Part 35 (1/2)

”I have no genius,” he said one day to Gloria, when she had been admiring something he had written, and using the extravagant terms of praise which rose easily to her lips. ”Your husband has genius, but I have none. Some day I shall astonish you all by doing something very remarkable. But it will not be a work of genius.”

It was in the late autumn days, more than a year and a half after Gloria's marriage. The southeast wind was blowing down the Corso, and the pavements were yellow and sticky with the moistened sand-blast from the African desert. The grains of sand are really found in the air at such times. It is said that the undoubted effect of the sirocco on the temper of Southern Italy is due to the irritation caused by inhaling the fine particles with the breath. Something there is in that especial wind, which changes the tempers of men and women very suddenly and strangely.

Gloria and her companion were seated in the drawing-room that afternoon, and the window was open. The wind stirred the white curtains, and now and then blew them inward and twisted them round the inner ones, which were of a dark grey stuff with broad brown velvet bands, in a fas.h.i.+on then new. Gloria had been singing, and sat leaning sideways on the desk of the grand piano. A tall red Bohemian gla.s.s stood beside the music on one of the little sliding shelves meant for the candles, and there were a few flowers in it, fresh an hour ago, but now already half withered and drooping under the poisonous breath of the southeast. The warm damp breeze came in gusts, and stirred the fading leaves and Gloria's auburn hair, and the sheet of music upright on the desk. Griggs sat in a low chair not far from her, his still face turned towards her, his shadowy eyes fixed on her features, his sinewy hands clasped round his crossed knees. The nature of the great athlete showed itself even in repose--the broad dark throat set deep in the chest, the square solidity of the shoulders, the great curved lines along the straightened arms, the small, compact head, with its close, dark hair, bent somewhat forward in the general relaxation of the resting muscles. In his complete immobility there was the certainty of instant leaping and flash-like motion which one feels rather than sees in the sleeping lion.

Gloria looked at him thoughtfully with half-closed lids.

”I shall surprise you all,” he repeated slowly, ”but it will not be genius.”

”You will not surprise me,” Gloria answered, still meeting his eyes. ”As for genius, what is it?”

”It is what you have when you sing,” said Griggs. ”It is what Reanda has when he paints.”

”Then why not what you do when you write?”

”The difference is simple enough. Reanda does things well because he cannot help it. When I do a thing well it is because I work so hard at it that the thing cannot help being done by me. Do you understand?”

”I always understand what you tell me. You put things so clearly. Yes, I think I understand you better than you understand yourself.”

Griggs looked down at his hands and was silent for a moment.

Mechanically he moved his thumb from side to side and watched the knot of muscle between it and the forefinger, as it swelled and disappeared with each contraction.

”Perhaps you do understand me. Perhaps you do,” he said at last. ”I have known you a long time. It must be four years, at least--ever since I first came here to work. It has been a long piece of life.”

”Indeed it has,” Gloria answered, and a moment later she sighed.

The wind blew the sheet of music against her. She folded it impatiently, threw it aside and resumed her position, resting one elbow on the narrow desk. The silence lasted several seconds, and the white curtains flapped softly against the heavy ones.

”I wonder whether you understand my life at all,” she said presently.

”I am not sure that I do. It is a strange life, in some ways--like yourself.”

”Am I strange?”

”Very.”

”What makes you think so?”

Again he was silent for a time. His face was very still. It would have been impossible to guess from it that he felt any emotion at the moment.

”Do you like compliments?” he asked abruptly.

”That depends upon whether I consider them compliments or not,” she answered, with a little laugh.

”You are a very perfect woman in very imperfect surroundings,” said Griggs.

”That is not a compliment to the surroundings, at all events. I do not know whether to laugh or not. Shall I?”

”If you will. I like to hear you laugh.”

”You should hear me cry!” And she laughed again at herself.