Gift of the Gods

I

SOFT-SPOKEN, brown-eyed Mr. Spitzenberg stared into the gloom and rain from his second-story window. The rain came down with relentless determination. Few pedestrians were traveling the cross-town street, partly because of the weather, and partly because their business did not bring them to the Park Avenue district at this time of day. It was an afternoon at the end of November, dreary without and within, for the lights were not lit. Mr. Spitzenberg, as always when he took his stance by the window, was thinking of nothing in particular, but his position hinted a morose satisfaction with life. A man of short stature, he stood solidly at his post, hands clasped behind him, feet apart, cigarette hanging from his lips. It was his customary pose during the slack hour between four and five, and one had the impression that he rested so.

Mr. Spitzenberg’s house stood in the centre of a row of houses presenting a united front of quality and equality, and formidably attached to each other with the purpose of protecting from prying eyes the gardens and patios to the rear. The front of Mr. Spitzenberg’s house was imposing and chaste, its four stories of stone a cold gray. There was no sign or trade label to indicate that Mr. Spitzenberg was a designer of women’s dresses. He himself was inclined to minimize the fact, preferring to be described as a connoisseur of the arts. Somewhere in the long mystery of his diverse ancestry the artist had overcome the trader. His true interest was in his house, which he had remodeled room by room, and in the beautiful things he had collected to fill those rooms.

The jangle of the front door bell interrupted his afternoon pause. He padded to the head of the stairway which had been one of his reasons for buying the house. White and slender and railed with white-painted iron grillwork, it rose in a perfect reverse curve from the first floor to the fourth.

The butler was at the door. A gust of cold wind elbowed rudely through the opening. A level voice inquired: —

‘May I speak with Mr. Spitzenberg? I am from the Piccadilly Agency.’

Mr. Spitzenberg remained where he was. He enjoyed watching people unobserved.

‘I shall see if he is in. Will you wait here ? ‘

The butler crossed the hall to a house telephone. ‘Mrs. Spitzenberg, please.’ He waited a moment. ‘ Is Mr. Spitzenberg in, Madam? The Piccadilly Agency—’ Another pause. The conversation was completed.

‘Mr. Spitzenberg will be down in a few minutes. May I take your umbrella?’

Mr. Spitzenberg watched the girl as she paced restlessly back and forth in the darkened hallway. Unfortunately he was not able to see much of her face, for she was wearing a broad-brimmed black hat. A shabby tan polo coat, now limp and wet, obscured the lines of her body. She looked as if she had walked for a long time, shoulders hunched in a tense tiredness, legs stiff and mechanical. She gazed straight ahead of her, noticing her lavish surroundings not at all. Mr. Spitzenberg experienced the prickling under his left eyebrow that occurred when he scented treasure. He descended the stairs.

‘How do you do,’ he said. ‘I am Mr. Spitzenberg.’

The girl turned sharply. He looked into an unfamiliar, wet face. Mr. Spitzenberg never looked directly at his customers. They did not bear close scrutiny. Wealthy women who never exercised; successful actresses strangely fearful of choosing the wrong dress; young girls awkward as heifers.

But he looked at this girl carefully. The strange face was white and almost expressionless. An absurd brass hoop of earring dangled at each side of it, wrongly, but with certain verve. The eyes that met his were bedded in deep caves, and indeterminate in color. Secret they were, and sad. Violet shadowed lids drooped over them. They were beautiful. There was something mysterious about her that called to mind the tragic queens of Ireland — almost a spirit of arrested time. No, there was nothing of fashion about the face, which glowed ashily in the gloom of the late afternoon. She is very thin, he thought.

‘The agency sent me,’ the girl explained. ‘They said you needed a model.’

An understatement. He had needed a third model for weeks, but his requirements were hard to fill. At least five feet ten inches tall, and able to wear a size twelve.

‘Would you mind taking off your coat and hat?’ he asked. ‘And,’ for he could not bear the false note, ‘your earrings too ? ‘

She dropped the earrings into her coat pocket.

‘My hair—’ She removed her hat, and dark, wet hair fell about her face. ‘It’s gotten rather wet —’

‘Don’t worry about that. I just want to see if you will fit the clothes.’

She stood before him in a dark wool sweater and skirt which preserved the anonymity of her figure, but Mr. Spitzenberg knew that he would hire her. Something unusual had been delivered, so to speak, at his doorstep.

‘I’m sure you’ll do,’ he said, ‘but I’d like to have you try a few things first. Will you come upstairs?’

His offhand manner seemed to startle the girl, for she hesitated a moment before smiling a shy smile. ‘Oh — yes.’

She followed him up the stairway, touching the railing wonderingly. They entered a room of pale greens and yellows.

‘Will you wait here a moment?’ Mr. Spitzenberg disappeared into a side room where rose and fell the murmur of soft voices. The girl wandered to the casement window at the far end of the room and looked through its thick, leaded panes into a wind-swept patio where a Renaissance faun lifted his laughing mouth to the dusk and rain. There were small trees there, too, and boxes of flowers. The girl sighed, and played with the braided tassels of the curtains. She shook her head once, and a shower of water drops spattered over the carpet. The murmur of voices grew louder as the door opened to admit Mr. Spitzenberg and a small, plump person laden down with dresses.

‘I would like you to meet my wife. Lucy, this is Miss —? ‘

‘Stevenson,’ the girl supplied. ‘Dora Stevenson.’ He was surprised to hear that she had such a prosaic name, and unwilling to believe it.

‘ Dora — ‘ he savored the word doubtfully, ‘from Theodora?’

The girl laughed. ‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’

‘Miss Theodora will try a few things for size, Lucy,’ he continued smoothly. He watched his wife closely to see what impression the girl had made on her. He could discover none.

‘Certainly.’ As she led the way into a dressing room, Lucy Spitzenberg noted without emotion that the girl was extraordinarily beautiful. Lucy was not beautiful herself, and regarded the beauty of others with humorous curiosity. She had long ago learned that beauty is an accident of nature, and not always a comfortable thing to have. Lucy was above all things a comfortable person. Once one had given up the idea of having children, one discovered that the world was full of good things. But she was forced to admit to herself at times that the house, crammed as it was with beautiful objects, often depressed her. She lifted a dinner dress of dark green crêpe from the heap on the chair.

‘I think we’ll try this one first,’ she said.

The girl peeled the sweater and skirt from her body with an automatic movement, but her face was strained. Lucy slipped the dinner dress over her head. She stood in front of the long triple mirror and wriggled into the garment. It clung to her dampness like fish scales. At last, with a little sigh of resignation, it fitted over her bones. The mirrors showed a deep-sea divinity just risen to the surface. The stony blue clip at the apex of the V-shaped neckline was a pebble caught in strands of reluctant seaweed, and the purplish blue girdle that swept from belt to hem was more a streak of discolored sea water than a fine piece of velvet from the looms of Lyons. She eyed herself unsurely.

‘It’s a little tight across the hips —’

‘No, that’s right,’ Lucy reassured her, ‘and we always ask the girls to try the hardest ones first. But see what Mr. Spitzenberg says.’

The girl hesitated.

‘Just go down those steps into the front room,’ Lucy instructed her.

The girl walked professionally, drawing in her stomach, arching her back a little. She took a position and awaited his verdict. Mr. Spitzenberg felt that moment they silently faced each other to be suspended in time. He would never forget it. They were about five feet apart, but was there not a dangerous acceleration of the atoms between them?

He glanced a moment at the fit of the garment, and then his eyes were drawn to the face. The face again, inanimate and drowned-looking, that wavered in the half-light.

‘Will you turn around, please?’ He would not have recognized his voice had it been played back to him on a record.

The girl turned, and he saw a long torso with sloping shoulders and gently rounded hips. Not an ideal fashion figure, but somehow more disturbing than perfect measurements. And that was saying a great deal, for Mr. Spitzenberg was a perfectionist.

‘I’m sorry about my hair—’ The girl lifted a hand to it apologetically.

‘That’s all right. Tomorrow you will come with it in order.’

‘Tomorrow?’ The girl could not keep elation from her voice.

‘Yes.’ Mr. Spitzenberg appeared not to notice her excitement. ‘After you dress, I would like to have a few words with you.’ And then to his wife: ‘I think she needn’t try any more.’ He turned again to the window.

He turned to the window calmly, but his thoughts were raging. How did she happen to be so beautiful? Why did she seem more beautiful to him than any of his possessions? He had never before seen a woman who did not jar his æsthetic sense. How could a woman like that just appear at his door without warning, without his seeking her out? And there was something she was hiding. What was it? Or was it just her aloofness? And yet she wasn’t really aloof. Common she was, quite ordinary. Just wanted a job. Hiding something? How absurd. No reason to get romantic. She was tired, of course. Was there an aura about her? That moment . . . I will find out about her, he thought, and if she remains beautiful . . .

She was in the room again. He drew on his cigarette before he spoke.

‘Would you like to try working here?’

‘Oh yes —’ The words were timid, as though she still could not believe her good luck.

‘Then I think you’d better come in about ten o’clock, Miss Theodora, and bring a pair of plain black shoes.’ Then, as if a whimsey had struck him, he inquired, ‘It is “Miss,” isn’t it?’

‘ Why — yes — ‘ Uncertain, she stood waiting. The interview was at an end. She half smiled, and started to go.

‘Oh,’ he detained her, ‘and what salary do you ask?’

She named the standard sum. He nodded.

‘Good. That’s what I pay.’

‘Well, then—’ She moved toward the steps.

Lucy Spitzenberg entered. She wore her habitual faint smile of curiosity, but her voice was kind.

‘I’ll show you the way out of here if you like, Miss Stevenson. Just follow me.’

Mr. Spitzenberg stood by the open window perhaps ten minutes before he felt his wife in the archway behind him. Doubtless she was wearing that perpetual, meaningless smile of hers. And now she was speaking.

‘Hadn’t you better shut the window, Leonard? And it’s so dark in here!’ She moved gracelessly through the room, turning on lights.

II

It was Christmas time, the afternoon before Christmas, but throughout the house there was a disavowal of the impending holiday. The doorbell jangled intermittently, customers came and went, the tone was as always — restrained salesmanship, diffident advice. Mr. Spitzenberg contemplated the dowager before him, resplendent in Yuletide satin. The dowager wheeled before the mirror like an animated Christmas tree ornament. A satisfied smile played beneath her nose, resembling in some way Lucy’s maddening, tolerant smile.

Theodora drifted into the fitting room in a dashing white gown sewn with brilliants.

‘How pretty she is!’ the dowager commented indulgently. ‘Isn’t it amazing how much she looks like Bunny?’

A shiver contracted Mr. Spitzenberg’s backbone. Bunny was Eleanor Thorne, the dowager’s oldest niece. He had made her first ball dress, her trousseau, and only last week he had completed an order for garments to disguise a delicate condition. It was one of his rules never to discuss customers with employees, but at Theodora’s peculiar expression his own loathing had come to the surface, and he had muttered, ‘Why do women make such disgusting cows out of themselves?’ It was sacrilege to compare the bloated Bunny to Theodora’s cool perfection. How could she make such a mistake! Pretty!

Theodora had been with him less than a month, but how she had changed. Today she was particularly lovely, color in her cheeks, an air of excitement about her. If there was anything beautiful about Christmas as it is celebrated in New York City, she expressed it. Hair piled high to show off a long, slender neck, mouth painted full and soft. Yes, she was more beautiful than on that first day. But she had lost nothing by the change. The same bones, the same eyes, long, tilted, and half visible beneath smudgy lids. Can a woman be truly beautiful unless she is nearsighted, he wondered? What a softness it lends to the hard lines of a classic face! He watched her move toward the door. I low superbly she walked, now that she had confidence and, he suspected, enough to eat. And yet the most fascinating thing about her remained, the puzzling aloofness he had noticed the first time he had seen her.

Mr. Spitzenberg knew little about Theodora — it was not his habit to pry into the affairs of his employees, His attitude was compounded of politeness and indifference. But in spare moments he had managed through a few casual, pointed questions to learn that she had had some sort of unhappy marriage. He had not inquired further; it was enough for him that she was a finished product. A virginal woman was offensive to him, yet he was pleased and relieved that she was the possession of no man. Such little things could spoil beauty for him. A beautiful ring on an ugly hand became sordid, or a beautiful woman in the grasp of a gross, unappreciative husband. Such connections revolted him. Theodora was free of disturbing entanglements. As far as he knew she lived alone. If she had lovers they were transitory and, he liked to think, could not really touch her. She seemed untouched by her beauty also, utterly indifferent to her appearance. She was the least vain of any woman he had known.

He wondered how she spent her leisure time. How would she spend the holiday? He shrank from the thought, but it persisted. Five days. What would she do with them? He was seized with panic. Her face, which he thought of as one of his most treasured possessions — he would not see it for five whole days!

With a neat, self-effacing bow he left the fitting room. Theodora had completed her rounds of the customers and was on her way to the dressing room. Mr. Spitzenberg laughed deprecatingly, as was usual with him before beginning to speak.

‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘would you do me a favor?’

The girl looked surprised. ‘Of course. What is it?’

Mr. Spitzenberg laughed again, and the sound imparted an unwonted significance to his request.

‘ Would you help me shop a little while this afternoon — say half an hour? Could you?’

‘Oh!’ The girl was dismayed. He ignored her obvious unwillingness, and continued. Surely she could spare him half an hour!

‘Something for Mrs. Spitzenberg.’ He cocked his head boyishly. ‘I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a chance to shop for her yet. Isn’t that terrible? And I’m not very good at shopping. I would appreciate your help so much.’

The girl smiled reluctantly. ‘Why yes, I’d love to for a little while,’ she said, but the happiness that had been in her eyes all afternoon was replaced by anxiety. Then it returned. ‘You see,’ and her voice was excited, ‘I have a lot to do. You know, the day before Christmas.’

‘Of course.’ He was purring, but his hands were cold. For whom was she preparing Christmas? ‘We shan’t take long.’ We shall take as long as we can, he thought.

Later as he crossed Fifth Avenue with her he felt victorious, in a position to control her and find out about her.

‘It’ll be a nice Christmas for the children,’ said Theodora gazing into the softly falling snow.

‘Somehow I can never get maudlin about Christmas,’ he answered. But then he felt obliged to soften his worldliness, and added, with charm, ‘Of course I’m really not such an ogre as I make out to be.’

‘Ogre?’ she echoed with curious intonation.

The girl was downright stupid, he decided, but what did it matter?

‘We must have a drink before we shop, a wassail cup to celebrate the season,’ he changed the subject, looking with distaste at the crowds, people bent over into ugly positions from the parcels they carried. ‘And forget about all this,’ he added to himself, guiding her into a bar.

‘Hello, Frank,’ he greeted the bartender.

‘Best regards of the season, Mr. Spitzenberg,’ returned Frank. Mr. Spitzenberg took illogical pleasure in being recognized by the Franks of the town, and put his hand in his pocket for insurance of that recognition.

‘Have yourself a time,’ he said, slipping the greenback into a ready hand.

‘Thank you, sir!’ Frank tucked the season’s custom into his vest pocket.

Mr. Spitzenberg looked at the girl inquiringly. ‘What will you have?’ he asked.

‘Brandy and soda, please.’

‘One brandy and soda, and a glass of plain champagne.’

‘Yes sir!’

The drinks arrived. ‘Here’s to you!’ Mr. Spitzenberg lifted his glass. The girl drank with him. He regarded her humorously.

‘You don’t mind my kidnapping you for a drink, do you?’ he asked.

There was a pause. The girl played with her napkin.

‘Do you?’ Mr. Spitzenberg repeated his question with an added shade of emphasis. The girl affected a bright tone.

‘Of course not, only—’

‘I know. You have to get home.’ Mr. Spitzenberg wondered if he dared ask why. Dared? A silly thought. No, she must tell him herself. It was in a way a game. With all the advantages on his side, of course. For sooner or later he would know all about her. He did not ask himself the why of that.

‘I’ve wanted to talk to you for such a long time,’ he said.

‘I really don’t see why.’ There was embarrassment in the attempted lightness of her tone, as though she realized the banality of her reply but could think of nothing else to say. Self-consciously she fingered the elbows of her brown suit where the lining was beginning to show. She stole a glance at the clock above the door. Now Mr. Spitzenberg was sure that she was thinking about someone other than himself. Perhaps if he delayed her long enough she would tell him why she was in such a hurry. The prospect excited and depressed him at the same time. She was nervous in the silence he allowed to hang between them.

‘If I’d known I was going out with the boss, I wouldn’t have worn my old scout uniform.’ She indicated the shabby brown suit.

The shock of her ungraceful words aroused him. She was making conversation. Marking time. That is what she is always doing, he thought. Suddenly Mr. Spitzenberg leaned toward her.

‘Do you know that you are very beautiful?’ he asked.

The girl withdrew from him slightly, and when she spoke, it was seriously. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘that isn’t true— ‘

‘But it is true, very.’ Mr. Spitzenberg smiled at her ignorance.

The girl was distressed. ‘People can’t help how they look!’

What a thing to say! Mr. Spitzenberg was angry with her for her stupidity, but he only smiled again.

‘Would you mind if I took you to lunch sometimes — if I showed you some beautiful things? Paintings, some—’

She interrupted him. ‘If we’re going to shop, we ought to get started. It’s getting late.’ He knew she did not mean to be rude, but to remind him of the time, and his desire to detain her grew stronger. Why must she be so unruly?

‘Just one more drink!’ he urged her.

The girl got up. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I really must watch the time.’

Watch the time! Why was she so difficult?

‘Very well,’ he said, allowing her to feel his displeasure.

They went out into the street, silently. The snow was falling more thickly now. Mr. Spitzenberg was piqued and determined. He lingered thoughtfully before a blue and silver window.

‘Shall we go in here?’ he asked.

It did not matter which store they went to, for Mr. Spitzenberg had long ago selected his wife’s Christmas present. At Christmas time he allowed Lucy to feel beautiful. He always presented her with an exquisite gift, perhaps as compensation for the lack of children in the house. This year he had chosen an Italian ring of heavily worked gold, possibly by Cellini, set with a sapphire cut from the very core of the stone. Lucy always paid his offerings marked appreciation, and continued to smile in her peculiar way.

Now he wandered into the store with Theodora as a pretense for enjoying her company. He was interested in her reaction to the costly frou-frou on display, but could discern no desire in her manner, not a single wish. She was doing her duty. They paused at a handkerchief counter. She fingered a bit of chiffon, bluish green.

‘I think this would be lovely for one thing,’ she said.

Mr. Spitzenberg laughed. ‘ Suppose we forget Mrs. Spitzenberg for a moment. If you could have what you wanted here, what would you take?’

‘I don’t know.’ She was startled.

‘Please, choose something.’ Mr. Spitzenberg felt mingled with her resistance a desperation that might lead her to a rash word, and he was glad.

‘I really wouldn’t want anything!’

Soon it would come. He had only to prod her a little, and she would expose herself, would come alive to him.

‘Why not?’

‘Please, the store is closing. If you want to find something for—’ Was there an effort at control in her voice?

Mr. Spitzenberg grew blander. Cheerfully he suggested, ‘Let’s try another store then. I hate to shop in a hurry, don’t you? Some of them are open until nine o’clock tonight.’

The girl tensed then. There were tears in her eyes.

‘What do you want of me? I have to go home now. It’s important —’ She looked at him beseechingly.

Now he had his advantage. He became very gentle.

‘But, my dear ... I was only trying to give you pleasure.’

‘Oh, I know — it sounds so silly — ‘ Her inflection was apologetic. Her attention was entirely on him. At last.

‘Just a moment,’ he was sure of himself now. ‘Do you think I had any idea other than to give you pleasure? That’s all I wanted.’ He took his time, feeling better.

‘You make me feel so stupid, but I —’ The girl was plainly confused.

‘But?’ He waited.

‘But even if you think me rude I must go home now!’

The reply came as a surprise to him. He had expected an apology. He was furious.

‘Certainly,’ he said coldly, ‘I’ll get you a taxi.’ He had been so sure that she would stay a little longer. They went through the revolving doors into the snowy night.

‘Please don’t be angry with me.’ So she thought, to get off easily. Rage and defeat trembled in him. Let her worry about her precious job over the holiday.

‘That’s quite all right, Miss Stevenson,’ he said politely. ‘Only I don’t understand you completely. Taxi!’

Her face was ashy, as on the first day he had seen her. He had a longing to touch it, to sever it from the willful body, to take it home into his beautiful house where it would hang on the wall, the loveliest of all his beautiful things. He could see it now in the red room, the sunlight prying through the crimson curtains and stroking it with blood-andorange fingers. Or in the blue room, all living color drained from it. in the moonlight, only the beautiful skull apparent through the skin, silver. He sighed, and gave the taxi driver some change.

‘Tell him where you want to go,’ he said. And then laughingly, ‘I wish somebody would give me your face for a Christmas present!’

‘Good night!’ she called from the window. She looked happy and free as the taxi pulled away.

He stood on the curb, a dapper, prosperous figure. ‘Theodora,’ he murmured, ‘Gift of the Gods!’ Then he shook his head reprovingly at the cliché of his thoughts, bought a newspaper from a legless man on one of those scooters, and started to walk home. Halfway down the block he heard the scooter behind him and a harsh voice: —

‘ Here’syerchange! ‘

Mr. Spitzenberg was annoyed at the interruption of his thoughts, which were still spinning in the wake of his anger and disappointment, and startled to think the man had not sense to keep change of a dollar. He waved him off.

‘Merry Christmas!’ The password of the season, raucous and garbled, followed him across the street. With an emotion approaching horror it dawned on Mr. Spitzenberg that the legless man was drunk.

III

Mr. Spitzenberg stood at his window in the bright sunlight, unseasonable for February. He was at peace, having just made an eventful decision. He had made up his mind to divorce his wife. After weeks of weighing the price to be paid, he had decided to acquire Theodora. Lucy had been a good wife, a good sport. But he would be able to keep Theodora in his house. He would have to give up a certain social position and a great deal of his business. The business was unimportant, as he had long ago reached the point where it was unnecessary for him to work, but the social consideration had given him pause for some time. For it is to be confessed that Mr. Spitzenberg was a snob of minor degree. ‘I could make her my mistress,’ he thought, ‘but that would solve nothing.’

It was true, that would solve nothing. What he desired was the presence of Theodora, moving among his cherished belongings, clothed in the creations of his mind. Theodora at dinner, pouring coffee into the Haviland cups; Theodora sitting beside him in the theatre, a single jewel in her perfectly dressed hair; Theodora putting out the lights all over his house, drifting a pale hand up the stair railing, finally undressing before the Roman mirror, the old glass treasuring her shadowed pallor in its murky depths. It was the right, the æsthetic thing. They were there as a setting for Theodora, who would give meaning to them with her living perfection.

But how could he present his offer? The girl was not subtle enough to understand his motives. And she would scarcely believe he was in love with her. Or would she? Was she sentimental? I will try it, he thought. Or perhaps she has relatives to whom financial. . . . What about her husband? Is she still in love with him? But she never mentions him; they must have separated long ago . . . and surely she has learned from working here how easy, how pleasant life without hardship can be. . . .

Mr. Spitzenberg’s musings wandered into more agreeable channels. The lunches they had taken together, the hours he had forced from her after five o’clock, — she had changed since that Christmas Eve, and went with a quiet passivity wherever he wished, — cocktails, the ring of silver and the tinkle of crystal, her beautiful face causing comment wherever they went. Her face, remote and seldom smiling. Her eyes indifferently staring at art exhibitions, fashion shows, furniture, at jewels, at intricate French watches. She might as well be blind, he thought ruefully. No matter. Perhaps her own beauty made her insensitive to other beauties.

‘I’m ready, Mr. Spitzenberg.’ It was her voice, summoning him to their luncheon appointment. ‘Do I look all right?’ she asked.

The question pleased him. It was a sign of her growing docility. Lately he had requested her to wear his clothes when they went out together. Today she had on a soft suit of black wool, unrelieved except for a collar of turquoise and gold.

‘You know you always look marvelous,’ he answered. ‘Here, let me tie your turban for you.’ He reached up to her, and in a moment had twisted the length of black jersey into the likeness of a high toque. ‘There,’ he said.

He lifted the house phone. ‘Mrs. Spitzenberg, please.’ He waited. ‘Lucy? Will you be here in an hour? Good. I want to talk to you.’

There was a February wind in the street. The sunlight was cool and white. On Fifth Avenue the bells were chiming noon from St. Patrick’s, a sweet repetitive monody. There was motion, color, sound. The crowds moved briskly, women in new hats, men with shoe shines.

Mr. Spitzenberg felt benevolent, and very rich in the presence of the beautiful woman beside him; felt all eyes turning toward her, and then, curiously, toward him. His blood rose in pride.

‘Shall we go for a ride in the park before lunch?’ he asked.

The girl nodded. Mr. Spitzenberg signaled a passing taxi. They got in. From this vantage point the people looked less important and the park, just beginning to green in the spell of freakishly warm weather, more so. Behind them the Plaza Hotel crouched like a gloomy personification of winter; before them the paths of Central Park beckoned with flirtatious arms. Come into the park, come in, the paths invited, and the birds sang noisily in the false spring.

Their driver pressed a button and the glass roof of the taxi slid back. Now Mr. Spitzenberg was a grand seigneur driving with his lady. He leaned against the cushions and lit a cigarette. The wind brushed by them and the girl shivered. Pedestrians stared at the sleek, brownhaired man and the beautiful woman in black. Mr. Spitzenberg kept his revelation in mind, but was in no hurry with it. He relaxed. He indulged in a few thoughts, lightly philosophical. Nature was too often in a state of growth or decay. There was a vulgarity about nature that was too often apparent. Beauty must be sufficient unto itself; there must be no cheapening alliances with weather, fertilizer, other things. If one cared to, one could find the so-called beauties of nature any time one wanted them by following the seasons from place to place. But it was much more interesting to find a substitute. Like this girl. The stage was set for her; she had only to enter, bringing with her all beauty and every season. He touched her hand reverently. Startled, she withdrew it. She had no idea, then, of what was to come.

‘Mr. Spitzenberg,’ she began, ‘I wanted to tell you—’

He hardly heard that she was speaking.

‘Theodora,’ he said, ‘I love you.’ And then an amazing thing happened. As he said the words ‘I love you’ he realized that in a way they were true. The discovery shocked and troubled him. He felt dread, and with it an accentuation of the desire to possess her. Some remote, reasonable being in himself stood off and weighed that desire, and found it more driving than any sexual hunger. The idyllic character of the day was gone, lost in the sudden serious turn of Mr. Spitzenberg’s emotions.

The girl drew a deep breath, as though the declaration embarrassed her beyond words. She gazed intently at a spot about an inch above his head, speaking quickly: —

‘Mr. Spitzenberg, maybe you misunderstood when I let you take me out lately, but you know you made me go with you.’

Made her? What did she mean? He felt impatient at the delay she put in his way. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Mr. Spitzenberg,’ she said then, ‘I don’t like to say this after you said what you did just now, but my job—’ Her words petered off, pleading for understanding.

The meaning of what she was saying hit him like a slap in the face. Her job! Couldn’t she think of anything else? ‘Theodora,’ he said, ‘you were never under any obligation to go out with me.

I only wanted to give you pleasure.’ There were tears of earnestness in his eyes. He believed himself implicitly. Some of his faith must have communicated itself to the girl, for she spoke up kindly.

‘Mr. Spitzenberg,’ she began, ‘maybe you were just trying to give me pleasure, but I never asked for that. I thought you could tell from the way I acted that I didn’t like the idea.’ She stopped, then went on. ‘Let’s just forget the whole thing. I have to stop work anyhow . . .’ There was hidden aversion in her voice, along with an unwillingness to go on.

Mr. Spitzenberg smiled. ‘Theodora,’ he said, ‘you don’t think I’m making you an improper proposal, do you?’ He quoted the two words delicately.

‘ All I know is that you have been very kind to me, and that I’ll have to stop work now.’ The girl spoke levelly, with some warning in her tone. Mr. Spitzenberg ignored it and took up the conversation before she could say more.

‘ Couldn’t you guess why I was kind to you?’ His temples throbbed. She was being very childish. Why did she always fight him?

‘Mr. Spitzenberg—’

‘Theodora,’ he could bear interruption no longer, ‘I want to marry you. Will you?’

Now he had said it. His head throbbed less heavily. Would she? She must! Why did the thing have to be so difficult ? It was almost as though she held a kind of grudge against him. What was she waiting for?

When she spoke it was in a curious way, surprisingly soft. She seemed to be repressing herself.

‘You don’t know anything about me. It’s silly to talk about marrying me!’

Mr. Spitzenberg seized on her words. ‘Silly? I don’t think so. And as for not knowing you — you haven’t given me a chance to know you as well as I would have liked to, but I know you well enough to know I love you.’ He sighed painfully, and changed his attack, feeling ridiculous and put upon.

‘Do you love someone else?’ he asked. And again that miraculous thing. As he asked the question, he became aware of how the answer would transport or annihilate him. A dangerous question. How beautiful, oh, how beautiful she is! he thought. I would kill to possess her face.

‘What about your wife?’ she countered, seeming to have forgotten her intention to leave him.

‘Lucy and I understand each other,’ he heard himself say.

‘ Then why do you want to marry me? ‘ There was ironical emphasis on the word ‘me’ which snapped him back to the situation at hand, and filled him with irritation. He wanted so much to be finished with this business, happy, and making her happy. Was the girl trying to be clever with him? So she wants to know why she is in such good luck, he thought. Tell her, tell her the reason, tell her why she is in such good fortune.

‘Why I want to marry you? I’ll tell you.’ The girl leaned forward in a listening attitude as if she had been waiting for this. Mr. Spitzenberg experienced an uneasiness that was very like a ridiculous, groundless fear.

‘Because you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Because of your beautiful face.’ He looked directly into her eyes. Did the pupils widen? Her voice, when she spoke, was hardly audible. It was encouraging him to say more.

‘Do you think that is a good reason?’ it asked. A lover would have spoken so, or a mountain climber suspended over a precipice. Mr. Spitzenberg continued faster than he had intended to.

‘I want you,’ he said, and in the moment his desire became unendurable. ‘I want you terribly.’ He hurried on, ‘I want to touch your face, stroke your hair, feel the bones of your magnificent head. I want to see you opposite me at dinner, hear you walk through the house, bring you lovely things and watch you smile—’ He broke off, knowing himself exposed. Then he finished weakly, ‘I only want to make you happy, don’t you see that? That’s all I want.’

Their taxi had completed its circle of the park. They were nearing the Plaza again. ‘Will you marry me, Theodora?’ He wondered what was keeping back her answer, why she was delaying. She was so very silent. And then she was speaking, but in a hoarse charged voice: —

‘When this ride is over I am going home. I will send you the clothes I have on, and please will you send me my own clothes and my wages to date.’ She pushed a gloved hand against her mouth, hard. Why, she is crying, Mr. Spitzenberg thought. She was sobbing dreadfully, the sobs stopping at the suede-covered fist. He tried to touch her, but she drew away from him with a movement that could only have been motivated by loathing.

‘Theodora,’ he whispered, baffled and distressed, ‘Theodora, what have I done? Did I ever treat you badly? Wasn’t I always kind to you?’

‘I didn’t ask you to bother with me!’ Muffled the words, hysterical the sobbing.

‘But what do you mean? Did I ever hurt you?’

‘You always hurt me, you couldn’t help it — you hurt me just by looking at me! ‘

‘Theodora,’ Mr. Spitzenberg tried to sound reasonable, but he was shaken, ‘you have got to explain what you mean — I can’t imagine what grievance you could have.’

‘Grievance?’ There was a shadow of wild laughter in the word. ‘Grievance? No, I don’t have any grievance. You can’t help the way you are! ‘

Mr. Spitzenberg felt the situation become nightmarish. They were going in circles that would never end. He tried to bring reason into the thing.

‘Theodora,’ he said, ‘if I was ever unkind to you —’

‘Unkind! Unkind!’ Anger replaced hysteria. ‘You have no right to be kind or unkind to me! Your very existence is a torture to me! Why couldn’t you leave me alone?’

‘A torture?’

‘Your ideas! I could hardly stand working for you after I found out your horrible ideas, and then when you forced me to go out with you—’ A new wave of sobbing broke over the girl, and for a minute she put her head in her hands and frankly fought for control.

Mr. Spitzenberg wondered what ideas she meant. How strangely the lower classes react, he forced himself to think. But there was a pain in his diaphragm as though someone were twisting the pink lining of his body like a wet rag. The best thing to do, he decided through the pain, was to wait until she exhausted herself, and then ask her again. He noticed that the crying did not make her ugly. Now she had control of herself, except for an occasional shudder.

‘Mr. Spitzenberg,’ she said, ‘you have made a big mistake. You should not have made me stay out Christmas Eve — you shouldn’t have taken me all those places with you. It was wrong even to think about me.’

‘But why, Theodora, why?’

‘Because I couldn’t bear it!’

‘Theodora,’ he began, ‘I want you to marry me — ‘

‘Can’t you leave me alone?’ Hate and anger struggled for supremacy.

‘But why —’

‘Mr. Spitzenberg, I don’t want to marry you. But even if you hadn’t said what you did today, I’d still be leaving. Will you let it go at that?’

Mr. Spitzenberg made sure he was quite calm before he asked, ‘Why?’ He knew there was something dangerous here, something he would not like, but his curiosity had to be satisfied. He must know!

A brutal look came over the girl’s face, or perhaps it was only the effort she was making to answer him. Anyway, when she spoke it was from a quiet distance, although she looked him hard in the face.

‘I am going to have a child,’ she said.

A child! But how? . . . She had seemed so perfect, so alone, so untouchable. . . . He looked at her, trying to find out the secret of her body, of her mind that was unknown to him. . . .

‘Don’t say anything!’ she murmured in a kind of agony. ‘Don’t say anything. I know how you feel about those things. But you made it impossible to tell you I was leaving in any other way.’

He felt unable, through a dull nausea that had taken hold of him, to question her about the biological details. But how. . . .

The girl told the driver to stop. There was an impersonal force about her, although she also gave the impression of being ready to run away. Was it with malice that she answered his unspoken question?

‘I was pregnant when I came to work for you,’ she used the word cruelly, ‘ but I didn’t know it. We — my husband and I separated. I had to get a job. That’s all.’

She stepped out of the taxi, adding somewhat bitterly, ‘ Except that I wrote him a letter, and thought he might come back to me at Christmas. Good-bye, Mr. Spitzenberg,’ she said.

He could not answer her.

He watched her walk away from him, across the square in the direction of the subway, alone. Did he detect. . . .

Streams of lunching humanity erased her passage.

A strange oppression settled at the base of his skull. His head felt heavy.

Mr. Spitzenberg hailed a taxi and managed to give his address.

Opening the door of his house, Mr. Spitzenberg could not order his thoughts. He wandered from room to room, touching a brocaded chair, a bit of sculpture, running a thumb over the surface of a painting. Reassurance. He needed reassurance. The eternal truth of beauty, he must find it again. He drew his collection of goldwork from its cabinet. The snuffboxes, cigarette cases, rings, watches, looked at him coldly, malignantly. He touched them and withdrew his hand quickly. They were so cold they almost burned him. He felt for the first time the smiths in them, the fires, the beat of hammers. He saw the half-blind craftsmen in their filthy aprons, the young boys bent over since childhood from learning their trade. He fingered his stones, his unset beauties, but hastily thrust them away. From them came the moaning chant of miners as they sang for company in the unchanging dark, their screams as the mine caved in.

He mounted the stairway to the white room at the top of the house. There, wreathed in ivy, and very picturesque, squatted a little Cretan goddess of stone. The squinting eyes looked at him balefully, directly. Blood was in the air around her; Mr. Spitzenberg was suddenly afraid to disturb the ivy at her base. It was certain to cover the steaming entrails of live things.

He ran out of the room and down the stairs, calming his gait to a walk as he stepped out into the patio. His wife was waiting for him with a glass of wine in her hand, pretending not to be cold. She raised her head inquiringly. Was there something out of the ordinary about him? He averted his face. As he did so his eye was caught by an early butterfly struggling out of its cocoon. Its wings were damp and lustrous, and the veins stood out clearly. It was a blue-green color, the color he had always associated with Theodora. Beautiful. He felt the tightness at the back of his neck loosen. But then he thought of the eggs it would lay, of the worm it had been, and he was struck once more with the existence of a mysterious, bestial force creating and feeding on all beauty.

His wife was speaking, smiling that unimpressed smile of hers that he now found strangely comforting.

‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about?’

‘Oh — nothing in particular. I was only thinking how dull spring is this year. Would you like to go south for a while?’