My Mortal Enemy by Willa Cather
All Myra’s friends were drawn into the web of her romance; half a dozen young men understudied for Oswald so assiduously that her uncle might have thought she was going to marry any one of them. Oswald, meanwhile, was pegging away in New York, at a time when salaries were small and advancement was slow. But he managed to get on, and in two years he was in a position to marry. He wrote to John Driscoll, telling him his resources and prospects, and asked him for his niece’s hand. It was then that Driscoll had it out with Myra. He did not come at her in a tantrum, as he had done before, but confronted her with a cold, business proposition. If she married young Henshawe, he would cut her off without a penny. He could do so, because he had never adopted her. If she did not, she would inherit two-thirds of his property—the remaining third was to go to the church. “And I advise ye to think well,” he told her. “It’s better to be a stray dog in this world than a man without money. I’ve tried both ways, and I know. A poor man stinks, and God hates him.”
Some months after this conversation, Myra went out with a sleighing party. They drove her to a neighbouring town where Oswald’s father had a school, and where Oswald himself had quietly arrived the day before. There, in the presence of his parents and of Myra’s friends, they were married by the civil authority, and they went away on the Chicago express, which came through at two in the morning.
When I was a little girl my Aunt Lydia used to take me for a walk along the broad stone flagging that ran all the way around the old Driscoll grounds. Through the high iron fence we could see the Sisters, out for recreation, pacing two and two under the apple-trees. My aunt would tell me again about that thrilling night (probably the most exciting in her life), when Myra Driscoll came down that path from the house, and out of those big iron gates, for the last time. She had wanted to leave without taking anything but the clothes she wore—and indeed she walked out of the house with nothing but her muff and her porte-monnaie in her hands. My prudent aunt, however, had put her toilet articles and some linen into a travelling-bag, and thrown it out of the back window to one of the boys stationed under an apple-tree.
“I’ll never forget the sight of her, coming down that walk and leaving a great fortune behind her,” said Aunt Lydia. “I had gone out to join the others before she came—she preferred to leave the house alone. We girls were all in the sleighs and the boys stood in the snow holding the horses. We had begun to think she had weakened, or maybe gone to the old man to try to move him. But we saw by the lights behind when the front door opened and shut, and here she came, with her head high, and that quick little bouncing step of hers. Your Uncle Rob lifted her into the sleigh, and off we went. And that hard old man was as good as his word. Her name wasn’t mentioned in his will. He left it all to the Catholic Church and to institutions.”
“But they’ve been happy, anyhow?” I sometimes asked her.
“Happy? Oh, yes! As happy as most people.”
That answer was disheartening; the very point of their story was that they should be much happier than other people.
When I was older I used to walk around the Driscoll place alone very often, especially on spring days, after school, and watch the nuns pacing so mildly and measuredly among the blossoming trees where Myra used to give garden-parties and have the band to play for her. I thought of the place as being under a spell, like the Sleeping Beauty’s palace; it had been in a trance, or lain in its flowers like a beautiful corpse, ever since that winter night when Love went out of the gates and gave the dare to Fate. Since then, chanting and devotions and discipline, and the tinkle of little bells that seemed forever calling the Sisters in to prayers.
I knew that this was not literally true; old John Driscoll had lived on there for many years after the flight of his niece. I myself could remember his funeral—remember it very vividly—though I was not more than six years old when it happened. I sat with my parents in the front of the gallery, at the back of the church that the old man had enlarged and enriched during the latter days of his life. The high altar blazed with hundreds of candles, the choir was entirely filled by the masses of flowers. The bishop was there, and a flock of priests in gorgeous vestments. When the pall-bearers arrived, Driscoll did not come to the church; the church went to him. The bishop and clergy went down the nave and met that great black coffin at the door, preceded by the cross and boys swinging cloudy censers, followed by the choir chanting to the organ. They surrounded, they received, they seemed to assimilate into the body of the church, the body of old John Driscoll. They bore it up to the high altar on a river of colour and incense and organ-tone; they claimed it and enclosed it.
In after years, when I went to other funerals, stark and grim enough, I thought of John Driscoll as having escaped the end of all flesh; it was as if he had been translated, with no dark conclusion to the pageant, no “night of the grave” about which our Protestant preachers talked. From the freshness of roses and lilies, from the glory of the high altar, he had gone straight to the greater glory, through smoking censers and candles and stars.
After I went home from that first glimpse of the real Myra Henshawe, twenty-five years older than I had always imagined her, I could not help feeling a little disappointed. John Driscoll and his niece had suddenly changed places in my mind, and he had got, after all, the more romantic part. Was it not better to get out of the world with such pomp and dramatic splendour than to linger on in it, having to take account of shirts and railway trains, and getting a double chin into the bargain?
The Henshawes were in Parthia three days, and when they left, it was settled that I was to go on to New York with Aunt Lydia for the Christmas holidays. We were to stay at the old Fifth Avenue Hotel, which, as Myra said, was only a stone’s throw from their apartment, “if at any time a body was to feel disposed to throw one Liddy!”
THREE
My Aunt Lydia and I arrived at the Jersey City station on the day before Christmas—a soft, grey December morning, with a little snow falling. Myra Henshawe was there to meet us; very handsome, I thought, as she came walking rapidly up the platform, her plump figure swathed in furs—a fur hat on her head, with a single narrow garnet feather sticking out behind, like the pages’ caps in old story-books. She was not alone. She was attended by a tall, elegant young man in a blue-grey ulster. He had one arm through hers, and in the other hand he carried a walking-stick.
“This is Ewan Gray,” said Mrs. Henshawe, after she had embraced us. “Doubtless you have seen him play in Chicago. He is meeting an early train, too, so we planned to salute the morn together, and left Oswald to breakfast alone.”
The young man took our hand-luggage and walked beside me to the ferryboat, asking polite questions about our trip. He was a Scotchman, of an old theatrical family, a handsome fellow, with a broad, fair-skinned face, sand-coloured hair and moustache, and fine grey eyes, deep-set and melancholy, with black lashes. He took us up to the deck of the ferry, and then Mrs. Henshawe told him he had better leave us. “You must be there when Esther’s train gets in—and remember, you are to bring her to dine with us tomorrow night. There will be no one else.”
“Thank you, Myra.” He stood looking down at her with a grateful, almost humble expression, holding his soft hat against his breast, while the snow-flakes fell about his head. “And may I call in for a few moments to-night, to show you something?”
She laughed as if his request pleased her. “Something for her, I expect? Can’t you trust your own judgment?”
“You know I never do,” he said, as if that were an old story.
She gave him a little push. “Do put your hat on, or you’ll greet Esther with a sneeze. Run along.”
She watched him anxiously as he walked away, and groaned: “Oh, the deliberation of him! If I could only make him hurry once. You’ll hear all about him later, Nellie. You’ll have to see a good deal of him, but you won’t find it a hardship, I trust!”
The boat was pulling out, and I was straining my eyes to catch, through the fine, reluctant
From the Twenty-third Street station we took the crosstown car—people were economical in those days—to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. After we had unpacked and settled our things, we went across the Square to lunch at Purcell’s, and there Mrs. Henshawe told us about Ewan Gray. He was in love with one of her dearest friends, Esther Sinclair, whose company was coming into New York for the holidays. Though he was so young, he had, she said, “a rather spotty past,” and Miss Sinclair, who was the daughter of an old New England family and had been properly brought up, couldn’t make up her mind whether he was stable enough to marry. “I don’t dare advise her, though I’m so fond of him. You can see; he’s just the sort of boy that women pick up and run off into the jungle with. But he’s never wanted to marry before; it might be the making of him. He’s distractedly in love—goes about like a sleep-walker. Still, I couldn’t bear it if anything cruel happened to Esther.”
Aunt Lydia and Myra were going to do some shopping. When we went out into Madison Square again, Mrs. Henshawe must have seen my wistful gaze, for she stopped short and said: “How would Nellie like it if we left her here, and picked her up as we come back? That’s our house, over there, second floor—so you won’t be far from home. To me this is the real heart of the city; that’s why I love living here.” She waved to me and hurried my aunt away.
Madison Square was then at the parting of the ways; had a double personality, half commercial, half social, with shops to the south and residences on the north. It seemed to me so neat, after the raggedness of our Western cities; so protected by good manners and courtesy—like an open-air drawing-room. I could well imagine a winter dancing party being given there, or a reception for some distinguished European visitor.
The snow fell lightly all the afternoon, and friendly old men with brooms kept sweeping the paths—very ready to talk to a girl from the country, and to brush off a bench so that she could sit down. The trees and shrubbery seemed well-groomed and sociable, like pleasant people. The snow lay in clinging folds on the bushes, and outlined every twig of every tree—a line of white upon a line of black. Madison Square Garden, new and spacious then, looked to me so light and fanciful, and Saint Gaudens’ Diana, of which Mrs. Henshawe had told me, stepped out freely and fearlessly into the grey air. I lingered long by the intermittent fountain. Its rhythmical splash was like the voice of the place. It rose and fell like something taking deep, happy breaths; and the sound was musical, seemed to come from the throat of spring. Not far away, on the corner, was an old man selling English violets, each bunch wrapped in oiled paper to protect them from the snow. Here, I felt, winter brought no desolation; it was tamed, like a polar bear led on a leash by a beautiful lady.
About the Square the pale blue shadows grew denser and drew closer. The street lamps flashed out all along the Avenue, and soft lights began to twinkle in the tall buildings while it was yet day—violet buildings, just a little denser in substance and colour than the violet sky. While I was gazing up at them I heard a laugh close beside me, and Mrs. Henshawe’s arm slipped through mine.
“Why, you’re fair moon-struck, Nellie! I’ve seen the messenger boys dodging all about you!” It was true, droves of people were going through the Square now, and boys carrying potted plants and big wreaths. “Don’t you like to watch them? But we can’t stay. We’re going home to Oswald. Oh, hear the penny whistle! They always find me out.” She stopped a thin lad with a cap and yarn comforter but no overcoat, who was playing The Irish Washerwoman on a little pipe, and rummaged in her bag for a coin.
The Henshawes’ apartment was the second floor of an old brownstone house on the north side of the Square. I loved it from the moment I entered it; such solidly built, high-ceiled rooms, with snug fire-places and wide doors and deep windows. The long, heavy velvet curtains and the velvet chairs were a wonderful plum-colour, like ripe purple fruit. The curtains were lined with that rich cream-colour that lies under the blue skin of ripe figs.
Oswald was standing by the fire, drinking a whisky and soda while he waited for us. He put his glass down on the mantel as we opened the door, and forgot all about it. He pushed chairs up to the hearth for my aunt and me, and stood talking to us while his wife went to change her dress and to have a word with the Irish maid before dinner.
“By the way, Myra,” he said, as she left us, “I’ve put a bottle of champagne on ice; it’s Christmas eve.”
Everything in their little apartment seemed to me absolutely individual and unique, even the dinner service; the thick grey plates and the soup tureen painted with birds and big, bright flowers—I was sure there were no others like them in the world.
As we were finishing dinner the maid announced Mr. Gray. Henshawe went into the parlour to greet him, and we followed a moment later. The young man was in evening clothes, with a few sprays of white hyacinth in his coat. He stood by the fire, his arm on the mantel. His clean, fair skin and melancholy eyes, his very correct clothes, and something about the shape of his hands, made one conscious of a cool, deliberate fastidiousness in him. In spite of his spotty past he looked, that night, as fresh and undamaged as the flowers he wore. Henshawe took on a slightly bantering tone with him, and seemed to be trying to cheer him up. Mr. Gray would not sit down. After an interval of polite conversation he said to his host: “Will you excuse me if I take Myra away for a few moments? She has promised to do something kind for me.”
They went into Henshawe’s little study, off the parlour, and shut the door. We could hear a low murmur of voices. When they came back to us Mrs. Henshawe stood beside Gray while he put on his caped cloak, talking encouragingly. “The opals are beautiful, but I’m afraid of them, Ewan. Oswald would laugh at me, but all the same they have a bad history. Love itself draws on a woman nearly all the bad luck in the world; why, for mercy’s sake, add opals? He brought two bracelets for me to decide between them, Oswald, both lovely. However, did they let you carry off two, Ewan?”
“They know me there. I always pay my bills, Myra. I don’t know why, but I do. I suppose it’s the Scotch in me.”
He wished us all good-night.
“Give a kiss to Esther for me,” said Mrs. Henshawe merrily at the door. He made no reply, but bent over her hand and vanished.
“What he really wanted was to show me some verses he’s made for her,” said Mrs. Henshawe, as she came back to the fire. “And very pretty ones they are, for sweet-heart poetry.”
Mr. Henshawe smiled. “Maybe you obliged him with a rhyme or two, my dear? Lydia—” he sat down by my aunt and put his hand on her— “I’d never feel sure that I did my own courting, if it weren’t that I was a long way off at the time. Myra is so fond of helping young men along. We nearly always have a love affair on hand.”
She put her hand over his lips. “Hush! I hate old women who egg on courtships.”
When Oswald had finished his cigar we were taken out for a walk. This was primarily for the good of her “figger,” Myra said, and incidentally we were to look for a green bush to send to Madame Modjeska. “She’s spending the holidays in town, and it will be dismal at her hotel.”
At the florist’s we found, among all the little trees and potted plants, a glistening holly-tree, full of red berries and pointed like a spire, easily the queen of its companions. “That is naturally hers,” said Mrs. Myra.
Her husband shrugged. “It’s naturally the most extravagant.”
Mrs. Myra threw up her head. “Don’t be petty, Oswald. It’s not a woollen petticoat or warm mittens that Madame is needing.” She gave careful instructions to the florist’s man, who was to take the tr
As we walked home she slipped her arm through mine, and we fell a little behind the other two. “See the moon coming out, Nellie—behind the tower. It wakens the guilt in me. No playing with love; and I’d sworn a great oath never to meddle again. You send a handsome fellow like Ewan Gray to a fine girl like Esther, and it’s Christmas eve, and they rise above us and the white world around us, and there isn’t anybody, not a tramp on the park benches, that wouldn’t wish them well—and very likely hell will come of it!”
FOUR
The next morning Oswald Henshawe, in a frock-coat and top-hat, called to take Aunt Lydia and me to church. The weather had cleared before we went to bed, and as we stepped out of our hotel that morning, the sun shone blindingly on the snow-covered park, the gold Diana flashed against a green-blue sky. We were going to Grace Church, and the morning was so beautiful that we decided to walk.
“Lydia,” said Henshawe, as he took us each by an arm, “I want you to give me a Christmas present.”
“Why, Oswald,” she stammered.
“Oh, I have it ready! You’ve only to present it.” He took a little flat package from his pocket and slipped it into her muff. He drew both of us closer to him. “Listen, it’s nothing. It’s some sleeve-buttons, given me by a young woman who means no harm, but doesn’t know the ways of the world very well. She’s from a breezy Western city, where a rich girl can give a present whenever she wants to and nobody questions it. She sent these to my office yesterday. If I send them back to her it will hurt her feelings; she would think I had misunderstood her. She’ll get hard knocks here, of course, but I don’t want to give her any. On the other hand—well, you know Myra; nobody better. She would punish herself and everybody else for this young woman’s questionable taste. So I want you to give them to me, Lydia.”