New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1922-09-17


glow of opalescent lamps Laura
Larmy was reciting her own verses. She wore
a sulphur-colored tunic and her whole aspect
was sculptural, ardent and grave. Her black
hair fell loosely over her beautiful shoulders,
and her white arms marked with statuesque
gestures the harmones of her phrases. Twenty
guests listened attentively Smoke rose lazils
from big incense burner.
At the other end of the salon NJ. Larmy
stood against the door, for there were no more
chairs. He watched his wife. He suffered.
But on his face there was fixed expression
of admiration, in part real, in part a conces-
sion to convention. He was thinking:
"She is terrible. Even if she has talent, why
does she do this? She recites too often. She
makes herself ridiculous. Every Tuesday eve
ning-there is no sense in thatl Besides, there
are some who come also Sunday afternoons,
They pretend to admire her. 1t is a joke. They
come because they, too, have things to read or
recite. The little man who wears monocle
will read q chapter of his novel. The dark one
with long hair will declaim scenes from his
play. The Scandinavian lady will give US some
of her medtations and the new one, that tall
blond fellow sitting in the front row, will
surely do something. But they will not be
allowed within the screened space. They must
stay where they are. 1t belongs to Laura. 1t
is her particular stage setting.
"She keeps on. She is indefatigable. They
are making fun Of her, l am sure. 1t is too
long. Her poem is Biblical. This year she
writes Biblical poems--one week. Last year
they were poems of the Middle Ages The
year before-I can't remember.
"And my life-my poor daily lfe-what is
left of it in all this? At half-past eight in
the morning hurry off to business without
waking Laura up. At noon-the breakfast
hour-she is never dressed, and l rarely see
her. In the evening either l must accompany
her to places where l am bored to death, or
she shuts herself up to work until or a. M,
or she receives like this. And the last is
the worst. And it costs money! She no
longer occupies herself with anything. The
servants do as they please And then the
toilettes and the publication Of her books! l
haven't money enough for it all.
For myself-never pleasure never dis
traction, never good evening in q lively little
theater party with friends! Friends-I have
mono any more. Laura has chased them all
away. She tolerates only her own friends.
don't count any longer. But can remember
how nice she was in the first years after our
marriage, when she called herself Laure and
took an interest in my tastes, my business and
my factory, and didn't write verses-at least,
not many, just enough to make me proud of
her. 1t Is true that when she began to publish
them under the signature of Laura Larmy |
was really proud. What an idiot l was then!
If 1 had known what was coming-that she
would think of nothing but that, that she would
let the house run itself, that would no longer
have wife! She hadn't a right to marry if
she wished, she tells me now, to devote her
self entirely to her art"
He interrupted the bitter flow Of his
thoughts to light fresh incense stick-which
was duty assigned to him. At this moment
his eyes met those of person seated not far
from him, in the last row of chairs. It was
Pauline, cousin of Laura's. The latter al
ways enticed some members of her family to
fill in on Tuesday evenings M. Larmy had
never paid the slightest attention to this in
significant cousin, of whom he knew only that
she about twenty-seven years old and
earned her living as government clerk But
he thought he read in her look not only
boredom equal to his own but also lively
compassion for him. In his distress he was
genuinely touched.
"She is sorry for me-" he said to himself
''Shs is as dead tired Of it as I am, and she
comes only so as not to displease Laura. And
tomorrow morning, like me, she will have to
get up early and go to work, after having
listened to this rubbish half the night
He reflected little.
That's the sort of wife I should have mar
ried. An insignificant woman, dull, inof-
fensive, accustomed to the daily cares of life