Part 19

Swift shadows were his thoughts against the tower of his vision. David saw he was alive, and felt it good. Surely life was a miracle none could explain. Surely to approach the miracle was to confess it--bask in the glow of knowing life unknowable. He had a vision of the world of men and children and mothers--endless millions massing down the ages. All of them had eyes upturned, had eyes and lips full of prayer. All of them were on their knees. All the men and mothers and children of all ages were praying before the miracle of life! He thought of Science--he thought of Darwin, of the makers of systems and machines, of the weavers of dogmas and rules. He knew that all these were parts of the miracle and somehow good. But what did they know and what did their saying amount to? Could one of them explain what and why _Life was?_ the ecstasy of this teeming, whirling earth flung like a fleck of dust upon the whirlwind of countless worlds that, in their turn, lifted a shred of flimsy scarf on the tempest of unending Space? They could not explain. Their absorption in some speck of knowledge ended alone in this: that they forgot they could not explain ... so lost the one approach they might have had to the ecstasy of life. Their little speck of knowledge blotted their vision!

David sat thrilling with the thought of this adventure--this greatest of surprises:--he was alive! He seemed large in his vision, strong. He realized that Tom did not have this vision. He felt himself larger and stronger than Tom. He felt tender toward him for this. He forgave him everything, since everything was trivial to this: that he was stronger than Tom and loved him, and must therefore care for him. Out of the dim vision of all life, there crystalized for David a vision clear and single of his relationship with Tom. But in its superb folly, never could it have been engendered save for the truth of David’s wanderings among the stars....

So he was really stronger than his friend? And he had been unjust with misunderstanding? There were discrepancies of words and action, dubious things in Tom? Then let him out of his overflowing strength observe them.

Tom said to him: “You are my one real friend. You must believe that.”

And: “Whatever I may say or do with others to deflect me, to you I am the truth.”

Tom said these things often, because often puzzlement was in David and doubt near. Tom said to him: “Your standard of me, David, is a great injustice. Its height is unfair. I am not strong, David, I am weak. I admit all the hateful things you see in me when we go out together. A sort of drunkenness quivers through me. I have to say clever things, I have to please, I have to _control_. Damn it, man! you don’t despise it half so well as I. But, Davie, I am not like that, am I, when we are alone? Why won’t you judge me by my real self? Tell me, do you judge anything else when it is hidden and sick?”

Tom said to him: “You didn’t like the way I was to-day with Durthal? Oh, my dear fellow, it was plain enough. It was written all over you. My only wonder was what poor old Lars was thinking. What a dear, black grouch you can be, Davie.... Well, why should I not be cordial to Lars? Why should I not pay as much attention to him as I wish? And more than I do to my best friend--yes, my best friend whom I ignored? I know that, Davie. In company I do not need to pay attention to you. You are not part of company. If I ignored you--logical, eh? I have _you_ alone. And if, in yourself, you do not know the difference in the way I feel toward yourself and toward silly, empty-headed Durthal, do not expect me to make it clear with a room full of fellows. Because I won’t!”

“Do you think Durthal empty-headed?”

“You know he has just enough stupidity to make an intelligent professor of Swedish drill.”

“And Darby Lunn?”

“Lunn has talent, David. Whether he will ever amount to a thing as a painter is another thing. I doubt it. He is a bit mad, you know. Nurtures all the nonsense of his will with a great pride instead of trampling it under, as a true artist should. What I am trying to help him toward is knowledge of the folly of extravagance and wildness in so sober a calling as Art.”

“But you are wild with him, Tom. You talk nonsense and you act nonsense as I have never seen you do with any one else!”

“If I didn’t meet him on his own ground, what chance would I have of drawing him off it?... Really, Davie, you are a joke.”

“Are you very fond of him also?”

“Not also--and not either. I am interested in Darby’s hopeless talent: and in Durthal’s efficient helplessness.”

“They both believe, I am sure, that you’re devoted to them.”

“Well: they are devoted to me. Why should I not let them think what gives them pleasure? Do I harm them--does what I let them think harm you?" ... David often wondered if each believed himself Tom’s “only friend.”

But now he knew these doubts unworthy. He had a strength with which to exorcize them. He knew that _he_ was the real friend. He knew that Tom was not altogether conscious of his motives with such “friends” as Lunn and Durthal. The truth was, he loved power: loved the nearness of those over whose minds he was ascendant. Unconsciously, he fed to each a subjecting mental and emotional food. This was but one of the details of Tom’s curious character; David now understood.

The truth was, indeed, that Tom could be insincere: deeply so, never. His insincerity was superficial. It could come into play the world over: it went like a mist before the sun of their friendship. David must learn a difficult thing: to believe his friend when he spoke truth, to be unshaken when he scattered counterfeits. Was not the reason plain enough? Tom was sensitive beyond measure. As no one else he felt the scorn of life, the scorn of human imperfection. Among the false works of man he had to move about, to hunt and earn his living. Tom’s passionate disgust for the Law! How his too fine sensibilities were agonized by the Law’s lying ugliness: so that his native pleasure in its practice went and he had no eyes for the Law’s better side. Or, if he did have pleasure in the game--and he must while he played it--how quick it died away before the soreness of his nerves! Tom could not admit of the need of life’s imperfections: not face the imperfections in himself. Yes: that was it. When these imperfections called for their hour of air, they simply cast the real Tom out where he would not interfere. That was why the love of power and applause, when it did come to Tom, came like intoxication, overwhelmed him so that David looked in vain for his scornful and uncompromising friend. Now David would look in vain no longer. In the very perfection of Tom’s worldliness, he saw the measure of his contempt. As if Tom said: Here, my fools, you want me to dazzle you and play you? You shall have your fill. You have no interest in my real thoughts, my real self? You shall have no peep at them. The more, now, Tow hid himself, the more David found him.

All this David discovered for himself. All this, in many conversations, hinted or thrust sharply in, Tom had been preparing him to think. Tom--and an April sun upon the seed of himself....

David glowed.... What marvel what difference there could be in the same things! His cable-car flung grating shrieking on the corner: an adventurous jest which once was an ugly jolt against the tempo of his way.

The City!--the miraculous City! No trees, no fresh sod greening: an ailanthus bursting here and there through cracks--gray cold--in the pavements. But men and women in the streets! Now he saw what teeming creatures these were, the streets and their women.

Streets and women big with laughter and children. Teeming streets, teeming women.

It was hard to recall how dead he had been that winter. It was hard to recall the streets. Gray mournful fissures they were, cracks by the cold upon the flint of a barren star: ruts in the crust of a dead world. Upon them the chill refuse of chaos was cast down. Soiled snow, soiled creatures. They crawled from their crannies and over-ran them. They bore in their eyes the Sign of exile in chaos.

Now different streets--budding teeming streets: different himself, glowing through packed streets.

Women sat in shawls on the housesteps: doors opened into reeking, into pregnant darkness: children in rags among filth of gutters: horses rattling their carts through laughter of children. Mothers had gray long breasts--they held them to sweet red lips. Mothers had shrill words--they spoke love. High noon came on the precocious sun of Spring and clarified the crevices of filth between the Belgian blocks. Odors rose to the sun not sweet like the smells of earlier Springs. And yet no Spring was fertile like this Spring. No stir of field with young grass, with young flowers, with margin of maples ruddy in hard buds, keen in the glint of birds.... David lived. David for a moment saw with his eyes how his eye-lids were shut down against them. David saw....

* * * * *

Blackness ... ultimate texture of all colors ... light. A world of infinite color, infinite flesh: himself within the world, himself carried within it through it. Himself of the breakless tissue of the world. Flesh of sweet smells, sweet odors, sweet fluids. Flesh altogether and altogether about him. He altogether touching all Flesh--and All. David knew through his shut eyes, walking the world, how he was carried within a world of ceaseless substance: how he was substance within it: how his moving and knowing through Flesh was Spirit.... He walked--he worked--he ate. He had a woman’s body, he earned the bread of a man, he held the love of a friend. Flesh, all. And his moving through Flesh, his moving through infinite immersion through the Night, through the World of Flesh--Spirit and Dawn.... His eyes were shut. But his mouth was open! David saw with his mouth. And though he knew not he had seen, there was within him, there would be now forevermore within him, life of a vision.

The world was a Dark Mother. The Night of the miracle of worlds was fleshed and was a Mother. She moved in infinite directions an infinite path. She was moveless. And he within her, moving with the world toward the movelessness of birth.

David was unborn. But his mouth sucked vision. Sucking the Night sucked vision. He slept again. Slept long.... Slept years.... But he lived.

* * * * *

David and Tom came back from dinner: they sat together for a last smoke in their room: the world they willed came to be. David lit his pipe: it was the one smoke that gave him comfort. Tom sat gloomy, nervous, flicking his cigarette until he had destroyed it, lighting another. He tore open his collar as if he needed air. He whistled the last half of a tune, stopped, met David’s eyes and broke from the strain of their mutual discovery by jumping up and gazing into the night. David did not budge. The room was filled with a strange restraint. Somewhere a struggle was, in which his mind grappled against a sinuous opponent. Why did he have to struggle even with his friend for the friend he wanted?

He was sick of struggle. Was not all struggle a lie? Life was work enough. There was no repose even in strength. There was no repose even in pleasure. David thought of Constance. Yes: even _there_ was work. Was respite in weakness? David doubted, seeing Tom, thinking of the pelt of his wit, the curves of his mind striving for attention. In death?...

Tom was back of his chair, standing above him. He put his hands about David’s neck, drew them close.

“What are you thinking?”

David was silent. Tom’s hands drew closer.

“I could choke you,” he said. “----if it weren’t that the cigarette smoke gets in my eyes.”

They laughed together.

David was sure he understood. Tom would change. Tom must change! When Tom changed it would have been by David’s help. Meantime, he must abide by him, not tire, and watch. For David could not easily endure the ways of his friend. He might well know what they meant: he need not therefore deny his unhappiness before them....

Yet unhappiness must be too heavy a word. Discomfort rather. The base of a friendship such as this between them must be happiness. For the base was solid!

David knew little how he built on this. Without faith in Tom’s absolute fidelity to him Tom’s infidelities to himself and to the world must have been insufferable. But with this faith, all the rest of Tom--his excuses, his associates, his excesses--were urgent reasons why David could not turn from him, must come closer. Tom said: “You are my best friend. With you I am the truth.” This was the Law whereby David took him. All else Tom said, Tom did, was in its very contrast emphasis of the truth. All else could by it be redeemed and solved. Let the Law however not be shaken!

What if the Law was an invested fort he had at times to defend against misgivings? against Tom’s own behavior? Was he not full of an unuttered life that invested contradictions?

David’s contentment was unshakeable. It took to itself all hesitant things, made them over. He wanted to feel that with him as with Tom, the truth lay clearest in their lives together. How was he so different? In business? with Constance? He also had his sophistries and abdications. He took pride now in this kinship. It gave an added spell to the haven of their friendship where they withdrew from a falsetto world to the lone reach of the truth.

Soon David forgot the hushings altogether that were needed to create this haven. Subsided were his doubts with Tom, his blanchings when they drew close, the lack of visible background to their friendship. It was strange: their friendship was deep yet what vistas had it leading back to a common source, what forward avenues of life? It was full of fire, this friendship, yet where was its warmth? It was needful to him, yet what rest had he of it?

David who had sucked vision could forget....

XI

Constance Bardale had left early that Spring for Europe. David could not say that he really missed her. He had great pleasure in looking back upon the reality of them together: a certain satisfaction in the prospect of her return in the Fall. He was not prompted to wish to hasten that return. He did not know if this was missing her.

He was like the warming weather. He had his days of retrogression, even of chill, when his mood was overcast and moist. But there was ever the underlying progress into Summer. All of him seemed opening. All of him was turned toward some generous source of energy within that made him fresh and green. He was resilient with growth. The squandaries of the world had no effect on this deep calm of his state. He moved in rhythm and with no jarring upward. Even so does a flower, despite the crust and the stone it must push through. The observer might have deemed him motionless: a poor observer who could have said the same thing of the flower.

He had said good-by to Constance naturally enough. That was the most delightful thing about her. She compelled candor.

She moved among hat-boxes and deranged chairs draped with flowing garments.

“David, I hope you won’t be bored without me. Come. Good-by. You had better run along. You’ll only be in the way when aunt arrives.” She traveled with her aunt. “If you feel like it, write me.”

She kissed him swiftly on his lips--and even then, though in her one hand was a pair of shoes, in the other a pile of lingerie, and though her eyes were upon the door expecting her aunt to open, still there was passion in that moment. She was a wonderful woman: a true American in specialization. She had managed to pack her trunk and pack away her lover without placing passion in the bag or meticulousness on her lips.

David went satisfied, without a hint of her ingenuity in bringing this about.

And now his emotions were relieved of a fixed objective goal. They could waft outward, vaguely. David found delight in their vagueness.

It was the same, though less pointedly, with other dwellers in his life. Cornelia was always and largely removed. Unconsciously, David kept her and wanted her so. He saw her not more than once in a fortnight. He did not really see her then. He talked to her; looked at her; listened to the sounds of her voice which easily resolved into the accepted syllables of words. But he was deeply unaware of her. And sadly. Since she bled for this and was yet unwilling to shock her boy into a knowledge of his selfishness.

She knew she might have. Had she said: “David, you are far away. What is between us? David, look really into my words, look really into me. Don’t you see how I suffer when you remain outside?” David would have come to her indeed, like the half-tamed, clumsy cub he was, into her arms and begged for forgiveness. But that could not be. So Cornelia, also, was pleasantly removed for David. And this was good, since then he could read into the picture those details he liked: delete the others.

It was the same with Business. It was always so with Business when one so wanted it. David discovered that Business was more like a woman than he had discovered women: in its reticence, in its immediate response to his desire, either to be all taken up and quick with it, or to be left spiritually alone. He found as his moods veered and alternated, so followed what he could give to his affairs downtown. If he was full of energy to spill and full of fancies to weave, Business was a romantic game that grappled him and spent him. Mr. Barlow had taught him that. But if he was misty and gray and low, Business became a habit exercise that barely held his mind, unobtrusive and gray like his own forces. And without disaster. He could plunge into it, work upon it with every muscle of his body. Or he could hold aloof and run it with two disdainful fingers. He could thrust eyes upon it close, and have joy of its jungle of tropic passions, or poise it philosophically from afar, as a flat patch in his life where he grew his bread-and-butter. Now he was holding it endearingly aloof. It was an accommodating thing that used up just enough of his time and energy to leave him peaceful and ruminant at night.

Even Tom was away. He was gone West on business. David did not write. He made no effort to touch the actual departed friend. He dwelt with his own vision of Tom, unhampered now in his deep will to find it altogether perfect. For the nonce, this wearing struggle to hold it perfect was over. This Tom in his mind had no unfitting angles. Nor the Tom abstractly speaking to him from afar.

That morning, he had received a letter. It read:

_Greetings, dear friend_: