Pearl Buck - Angry Wife

Then why, Pierce asked himself on one somnolent autumn afternoon, was he himself not content? He found himself increasingly and unbearably lonely as he viewed old age just over the horizon of the mountains. There it was, like the setting sun, and he must watch night come on. He dreaded it and he longed for closeness and nearness to someone, and to whom could it be, if not to Lucinda? They must be wed again to one another for age as they had been for youth.

So he set himself to win her once more, to court her with new love. He could study her, he told himself, and learn afresh her little likes and dislikes, her taste in colors and flowers and perfumes, things he had forgotten for years. And jewels — he had given her jewels for the children. Now he would give her jewels for herself.

It was not easy. Hardest of all to bear was Lucinda’s surprise, cynical, half amused.

“What’s the matter with you, Pierce?” she inquired. “What do you want?”

“Only to tell you that I love you, my dear,” he said gently. But she seemed unable to believe him. She imagined with disgust that he wanted her body with some sort of recrudescent, elderly lust. He was too embarrassed to speak when he discovered her suspicions and for some time he refrained from so much as kissing her lips.

Then his loneliness overcame him and one November afternoon, when they had walked together through the woods, he sat down on a fallen log. When she sat down beside him he took her hand.

“I feel myself growing old, Luce,” he said.

“It’s about time,” she said with the faint smile she used so often now.

“No, don’t, my dear—” he begged her. “Don’t be cynical, Luce. It’s a desperate thing to grow old, and feel one’s wife doesn’t forgive him for something — he doesn’t know what. Darling, come close to me — I don’t mean — what you think — I mean — your heart, Luce — that’s far away from me. I must have your heart — because I can’t grow old alone—”

She sat as still in the soft autumn sunshine as though she were made of marble. He felt something struggle in her. Her fingers still fluttered but he held them fast.

“Tell me what it is you have against me,” he begged her. “Whatever it is, I will change it — do away with it — give it up — I promise you! But first you must tell me what it is or how will I know?”

She could not speak, or would not. But he held her fluttering, unwilling fingers and he told himself that if he were patient, loving but not passionate, if he could persuade her and make her believe him—

“I have no one but you now, to be near to me,” he said tenderly. “See, dear, I want to be near to you, too, in the way we should be, each trusting the other. I want to devote myself to you — I thought I had all my life — but if there is something you think keeps me from you—”

And then bit by bit she began to speak, and he let her speak.

“But you do know what it is,” she said.

“Indeed, I do not, Luce,” he said gently. “That is why I beg you—”

“You know — you know — every time you go there—”

“You mean — Tom? My brother?”

“He’s only part of it — you make an excuse of him—”

“Excuse for what, Luce? Tell me!”

“You go to see her— ”

“Her?”

“That woman.”

“A woman, Luce?”

“Georgia.”

Now it was out. Now he knew. She sighed and drew her hand away. He sat staring at the tip of her shoe, peeping out from her long ruffled skirt. “Do you believe I have been unfaithful to you?” he asked abruptly.

“I don’t — think of such things,” she said faintly.

“Think of it for a moment, now. Do you?”

“You aren’t — different from other men.”

He felt his throat thicken with rage and swallowed it. He would be patient with her for his own sake, because he could not meet what lay over the horizon — alone.

“Will you believe me when I tell you that I have always been faithful to you — always?”

She did not stir or speak.

He went on. “Once and once only have I spoken alone to Georgia since she left Malvern, and there was not one word of love between us — I promise you.”

“Then why did you speak to her?” Lucinda’s words were like dry dead leaves fluttering to the ground.

He considered, remembering. “I want to be honest — I am honest when I say I don’t know. Somehow it had nothing to do with me — what she was. It had to do with the far future. I — how can I explain to you? I think we’ve been taught wrongly, you and I — we can’t change now. We belong to the past. But the future—”

He shook his head. He must not try to change her, for she could not change. He must not enter into that future, for he would not be alive when it came, and neither would she.

He said, “Georgia told me that day she was going to Europe with Tom’s daughter.”

Lucinda made a pettish movement. “But that’s so silly,” she exclaimed. “A niggra!”

He was patient with her. “It doesn’t matter to us,” he said reasonably. “We have nothing to do with it. We live here at Malvern. You and I — we’ll grow old here.”

She looked at him suddenly. “Do you mean you aren’t going to see Tom any more?” she asked.

He looked down into her eyes. Ah, he knew her so well, all her little thoughts, all her narrow fears which she herself did not understand! He pitied her profoundly but to love her had become the habit of his life and he could not change.

He spoke slowly, with pain. “If I promise never to go to Tom’s house again — will you forgive me?”

She fluttered her eyelashes, lifted them up and then let them down. “Yes,” she said, “I’ll forgive you—”

They rose, and she hesitated. Then she dropped her little handbag and her gloves and he felt her arms about his neck. She buried her face in his bosom and began to sob.

“Why — why — my darling—” he stammered.

“Oh, Pierce,” she cried, “you’re good!”

He held her while she wept, and could not speak.

Tom understood, of course. Tom did not blame him for anything. They met in a hotel in Baltimore and Pierce told him the simple truth in a few words.

“I want peace,” he finished.

Tom listened and forbore. “You are a free man,” he said at last, “as free as I am to make your choice.” They had talked little after that, for there was no more to say. Tom had brought pictures of his children, and Pierce looked at them. Leslie was the father of a child now, and a successful writer. He had written a bitter clever book. Tom had a copy but Pierce did not open it. Small Tom was going to be a doctor and Lettice was married.

“Not one of them has crossed the line,” Tom said calmly. “But they’ve my blood to help them when I am dead.”

He took a big photograph from his bag. “This is Georgy,” he said. “She’s the vanguard.”

Pierce looked down at a beautiful young face, confident and brave.

“You can see Georgy’s not afraid,” Tom said. “She’ll sing, maybe even in Washington. That’s her dream — to sing in Washington, where Lincoln was. Maybe she’ll sing in the White House — some day.”

Pierce could not speak. He had no heart to dim his brother’s hope. Besides, perhaps Tom was right! Who could say what the future was to be except that it never could be like the past?

“I have a picture of Georgia, too,” Tom said quietly. “Do you want to see that? She’s — quite changed — from living in France so long.”

Pierce did not speak for a moment. He kept looking down into Georgy’s young and dauntless face. Ah, this was how Georgia would have looked — had she ever had a chance!