girl as she is, has a right to some kind of life in harmony with the demands of her own spiritual nature. But how to make her see this; how to help her adjust her fine moral sense to the actual and the practical needs of her own life and those of her child; how to do something like this for her—and other women who are striving to straighten out any crookedness that a weak or evil nature has brought into their lives—this is the great question which is always pressing itself upon me.” (p. 175) Admittedly, Miss Levier is in a fix, since it was a bad day and age to be an unwed mother. So it shouldn't be surprising that, even though the Meddling Wives Guild has the best of intentions, parts of the ensuing debate on the best approach seem...well, a bit off to modern eyes.

“Now there is a side to this question which none of us seem inclined to look at,” remarked Mrs. Wellmead, one of the sturdiest and most faithful of Mrs. Elliott's friends, yet one who thought that all women in these modern days needed to be called back a little, and kept close to the old-time ideal of domestic life.

“There is the man,” she said, raising a laugh at once, because her friends knew that she was never willing to have the men ignored or neglected. “No one seems inclined to think of that poor soul whom this girl's sensitiveness, as you put it, or perverseness as some might call it, has nearly driven to insanity. Is it not a question of how much she owes him, as well as herself?”

“Yes, it is a question, Mrs. Wellmead,” replied Mrs. Elliott, “and a very important one, I know. But Mary up to this time has been unable to look at that. Possibly, after a little, she may reach that point. However, it will depend very much, I think, upon what kind of development she gets out of her present experience.” As Mrs. Elliott spoke, she stretched out her right hand and placed it upon Helen's knee.

“Don't you think that it is true, dear?” she asked of Helen, turning to her.

“Yes, entirely true,” said Helen. “At present, evidently, she can think of no one's suffering but her own.” (pp. 178-9)

Pot, meet kettle. Yeah, he's black...wanna fight about it? But when they decide that Mrs. Galbraith and her “Madonna-like face” would be the key to the girl's confidence, the thought of being pressed into service works up such a distress in Helen that they decide not to push the matter any further. But after attending to the day's business for the paper—inspecting a collection of etchings at Keppel's on Sixteenth Street—she sings a subtly different tune.

“Now let me show you something, Mrs. Galbraith!”

Helen drew near to the portfolio, in which was placed the priceless treasure which the young man regarded so earnestly, and stooping a little to decipher the artist's name, she stretched out her hand, saying:

“Do let me see it! Poor Meryon! One of the immortals!” and taking the print from Turner's hand, she scanned it with an intensity of observation, which entirely satisfied the young man.

“I see,” said he, “that you are one of the initiated. I need not tell you anything here.”

“Yes,” she replied simply, holding the print well off from her, that she might see it to better advantage; adding:

“I can only think with the uttermost pain of the sorrowful, tragic story of that man's life. What a struggle! What a conflict! It is very fine,” she added, handing back the print to Turner.

“A splendid imagination is displayed in it,” said the young artist.

“Yes, and in its harmony quite at variance with his own broken life.” Her voice trembled with emotion; the little print had brought so vividly before her the career of her own husband.

“That remark quite accords,” replied Turner, “with what Mr. Hammerton says of him, that 'his work was sanity itself.' It only goes to prove more conclusively how very sensitive and delicate is the genuine artistic temperament; and how, though endowed with splendid power, a man of such temperament, when badly circumstanced, is likely to be utterly worsted in the struggle.”

“That is only another way of saying,” replied Helen, “that the people of the finest natures seem born to the greatest pain—or that nearly all life of any consequence is mostly suffering.” Then she walked away, pale and trembling, while St. George Turner, the healthy young enthusiast, was left staring after her wonderingly, regretting deeply that so interesting a young woman should be spoiled by taking too pessimistic a view of things. (pp. 182-3)

While this isn't enough to drag her out of her bottomless well of self-pity, she does finally decide to try and visit Mary Levier, although philanthropy isn't her primary concern. “Helen's main thought [...] had been, that the girl might possibly be of help to her—might in some way help her to find the light. When, weary and worn, Helen took her way homeward at a late hour of the afternoon, she was conscious of a change in herself. If this visit had given her no glimpse of the light, it had proven to her that she had not entirely lost her power of helping and comforting others, which was certainly something to be thankful for, to rest upon for the present.” (p. 184)

How long do you think it'll be until the League of Meddling Wives realize they have a charity case in their midst? This is one of those shoes that's bound to drop eventually.

Next: More Tompson nonsense. And no, you won't have to wait a whole week for it this time.