Pearl Buck - The Goddess Abides

“Come along, then. You’ll take a cab, of course — and the man will know the way. You have the address?”

“Do you think I could forget it? I’ll be there. Sure you’re not in bed?”

“I am here, respectably clothed and in my library.”

He laughed and hung up.

She sat thoughtful for moments. The day had turned chill in the deceptive early summer and she heard a spatter of rain against the wide glass doors that led to the east terrace. The fire was laid as usual in the great chimney piece and she rose and touched a match. No, she decided, she would not change her gown. She had chosen this one for herself, a green silk, a soft material and easy in its cut. Part of her new independence was choosing her garments for herself. Arnold had never liked green, her favorite color, the color of life and springtime and youthfulness of spirit, and the apple green of this gown was the one she liked best among the many shades of green. And then, to signify her new indifference, a manifestation of independence, she went back to the writing table upon which the plan of her house was taking form, and began to work as though he had not called.

She was absorbed enough, in spite of a secret excitement which she suppressed, so that in less than a hour, when he appeared at the door of the library, whither he had been ushered by her previous order, she forgot the intervening time.

“How good to see you,” he exclaimed, holding out both his hands for hers.

“Thank you for thinking of me when your plane came down,” she said, aware that he was holding her hands firmly, aware of his dark eyes warmly upon her, aware of his smile, frankly joyous. He was taller, younger, more sophisticated than she remembered him in ski clothes. She was acutely aware of his arm about her shoulders as they walked to the chairs by the fire and she drew herself gently away from his grasp and was shocked to discover herself uncertain as to how to proceed, confused merely by his touch. How stupid of me, she thought, as if so slight a gesture today had any meaning! She seated herself opposite him, unable to think of what to say, and so said nothing, but smiled at him, whereupon he began.

“I must say this is a different setting for you, and very becoming. I like these great old houses. One doesn’t see them very often. Is it lonely for you here?”

She shook her head. “I have enough to do.”

“What, for example?”

She was not prepared, however, to tell him about the new house and she replied lightly. “Oh, music, friends, books, or just — reorganizing myself for a new life.”

“No worthy causes and so forth?”

“A few charities my husband was interested in, and in which I am not.”

“I can’t see you a lady bountiful.”

She maneuvered the conversation away from herself, which was easily done, for he was staring into the fire as though for moments he forgot her and she did not wish to be forgotten.

“Tell me what you are doing now. I’ve only thought of a skier.”

He came back to her. “I? Well, I came here to see a man who lives not too far away — a scientist — engineer fellow, who dreams of combining the disciplines to focus them on medical problems. Doctors, especially surgeons, are extraordinarily old-fashioned in technological ways. They keep on using antiquated tools — you wouldn’t believe — well, the idea of modernizing medical, especially surgical, instruments through the new engineering techniques fascinates me. I’m a bit of an idealist, I daresay. It gives me satisfaction to imagine that an invention of mine might save a life instead of just, adding gold to the coffers of a multimillionaire — or blowing someone on the other side of the world to bits.”

She was not prepared for this sudden submersion into his thinking and she had no wish to pretend to understand what he was talking about. Her own defense against this new and all but overpowering awareness of his physical being was to comprehend his mind, his swiftly moving, brilliant, perhaps moody mind, as she vaguely surmised. It occurred to her now that she was beginning to see dimly the real man, not the young skier who came out of the snows and into her house in the mountains of Vermont. He was looking about the room now and restlessly, as though in search, and suddenly he shivered.

“Have you something I could drink — something burning hot? I’ve caught cold up there in the upper regions. Stupidly I forgot to bring an extra jacket.”

“Of course,” she said, and touched a button. “I don’t think Weston is upstairs yet.”

Her elderly houseman came at her call and she spoke to him in her usual kindly but distant fashion.

“Weston, Mr. Barnow is catching cold. Can you make him something hot?”

“Certainly, madame,” the man replied.

“And, Weston, I suppose the green room is ready for guests?”

“Always, madame.”

“Turn down the bed for Mr. Barnow, will you?”

“Certainly, madame. Will Mr. Barnow be here for breakfast?”

“Yes — and perhaps longer.”

“Very well. Thank you, madame.” He made his old-fashioned bow and went away.

“This is your setting,” Jared said.

“Ah, you don’t know me,” she replied.

“No? But I shall, in time!”

“Is there time? You are young and very busy. And I have — dreams of my own.”

“I must be in them.”

He made the declaration boldly, so confident of her approval that in herself she felt withdrawal, almost distaste, even while she was aware again of his physical beauty. She withdrew from that, too, abruptly.

“Tell me what you meant a moment ago when you spoke of combining disciplines.”

He was leaning back in his easy chair, his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes closed. Now he sat up abruptly and opened his eyes.

“What do you know about medical engineering?” he inquired.

“Nothing,” she said promptly. “It must be something new, since my father’s time.”

“Relatively new,” he agreed.

“Then please be simple.”

He laughed. “Simply, then, it’s this: the medical men have been and are extraordinarily backward in the new disciplines of mathematics, physics and engineering. Yet they are working with life systems, without enough of the research that is essential if they are to do their work successfully. The very instruments upon which they depend for accuracy of diagnosis and healing are often so old-fashioned as to be obsolete. Medical scientists are becoming aware of this and some universities are creating departments of bio-medical engineering. But that’s a neither-fish-nor-fowl sort of thing so far, in my opinion, only creating men for jobs that won’t exist after a few years. I have a different approach to such interdisciplinary activity and that’s what I wanted to talk to this fellow about. He’s a pioneer in the field. I wish your father were alive. He’d be the one I’d be seeing first.”

“He’d like you,” she said.

“And I’d have worshipped at his feet! There’s no mind alive today that equals his. Why do the great ones die young?”

“Trying to save the world,” she replied. “He was on his way to Japan, to help the Japanese rebuild the cyclotron we destroyed during the world war.”

“I know. I read about it,” he said.

There was a knock at the door and Weston appeared with a tall mug of steaming liquid.

“Toddy, sir,” he said in his high old voice.

“Thanks,” Jared said, and taking the glass he sipped its contents. “Ah, that’s good. It goes straight into my bones.”

“Yes, sir. Good night, sir. Good night, madame. Everything is in order.”

“Thank you, Weston, and good night.”

The door closed behind him and they were silent. Jared sipped the toddy, his mind absent, as she could see, and she did not try again to recall him. She sat quietly looking at him while he gazed into the fire, sipping until the mug was empty. Then he set it down and turned to her apologetically.