The Gay Cockade | Page 4

house."
I knew then what I had missed from the tree. Elise had a great many
gifts--exquisite trifles sent to her by sophisticated friends--a wine-jug
of seventeenth-century Venetian glass, a bag of Chinese brocade with
handles of carved ivory, a pair of ancient silver buckles, a box of rare
lacquer filled with Oriental sweets, a jade pendant, a crystal ball on a
bronze base--all of them lovely, all to be exclaimed over; but the things
I wanted were drums and horns and candy canes, and tarletan bags, and

pop-corn chains, and things that had to be wound up, and things that
whistled, and things that squawked, and things that sparkled. And
Jimmie wanted these things, but Elise didn't. She was perfectly content
with her elegant trifles.
It was late when we went out finally to the studio. There was snow
everywhere, but it was a clear night with a moon above the pines. A
great log burned in the fireplace, a shaded lamp threw a circle of gold
on shining mahogany. It seemed to me that Jimmie's writing quarters
were even more attractive in December than in June.
Yet, looking back, I can see that to Jimmie the little house was a sort of
prison. He loved men and women, contact with his own kind. He had
even liked our dingy old office and our dreary, dried-up selves. And
here, day after day, he sat alone--as an artist must sit if he is to
achieve--es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille.
We sat around the fire in deep leather chairs, all except Elise, who had
a cushion on the floor at Jimmie's feet.
He read with complete absorption, and when he finished he looked at
me. "What do you think of it?"
I had to tell the truth. "It isn't your masterpiece."
He ran his fingers through his hair with a nervous gesture. "I told Elise
that it wasn't."
"But the girl"--Elise's gaze held hot resentment--"is wonderful. Surely
you can see that."
"She doesn't seem quite real."
"Then Jimmie shall make her real." Elise laid her hand lightly on her
husband's shoulder. Her gown and golden net were all flame and
sparkle, but her voice was cold. "He shall make her real."
"No"--it seemed to me that as he spoke Jimmie drew away from her

hand--"I am not going to rewrite it, Elise. I'm tired of it."
"Jimmie!"
"I'm tired of it--"
"Finish it, and then you'll be free--"
"Shall I ever be free?" He stood up and turned his head from side to
side, as if he sought some way of escape. "Shall I ever be free? I
sometimes think that you and I will stick to this old house until we
grow as dry as dust. I want to live, Elise! I want to live--!"
* * * * *
But Elise was not ready to let Jimmie live. To her, Jimmie the artist
was more than Jimmie the lover. I may have been unjust, but she
seemed to me a sort of mental vampire, who was sucking Jimmie's
youth. Duncan Street snorted when I told him what I thought. Elise was
a pretty woman, and a pretty woman in the eyes of men can do no
wrong.
"You'll see," I said, "what she'll do to him."
The situation was to me astounding. Here was Life holding out its
hands to Elise, glory of youth demanding glorious response, and she,
incredibly, holding back. In spite of my gray hair and stiff figure, I am
of the galloping kind, and my soul followed Jimmie Harding's in its
quest for freedom.
But there was one thing that Elise could not do. She could not make
Jimmie rewrite his play. "I'll come to it some day," he said, "but not yet.
In the meantime I'll see what I can do with books."
He did a great deal with books, so that he wrote several best-sellers.
This eased the financial situation and they might have had more time
for things. But Elise still kept him at it. She wanted to be the wife of a
great man.

Yet as the years went on, Duncan and I began to wonder if her hopes
would be realized. Jimmie wrote and wrote. He was successful in a
commercial sense, but fame did not come to him. There was gray in his
burnt-gold hair; his shoulders acquired a scholarly droop, and he wore
glasses on a black ribbon. It was when he put on glasses that I began to
feel a thousand years old. Yet always when he was away from me I
thought of him as the Jimmie whose youth had shone with blinding
radiance.
His constancy to Duncan and to me began to take on a rather pathetic
quality. The others in the office drifted gradually