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Edith Wharton's
ROMAN FEVER
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From the table at which they had been lunching two
American ladies of ripe but well-cared-for middle age moved across the
lofty terrace of the Roman restaurant and, leaning on its parapet, looked
first at each other, and then down on the outspread glories of the Palatine
and the Forum, with the same expression of vague but benevolent approval.
As they leaned there a girlish voice echoed
up gaily from the stairs leading to the court below. "Well, come along,
then," it cried, not to them but to an invisible companion, "and let's
leave the young things to their knitting"; and a voice as fresh laughed
back: "Oh, look here, Babs, not actually knitting—" "Well, I mean
figuratively," rejoined the first. "After all, we haven't left our poor
parents much else to do…." and at that point the turn of the stairs engulfed
the dialogue.
The two ladies looked at each other again,
this time with a tinge of smiling embarrassment, and the smaller and paler
one shook her head and colored slightly.
"Barbara!" she murmured, sending an unheard rebuke
after the mocking voice in the stairway.
The other lady, who was fuller, and higher in color,
with a small determined nose supported by vigorous back eyebrows, gave
a good-humored laugh. "That's what our daughters think of us!"
Her companion replied by a deprecating gesture.
"Not of us individually. We must remember that. It's just the collective
modern idea of Mothers. And you see—" Half-guiltily she drew from her handsomely
mounted black handbag a twist of crimson silk run through by two fine knitting
needles, "One never knows," she murmured. "The new system has certainly
given us a good deal of time to kill; and sometimes I get tired just looking—
even at this." Her gesture was now addressed to the stupendous scene at
their feet.
The dark lady laughed again; and they both relapsed
upon the view, contemplating it in silence, with a sort of diffused serenity
which might have been borrowed from the spring effulgence of the Roman
skies. The luncheon hour was long past, and the two had their end of the
vast terrace to themselves. At its opposite extremity a few groups, detained
by a lingering look at the outspread city, were gathering up guidebooks
and fumbling for tips. The last of them scattered, and the two ladies were
alone on the air-washed height.
"Well , I don't see why we shouldn't just stay here,"
said Mrs. Slade, the lady of the high color and energetic brows. Two derelict
bask chairs stood near, and she pushed them into the angle of the parapet,
and settled herself in one, her gaze upon the Palatine, "After all, it's
still the most beautiful view in the world."
"It always will be, to me," assented her friend
Mrs. Ansley, with so slight a stress on the "me" that Mrs. Slade, though
she noticed it, wondered if it were not merely accidental, like the random
underlinings of old-fashioned letter writers.
"Grace Ansley was always old-fashioned," she thought;
and added aloud, with a retrospective smile: "It's a view we've both been
familiar with for a good many years. When we first met here we were younger
than our girls are now. You remember?"
"Oh, yes, I remember," murmured Mrs. Ansley, with
the same undefinable stress. "There's that headwaiter wondering," she interpolated.
She was evidently far less sure than her companion of herself and of her
rights in the world.
"I’ll cure him of wondering," said Mrs. Slade, stretching
her hand toward a bag as discreetly opulent-looking as Mrs. Ansley’s. Signing
to the headwaiter, she explained that she and her friend were old lovers
of Rome and would like to spend the end of the afternoon looking down on
the view—that is, if it did not disturb the service? The headwaiter, bowing
over her gratuity, assured her that the ladies were most welcome, and would
be still more so if they would condescend to remain for dinner. A full-moon
night, they would remember . . . .
Mrs. Slade’s black brows drew together, as though
references to the moon were out of place and even unwelcome. But she smiled
away her frown as the headwaiter retreated. "Well, why not? We might do
worse. There's no knowing, I suppose, when the girls will be back. Do you
even know back from where? I don't!"
Mrs. Ansley again colored slightly. "I think those
young Italian aviators we met at the Embassy invited them to fly to Tarquinia
for tea. I suppose they'll want to wait and fly back by moonlight."
"Moonlight—moonlight! What a part it still plays.
Do you suppose they're as sentimental as we were?"
"I've come to the conclusion that I don't in the
least know what they are," said Mrs. Ansley. "And perhaps we didn't know
much more about each other."
"No; perhaps we didn't."
Her friend gave her a shy glance. "I never should
have supposed you were sentimental, Alida."
"Well, perhaps I wasn't." Mrs. Slade drew her lids
together in retrospect; and for a few moments the two ladies, who had been
intimate since childhood, reflected how little they knew each other. Each
one, of course, had a label ready to attach to the other's name; Mrs. Delphin
Slade, for instance, would have told herself, or anyone who asked her,
that Mrs. Horace Ansley, twenty-five years ago, had been exquisitely lovely—no,
you wouldn't believe it, would you? . . . though, of course, still
charming, distinguished. . . . Well, as a girl she had been exquisite;
far more beautiful than her daughter Barbara, though certainly Babs, according
to the new standards at any rate, was more effective—had more edge,
as they say. Funny where she got it, with those two nullities as parents.
Yes; Horace Ansley was—well, just the duplicate of his wife. Museums specimens
of old New York. Good-looking, irreproachable, exemplary. Mrs. Slade and
Mrs. Ansley had lived opposite each other—actually as well as figuratively—for
years. When the drawing-room curtains in No. 20 East 73rd Street were renewed,
No. 23, across the way, was always aware of it. And of all the movings,
buyings, travels, anniversaries, illnesses—the tame chronicle of an estimable
pair. Little of it escaped Mrs. Slade. But she had grown bored with it
by the time her husband made his big coup in Wall Street, and when
they bought in upper Park Avenue had already begun to think: "I’d rather
live opposite a speakeasy for a change; at least one might see it raided."
The idea of seeing Grace raided was so amusing that (before the move) she
launched it at a woman's lunch. It made a hit, and went the rounds—she
sometimes wondered if it had crossed the street, and reached Mrs. Ansley.
She hoped not, but didn't much mind. Those were the days when respectability
was at a discount, and it did the irreproachable no harm to laugh at them
a little.
A few years later, and not many months apart, both
ladies lost their husbands, There was an appropriate exchange of wreaths
and condolences, and a brief renewal of intimacy in the half-shadow of
their mourning; and now, after another interval, they had run across each
other in Rome, at the same hotel, each of them the modest appendage of
salient daughter. The similarity of their lot had again drawn them together,
lending itself to mild jokes, and the mutual confession that, if in old
days it must have been tiring to "keep up" with daughters, it was now,
at times, a little dull not to.
No doubt, Mrs. Slade reflected, she felt her unemployment
more than poor Grace ever would. It was a big drop from being the wife
of Delphin Slade to being his widow She had always regarded herself (with
a certain conjugal pride) as his equal in social gifts, as contributing
her full share to the making of the exceptional couple they were: but the
difference after his death was irremediable. As the wife of the famous
corporation lawyer, always with an international case or two on hand, every
day brought its exciting and unexpected obligation: the impromptu entertaining
of eminent colleagues from abroad, the hurried dashes on legal business
to London, Paris or Rome, where the entertaining was so handsomely reciprocated;
the amusement of hearing in her wake: "What, that handsome woman with the
good clothes and the eyes is Mrs. Slade—the Slade’s wife? Really?
Generally the wives of celebrities are such frumps."
Yes; being the Slade’s widow was dullish
business after that. In living up to such a husband all her faculties had
been engaged; now she had only her daughter to live up to, for the son
who seemed to have inherited his father's gifts had died suddenly in boyhood.
She had fought through that agony because her husband was there, to be
helped and to help; now, after the father's death, the thought of the boy
had become unbearable. There was nothing left but to mother her daughter;
and dear Jenny was such a perfect daughter that she needed no excessive
mothering. "Now with Babs Ansley I don't know that I should be so
quiet," Mrs. Slade sometimes half-enviously reflected; but Jenny, who was
younger than her brilliant friend, was that rare accident, an extremely
pretty girl who somehow made youth and prettiness seem as safe as their
absence. It was all perplexing—and to Mrs. Slade a little boring. She wished
that Jenny would fall in love—with the wrong man, even; that she might
have to be watched, out-maneuvered, rescued. And instead, it was
Jenny who watched her mother, kept her out of drafts, made sure that she
had taken her tonic. . . .
Mrs. Ansley was much less articulate than her friend,
and her mental portrait of Mrs. Slade was slighter, and drawn with fainter
touches. "Alida Slade’s awfully brilliant; but not as brilliant as she
thinks," would have summed it up; though she would have added, for the
enlightenment of strangers, that Mrs. Slade had been an extremely dashing
girl; much more so than her daughter, who was pretty, of course, and clever
in a way, but had none of her mother’s—well, "vividness," someone had once
called it. Mrs. Ansley would take up current words like this, and cite
them in quotation marks, as unheard-of audacities. No; Jenny was not like
her mother. Sometimes Mrs. Ansley thought Alida Slade was disappointed;
on the whole she had had a sad life. Full of failures and mistakes; Mrs.
Ansley had always been rather sorry for her. . . .
So these two ladies visualized each other, each
through the wrong end of her little telescope.
II
For a long time they continued to sit side by side
without speaking. It seemed as though, to both, there was a relief in laying
down their somewhat futile activities in the presence of the vast Memento
Mori which faced them. Mrs. Slade sat quite still, her eyes fixed on the
golden slope of the Palace of the Caesars, and after a while Mrs. Ansley
ceased to fidget with her bag, and she too sank into meditation. Like many
intimate friends, the two ladies had never before had occasion to be silent
together, and Mrs. Ansley was slightly embarrassed by what seemed, after
so many years, a new stage in their intimacy, and one with which she did
not yet know how to deal.
Suddenly the air was full of that deep clangor of
bells which periodically covers Rome with a roof of silver. Mrs. Slade
glanced at her wristwatch. "Five o'clock already," she said, as though
surprised.
Mrs. Ansley suggested interrogatively: "There's
bridge at the Embassy at five." For a long time Mrs. Slade did not answer.
She appeared to be lost in contemplation, and Mrs. Ansley thought the remark
had escaped her. But after a while she said, as if speaking out of a dream:
"Bridge, did you say? Not unless you want to. . . . But I don't think
I will, you know."
"Oh, no," Mrs. Ansley hastened to assure her. "I
don't care to at all. It's so lovely here; and so full of old memories,
as you say." She settled herself in her chair, and almost furtively drew
forth her knitting. Mrs. Slade took sideways note of this activity, but
her own beautifully cared-for hands remained motionless on her knee.
"I was just thinking," she said slowly, "what different
things Rome stands for to each generation of travelers. To our grandmothers,
Roman fever; to our mothers, sentimental dangers—how we used to be guarded!—to
our daughters, no more dangers than the middle of Main Street. They don't
know it—but how much they're missing!"
The long golden light was beginning to pale, and
Mrs. Ansley lifted her knitting a little closer to her eyes, "Yes; how
we were guarded!"
"I always used to think," Mrs. Slade continued,
"that our mothers had a much more difficult job than our grandmothers.
When Roman fever stalked the streets it must have been comparatively easy
to gather in the girls at the danger hour; but when you and I were young,
with such beauty calling us, and the spice of disobedience thrown in, and
no worse risk than catching cold during the cool hour after sunset, the
mothers used to be put to it to keep us in—didn’t they?"
She turned again toward Mrs. Ansley, but the latter
had reached a delicate point in her knitting. "One, two, three—slip two;
yes, they must have been," she assented, without looking up.
Mrs. Slade’s eyes rested on her with a deepened
attention, "She can knit—in the face of this! How like her. . .
. "
Mrs. Slade leaned back, brooding, her eyes ranging
from the ruins which faced her to the long green hollow of the Forum, the
fading glow of the church fronts beyond it, and the outlying immensity
of the Colosseum. Suddenly she thought: "It's all very well to say that
our girls have done away with sentiment and moonlight. But if Babs Ansley
isn't out to catch that young aviator—the one who's a Marchese—then I don't
know anything. And Jenny has no chance beside her. I know that too. I wonder
if that's why Grace Ansley likes the two girls to go everywhere together?
My poor Jenny as a foil—!" Mrs. Slade gave a hardly audible laugh, and
at the sound Mrs. Ansley dropped her knitting.
"Yes—?"
"I—oh, nothing. I was only thinking how your Babs
carries everything before her. That Campolieri boy is one of the best matches
in Rome. Don't look so innocent, my dear—you know he is. And I was wondering,
ever so respectfully, you understand . . . wondering how two such exemplary
characters as you and Horace had managed to produce anything quite so dynamic."
Mrs. Slade laughed again, with a touch of asperity.
Mrs. Ansley’s hands lay inert across her needles.
She looked straight out at the great accumulated wreckage of passion and
splendor at her feet. But her small profile was almost expressionless.
At length she said: "I think you overrate Babs, my dear."
Mrs. Slade’s tone grew easier. "No, I don't. I appreciate
her. And perhaps envy you. Oh, my girl's perfect; if I were a chronic invalid
I’d—well, I think I’d rather be in Jenny's hands. There must be times .
. . but there! I always wanted a brilliant daughter . . . and never
quite understood why I got an angel instead."
Mrs. Ansley echoed her laugh in a faint murmur.
"Babs is an angel too."
"Of course—of course! But she's got rainbow wings.
Well, they're wandering by the sea with their young men; and here we sit
. . . and it all brings back the past a little too acutely."
Mrs. Ansley had resumed her knitting. One might
almost have imagined (if one had known her less well, Mrs. Slade reflected)
that, for her also, too many memories rose from the lengthening shadows
of those august ruins. But no; she was simply absorbed in her work. What
was there for her to worry about? She knew that Babs would almost certainly
come back engaged to the extremely eligible Campolieri. "And she'll sell
the New York house, and settle down near them in Rome. And never be in
their way . . . she's much too tactful. But she'll have an excellent cook,
and just the right people in for bridge and cocktails . . . and a
perfectly peaceful old age among her grandchildren."
Mrs. Slade broke off this prophetic flight with
a recoil of self-disgust. There was no one of whom she had less right to
think unkindly than of Grace Ansley. Would she never cure herself
of envying her? Perhaps she had begun too long ago.
She stood up and leaned against the parapet, filling
her troubled eyes with the tranquilizing magic of the hour. But instead
of tranquilizing her the sight seemed to increase her exasperation. Her
gaze turned toward the Colosseum. Already its golden flank was drowned
in purple shadow, and above it the sky curved crystal clear, without light
or color. It was the moment when afternoon and evening hang balanced in
midheaven.
Mrs. Slade turned back and laid her hand on her
friend's arm. The gesture was so abrupt that Mrs. Ansley looked up, startled.
"The sun's set. You're not afraid, my dear?"
"Afraid—?"
"Of Roman fever or pneumonia"? I remember how ill
you were that winter. As a girl you had very delicate throat, hadn't you?"
"Oh, we're all right up here. Down below; in the
Forum, it does get deathly cold, all of a sudden . . . but not here."
"Ah, of course you know because you had to be so
careful," Mrs. Slade turned back to the parapet. She thought: "I must make
one more effort not to hate her." Aloud she said: "Whenever I look at the
Forum from up here, I remember that story about a great-aunt of yours,
wasn't she? A dreadfully wicked great-aunt?"
"Oh, yes; great-aunt Harriet. The one who was supposed
to have sent her young sister out to the Forum after sunset to gather a
night-blooming flower for her album. All our great-aunts and grandmothers
used to have albums of dried flowers."
Mrs. Slade nodded. "But she really sent her because
they were in love with the same man—"
"Well, that was the family tradition. They said
Aunt Harriet confessed it years afterward. At any rate, the poor little
sister caught the fever and died. Mother used to frighten us with the story
when we were children."
"And you frightened me with it, that winter
when you and I were here as girls. The winter I was engaged to Delphin."
Mrs. Ansley gave a faint laugh. "Oh, did I? Really
frightened you? I don't believe you're easily frightened."
"Not often; but I was then. I was easily frightened
because I was too happy. I wonder if you know what that means?"
"I—yes…" Mrs. Ansley faltered.
"Well, I suppose that was why the story of your
wicked aunt made such an impression on me. And I thought: ‘There's no more
Roman fever, but the Forum is deathly cold after sunset—especially after
a hot day. And the Colosseum’s even colder and damper’."
"The Colosseum—?"
"Yes. It wasn't easy to get in, after the gates
were locked for the night. Far from easy. Still, in those days it could
be managed; it was managed, often. Lovers met there who couldn't
meet elsewhere. You knew that?"
"I—I dare say. I don't remember."
"You don't remember? You don't remember going to
visit some ruins or other one evening, just after dark, and catching a
bad chill? You were supposed to have gone to see the moon rise. People
always said that expedition was what caused your illness."
There was a moment's silence; then Mrs. Ansley rejoined:
"Did they? It was all so long ago."
"Yes. And you got well again—so it didn't matter.
But I suppose it struck your friends—the reason given for your illness,
I mean—because everybody knew you were so prudent on account of your throat,
and your mother took such care of you. . . . You had been
out late sight-seeing, hadn't you, that night?"
"Perhaps I had. The most prudent girls aren't always
prudent. What made you think of it now?"
Mrs. Slade seemed to have no answer ready. But after
a moment she broke out: "Because I simply can't bear it any longer—!"
Mrs. Ansley lifted her head quickly. Her eyes were
wide and very pale. "Can't bear what?"
"Why—your not knowing that I've always known why
you went."
"Why I went—?"
"Yes, You think I'm bluffing, don't you? Well, you
went to meet the man I was engaged to—and I can repeat every word of the
letter that took you there."
While Mrs. Slade spoke Mrs. Ansley had risen unsteadily
to her feet. Her bag, her knitting and gloves, slid in a panic-stricken
heap to the ground. She looked at Mrs. Slade as though she were looking
at a ghost.
"No, no—don’t." she faltered out.
"Why not? Listen, if you don't believe me.
‘My one darling, things can't go on like this. I must see you alone. Come
to the Colosseum immediately after dark tomorrow. There will be somebody
to let you in. No one whom you need fear will suspect’—but perhaps you've
forgotten what the letter said?"
Mrs. Ansley met the challenge with an unexpected
composure. Steadying herself against the chair she looked at her friend,
and replied: "No; I know it by heart too."
"And the signature? ‘Only your D.S.’ Was
that it? I'm right, am I? That was the letter that took you out that evening
after dark?"
Mrs. Ansley was still looking at her. It seemed
to Mrs. Slade that a slow struggle was going on behind the voluntarily
controlled mask of her small quiet face. "I shouldn't have thought she
had herself so well in hand," Mrs. Slade reflected, almost resentfully.
But at this moment Mrs. Ansley spoke. "I don't know how you knew. I burnt
the letter at once."
"Yes; you would, naturally—you’re so prudent!" The
sneer was open now." And if you burnt the letter you're wondering how on
earth I know what was in it. That's it, isn't it?"
Mrs. Slade waited, but Mrs. Ansley did not speak.
"Well, my dear, I know what was in that letter because
I wrote it!"
"You wrote it?"
"Yes."
The two women stood for a minute staring at each
other in the last golden light. Then Mrs. Ansley dropped back into her
chair. "Oh," she murmured, and covered her face with her hands. Mrs. Slade
waited nervously for another word or movement. None came, and at length
she broke out: "I horrify you."
Mrs. Ansley’s hands dropped to her knee. The face
they uncovered was streaked with tears. "I wasn't thinking of you. I was
thinking—it was the only letter I ever had from him!"
"And I wrote it. Yes; I wrote it! But I was the
girl he was engaged to. Did you happen to remember that?"
Mrs. Ansley’s head drooped again. "I'm not trying
to excuse myself . . . I remembered. . . . "
"And still you went?"
"Still I went."
Mrs. Slade stood looking down on the small bowed
figure at her side. The flame of her wrath had already sunk, and she wondered
why she had ever thought there would be any satisfaction in inflicting
so purposeless a wound on her friend. But she had to justify herself.
"You do understand? I’d found out—and I hated you,
hated you. I knew you were in love with Delphin—and I was afraid; afraid
of you, of your quiet ways, your sweetness . . . your . . .
well, I wanted you out of the way, that's all. Just a few weeks; just till
I was sure of him. So in a blind fury I wrote that letter . . . I
don't know why I'm telling you now."
"I suppose," said Mrs. Ansley slowly, "it's because
you've always gone on hating me."
"Perhaps. Or because I wanted to get the whole thing
off my mind." She paused. "I'm glad you destroyed the letter. Of course
I never thought you'd die."
Mrs. Ansley relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Slade,
leaning above her, was conscious of a strange sense of isolation,
of being cut off from the warm current of human communion. "You think me
a monster!"
"I don't know. . . . It was the only letter
I had, and you say he didn't write it?"
"Ah, how you care for him still!"
"I cared for that memory," said Mrs. Ansley.
Mrs. Slade continued to look down on her. She seemed
physically reduced by the blow—as if, when she got up, the wind might scatter
her like a puff a dust. Mrs. Slade’s jealousy suddenly leapt up again at
the sight. All these years the woman had been living on that letter. How
she must have loved him, to treasure the mere memory of its ashes! The
letter of the man her friend was engaged to. Wasn't it she who was the
monster?
"You tried your best to get him away from me, didn't
you? But you failed; and I kept him. That's all."
"Yes, That's all."
"I wish now I hadn't told you I’d no idea you'd
feel about it as you do; I thought you'd be amused. It all happened so
long ago, as you say; and you must do me the justice to remember that I
had no reason to think you'd ever taken it seriously. How could I, when
you were married to Horace Ansley two months afterward? As soon as you
could get out of bed your mother rushed you off to Florence and married
you. People were rather surprised—they wondered at its being done so quickly;
but I thought I knew. I had an idea you did it out of pique—to be
able to say you'd got ahead of Delphin and me. Girls have such silly reasons
for doing the most serious things. And your marrying so soon convinced
me that you'd never really cared."
"Yes, I supposed it would." Mrs. Ansley assented.
The clear heaven overhead was emptied of all its
gold. Dusk spread over it, abruptly darkening the Seven Hills. Here and
there lights began to twinkle through the foliage at their feet. Steps
were coming and going on the deserted terrace—waiters looking out of the
doorway at the head of the stairs, then reappearing with trays and napkins
and flasks of wine. Tables were moved, chairs straightened. A feeble string
of electric lights flickered out. Some vases of faded flowers were carried
away, and brought back replenished. A stout lady in a dust coat suddenly
appeared, asking in broken Italian if anyone had seen the elastic band
which held together her tattered Baedeker. She poked with her stick under
the table at which she had lunched, the waiters assisting.
The corner where Mrs. Slade and Mrs. Ansley sat
was still shadowy and deserted. For a long time neither of them spoke.
At length Mrs. Slade began again: "I suppose I did it as a sort of joke—"
"A joke?"
"Well, girls are ferocious sometimes, you know.
Girls in love especially. And I remember laughing to myself all that evening
at the idea that you were waiting around there in the dark, dodging out
of sight, listening for every sound, trying to get in—Of course I was upset
when I heard you were so ill afterward."
Mrs. Ansley had not moved for a long time. "But
now she turned slowly toward her companion. "But I didn't wait. He'd arranged
everything. He was there. We were let in at once," she said.
Mrs. Slade sprang up from her leaning position.
"Delphin there? They et you in?— Ah, now you're lying!" she burst out with
violence.
Mrs. Ansley’s voice grew clearer, and full of surprise.
"But of course he was there. Naturally he came—"
"Came? How did he know he'd find you there? You
must be raving!"
Mrs. Ansley hesitated, as though reflecting. "But
I answered the letter. I told him I’d be there. So he came."
Mrs. Slade flung her hands up to her face. "Oh,
God—you answered! I never thought of your answering. . . . "
"It's odd you never thought of it, if you wrote
the letter."
"Yes. I was blind with rage."
Mrs. Ansley rose, and drew her fur scarf about her.
"It is cold here. We'd better go. . . . I'm sorry for you," she said, as
she clasped the fur about her throat.
The unexpected words sent a pang through Mrs. Slade.
"Yes; we'd better go." She gathered up her bag and cloak. "I don't know
why you should be sorry for me," she muttered.
Mrs. Ansley stood looking away from her toward the
dusky secret mass of the Colosseum. "Well—because I didn't have to wait
that night."
Mrs. Slade gave an unquiet laugh. "Yes; I was beaten
there. But I oughtn't to begrudge it to you, I suppose. At the end of all
these years. After all, I had everything; I had him for twenty-five years.
And you had nothing but that one letter that he didn't write."
Mrs. Ansley was again silent. At length she turned
toward the door of the terrace. She took a step, and turned back, facing
her companion.
"I had Barbara," she said, and began to move ahead
of Mrs. Slade toward the stairway.
(1936)
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