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Chris Marquardt is a photographic mythbuster and the host of Tips
from the Top Floor, the world’s longest-running photography show.
His photography podcasts have won multiple international awards.
He has taught photography all over the planet, including Europe,
Africa, North America, and Asia. He has often accompanied
photographers to the world’s highest photography workshop at the
Mt. Everest base camp. Marquardt is a regular on Leo Laporte’s Tech
Guy radio show, which is syndicated across the United States and
reaches an audience of millions.

Monika Andrae is an award-winning online specialist. She is also on a

mission: to make the increasingly technical photography world a
little more creative. Andrae’s podcast, Monis Motivklingel, has a large
number of followers and her blog is a thrilling mix of everyday and
creative topics. Together with Chris Marquardt, she co-hosts the
Absolut Analog film photography workshops.
Chris Marquardt
Monika Andrae

The Film Photography

Handbook
3rd Edition
Rediscovering Photography in 35mm, Medium, and
Large Format
The Film Photography Handbook, 3rd Edition:
Rediscovering Photography in 35mm, Medium, and Large Format
Chris Marquardt, Monika Andrae

Editor: Maggie Yates

Project Manager: Lisa Brazieal
Marketing Coordinator: Katie Walker
Translation: Almut Dworak and Jeremy Cloot
Layout and type: WolfsonDesign
Cover design: Helmut Kraus, www.exclam.de
Graphics: Peter Marquardt

ISBN: 978-1-68198-941-9

3rd Edition (1st printing, January 2023)

© 2023 Chris Marquardt and Monika Andrae
All images © Chris Marquardt and Monika Andrae, unless otherwise noted

Copyright © 2022 by dpunkt.verlag GmbH, Heidelberg, Germany.

Title of the German original: Absolut analog, 3., erweiterte und aktualisierte Auflage
ISBN 978-3-86490-917-7
Translation Copyright © (2023) by Rocky Nook. All rights reserved.

Rocky Nook, Inc.

1010 B Street, Suite 350
San Rafael, CA 94901
USA

www.rockynook.com

Distributed in the UK and Europe by Publishers Group UK

Distributed in the U.S. and all other territories by Ingram Publisher Services

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022941891

All rights reserved. No part of the material protected by this copyright notice may be
reproduced or utilized in any form, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written
permission of the publisher.
Many of the designations in this book used by manufacturers and sellers to
distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks of their respective companies.
Where those designations appear in this book, and Rocky Nook was aware of a
trademark claim, the designations have been printed in caps or initial caps. All product
names and services identified throughout this book are used in editorial fashion only
and for the benefit of such companies with no intention of infringement of the
trademark. They are not intended to convey endorsement or other affiliation with this
book.
While reasonable care has been exercised in the preparation of this book, the
publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages
resulting from the use of the information contained herein or from the use of the discs
or programs that may accompany it.

Printed in China
Table of Contents

1 Why Film Photography?

1.1 Enjoying the Process
1.2 Too Many Options Make You Unhappy

2 Analog or Digital?
2.1 Film Grain
2.2 Arrangement
2.3 Sharpness
2.4 Area
2.5 Contrast Range
2.6 Angle of Light
2.7 The Bayer Pattern
2.8 Banding
2.9 White Balance vs. Film Type
2.10 Further Processing

3 Cameras and Film Formats

3.1 35mm
3.1.1 The Film
3.1.2 Rangefinder
3.1.3 Single-Lens Reflex Camera
3.2 Medium Format: 6×6," 6×7," and 6×9"
3.2.1 Film Types
3.2.2 Image Formats
3.2.3 Camera Types
3.3 Large Format: 4×5"
3.3.1 Large Format Cameras
3.3.2 Film and Film Holders
 3.3.3 Camera Movement
3.4 Tips on Buying a Camera
3.4.1 Light Seals
3.4.2 Shutters
3.4.3 Lenses

4 Exposure
4.1 Stops
4.2 F-Numbers
4.3 Light Metering
4.3.1 Reflective Metering
4.3.2 Incident Metering
4.4 Without Light Meter
4.4.1 Sunny 16
4.4.2 Looney 11
4.5 With Light Meter
4.5.1 Handheld Light Meter
4.5.2 Smartphone
4.5.3 Gray Card
4.5.4 Professional Light Meter
4.6 Light Metering with the Zone System

5 Film
5.1 Black-and-White Film
5.1.1 From Color to Black-and-White
5.1.2 Orthochromatic Film
5.1.3 Panchromatic Film
5.1.4 Infrared (IR) Film
5.1.5 Film with Aura Effect
5.1.6 Color Filters
5.2 Color Film
5.2.1 Color Negative Film
5.2.2 Slide Film
5.2.3 Other Types of Film
5.2.4 Who Makes These “Special” Films?
5.3 Instant Film
5.4 ISO—The Film Speed

6 In the Laboratory
 6.1 Industrial Laboratory
6.2 Professional Laboratory
6.3 Processing Yourself: Black-and-White
6.3.1 Overview: Negative Processing
6.3.2 Chemicals
6.3.3 Hardware
6.3.4 General Procedure for Film Processing
6.3.5 Dust
6.3.6 Troubleshooting
6.3.7 Digital Helpers
6.3.8 Community
6.3.9 Push and Pull
6.4 Processing Yourself: Color
6.4.1 The Typical C-41 Negative Kit
6.4.2 Temperatures
6.4.3 Step-by-Step C-41 Developing
6.4.4 Step-by-Step E-6 Developing
6.4.5 Useful Accessories

7 Post-Processing
7.1 Traditional
7.1.1 The Enlargement—General Principle
7.1.2 Equipment for a Black-and-White Laboratory
7.1.3 The Right Paper
7.1.4 Grades
7.1.5 The Contact Print
7.2 Hybrid Analog/Digital
7.2.1 Scanner Types
7.2.2 Scanner Parameters
7.2.3 Scanning Software
7.2.4 Scanner Profiling
7.2.5 Accessories
7.2.6 The Scanning Process
7.2.7 Scanning Without a Scanner
7.3 Digital Printing
7.3.1 Having Photos Printed: By a Discounter
7.3.2 Having Photos Printed: At a Professional Lab
7.3.3 Printing Photos Yourself
7.3.4 High-End Inkjet Prints
7.3.5 Profiling
7.3.6 Printing Workflow
 7.4 Historical Processes
7.4.1 Cyanotype
7.4.2 Albumen Print

8 Presentation
8.1 Mats
8.1.1 It’s All About the Right Size
8.2 Frames
8.3 Mounting Techniques
8.3.1 Matting
8.3.2 Mounting

9 Storage and Archiving

9.1 General Considerations
9.2 Storing Negatives
9.3 Prints
9.4 A Tidy House, A Tidy Mind

10 Fun with “Planned Accidents”

10.1 Cameras and Optics
10.1.1 The Box Camera
10.1.2 Diana, Holga, and Other Toy Cameras
10.1.3 The Pinhole Camera
10.1.4 The Subjektiv
10.1.5 Zone Plate
10.1.6 Lensbaby
10.2 Expired Film
10.2.1 Experimenting Is Fun
10.2.2 Film Speed and Light Conditions
10.2.3 The Special Joys of Cross Processing
10.2.4 A Residual Risk Always Remains
10.2.5 Treated Film
10.3 Double and Multiple Exposure

Appendix
A.1 Film, Chemicals, Accessories
A.2 Apps
A.3 Commercial Film Holders
A.4 Other
A.5 Further Reading
Welcome to The Film Photography
Handbook, 3rd Edition!
In terms of photography, we are “analog natives.” Our teachers were
single-lens reflex film cameras. As digital photography began its
triumphant conquest, we did what many others did: We stashed the
analog film photography treasures in the cupboard and spent the
next few years diving deep into the digital world. As hybrid beings,
we are happy with the transition to digital, but still think back to
consider our origins with film.
The Film Photography Handbook was born from our rediscovered
passion for film photography. If you suspect our efforts are driven by
nostalgia, you are only partially right; our motivation is more about
greater closeness to the subject matter and the excitement of
digging deeper into a different medium. The skills you’ll learn for film
photography will open new doors in many areas of the world of
digital photography, as well. As an added bonus, working with the
limitations of analog photography has shown us new, creative
opportunities for shots that we hadn’t thought about for years.

Podcasts
We produce various podcasts about photography, some in English
and some in German. These cover topics ranging from film
photography to visual creativity to an in-depth look at emerging
technologies and trends. Our podcasts are all free-of-charge, and
you can find them by typing our names, Chris Marquardt or Monika
Andrae, in your podcast client’s search box (or wherever you get
your other podcasts). We are always thrilled to welcome new
listeners.
Preface
Film photography is one of those art forms where an enormous
multitude of different opinions, experiences, and beliefs thrive.
Particularly in the age of blogs, social networks, and a huge number
of online communities on this topic, it’s unavoidable that some of
these differing opinions will clash. Finding common ground is not
always easy—in the digital world, we are working with discrete
numbers and defined states. But in the analog realm, we generally
tend to talk about continuous and fluid boundaries between states.
This offers an ideal feeding ground for voodoo and self-styled
shamans of all colors.
Correspondingly, along with the accurate knowledge and helpful
information out there, you will also find a lot of half-knowledge or—
even worse—pure nonsense. We have taken great care to avoid all
the nonsense here. Our book is completely rooted in the knowledge
we’ve gained through our years of experience. We don’t claim to
have all the answers to all the questions. But we are always curious
to learn more, and we constantly ask “Why?” We give reasons and
background knowledge about the topics in this book, and in those
areas where this book cannot offer enough room for digging more
deeply, we offer sources that can provide more information.

Does Film Still Exist?

Let’s answer the big question right away, the one that we as film
photographers hear the most: “Is film still around at all?”
The answer is a very loud Yes!
Yes, film is still around

Sure, film has already seen its heyday. Around three billion films
were sold in 1999 and 2000—more than ever before. Around 200
million of these were sold in Germany. Some markets followed
slightly behind, with film sales in China and the USA reaching their
peak in 2003. We will surely never see film reaching such popularity
again, but there is a growing number of people who are
(re)discovering this traditional medium and appreciate working with
it.
News flashes about the decline of Kodak or popular film brands
such as Kodachrome going out of production stick in our memories
because the news media made a big story of it. You don’t see film
on supermarket shelves, any more. Most drugstores still carry a
small selection of film cartridges, and they increasingly stock Fujifilm
Instax instant picture film. Many drugstores and other specialized
stores also offer color film, slide film, and black-and-white film
development, as well as high-quality prints on genuine silver halide
paper. But the boxes for the paper pouches with the developed film
have shrunk, and have often been replaced by printing machines
with memory card readers. The digital camera has definitely taken
over; film has retreated into a smaller niche.
But in that niche, it’s alive and kicking.
The advancement of digital technology has not made life easy for
film enthusiasts. But more than just the big names, such as Kodak,
Fuji, and Ilford, continue to produce film. Some smaller companies
are also still on the market. Even an old traditional film company, the
Italian Ferrania, managed to get a revival through a crowdfunding
campaign in 2014.
The German film manufacturer ADOX is currently enjoying a
renaissance. It is one of the oldest film manufacturers in the world
but has managed to transform itself into a modern, innovative
company. It manufactures photographic film, paper, and chemicals in
two factories in Switzerland (now taken over by Ilford Imaging) and
has even built a new factory in Bad Saarow, Germany. In addition its
own line of products, ADOX also continues to manufacture a line of
Agfa black-and-white photo products.
Today, film is mostly traded on the Internet. Various online
retailers offer everything you need for ambitious analog photography
—from film and photo chemicals to equipment for photo labs and
darkrooms.
Many directors still use film for shooting movies. In February
2015, Kodak announced new contracts with some large Hollywood
studios, which should ensure the production of material for analog
movies for many years.
We shoot both analog and digital these days, and one thing we
want to avoid in this book is to split the photography world into
these two camps. Both methods have advantages and
disadvantages, and they are both an integral part of our
photographic life. Ultimately, this book is all about photography—
regardless of which medium it involves. It’s about the creative
process, about creating pictures that the viewer takes another look
at instead of just turning the page. The process with which the
pictures in this book are created is important to us for many reasons.
Mainly, we want to be advocates for film photography. In this book,
you’ll read about our reasoning, our inspiration, and about the
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 In the fall, Constance Bardale telephoned to him.
“I am back. When can you come to see me?”
It was always hard for David to meet a sudden situation on the wire. He
needed a face and a warm smile to talk to. He was afraid he had been dull in
greeting Constance. For so long a time he had not thought of her at all!
“Then, I’ll expect you Saturday to tea.”
She had not suggested an evening. The choice of the formal hour meant
nothing to David.
“I must make her know—somehow I must make her know I can’t go
on.”
David said this to himself, going to see her. He did not recall that he had
failed to write since the apparition of the little girl in the car. The poignancy
of that vision was faded. But it had left its mark. In its loveliness it had
blighted certain ugly things in his heart: disappeared. The condition whence
sprang the ugly things was still in David. He was not cured. He was merely
bitterly aware that he was not well.
Constance Bardale appeared different. Her new Paris gown was strange
and stiff and be did not like it. She was far away within it. Even her voice
had the apartness of alien adventures.
She took his hand swiftly and manoeuvered him into a chair.
“It is good to find you so flourishing. What do you get out of New York
air to make you flower so! I thought of you particularly in a little Normandy
town where we stopped with friends. A Napoleonic Baron—very plebeian
that, for France. There was a gardener—of the château—who had the one
true aristocracy. A big brusk fellow. How he adored his flowers and his
vegetables! He reminded me of the way you are sometimes.”
David thought how hard it was going to be to break the news of his
resolve to Constance. It dawned on him now that it might be unnecessary.
Of a sudden, “She has decided for me!” he announced, amazed, to himself.
He looked at her. Once more she meant discovery. For months, now, she
had been far from his senses, but his mind had thought her close. Now his
mind knew her far away, and his senses clamored.
They were at a point far anterior to their first warm meeting. No hint of
intimacy: no hint that it had ever been: no credible sign that it could ever
be. She talked fluently, her words and gestures took on for David the nature
of a sinuous veil, a blank blue of smiling nugatories behind which the
woman he had known retreated.
Apart from her now as he had never been, he wanted the warmth of her
nearness. His resolution to break off was a dim thing. He could not
understand it. He sat there and had forgotten it. This helped not at all. Her
way with him was beyond the mutability of a resolve. It seemed a natural
condition.
It was as if she had looked on him never closer before. She was a lady
with all the aloofness of her sex: not one to let him fling off her clothes, let
him lie beside her. The hope was monstrous of what once, without hope,
had been fact. It was over....
In his chagrin he could not find the comfort even of supposing that she
had sensed his decision and simply gone before him. He could not lave his
hurt in the thought that his long silence, with her in Europe, was perhaps an
introduction she had understood to her own course. He was like a child: so
aware of his own grievance, and of the sanctity of his mood, he had no
knowledge of hers. Like a child he came away, routed, fascinated, fingering
over and nursing his several hurts.
But, looking back, what humiliated David most was not these bruises to
his pride—was rather the dispatch with which he had recovered from them.
Neither the revelation of the little girl had held him, nor the shaming lesson
at the hands of Constance: neither inspiration nor defeat. He had a slow
pervading sense of his unchastened nature....
He dined with Caroline Lord. No rare occurrence; but this time
Constance was no more, and for the first time Miss Lord said:
“Let’s try to amuse ourselves for a change. What do you say? Don’t you
think it’s a confession of no resources to be always going to the theaters?
You have never been to my apartment. Come and see me, to-night.”
They walked up a residential avenue east of Central Park, where the cars
swerved swift and remote between sedate, slow houses. They climbed a
high brownstone stoop. They passed through a corridor echoing faintly with
their steps.
She lighted a table lamp. Color spread out from the emerald-silk shade
above a tidy stack of magazines, showed the room close and impeccably
neat. Each chair was in its place. The broad couch with its upstanding
cushions was smoothed of wrinkles. Gray curtains stood discreetly before
tall windows.
It was a cool room, methodically pitched. David found himself not
terrified by its neatness. Miss Lord seemed to be glad when he sank down
on the couch and rumpled it. He let his head lean against a steel-engraving
on the wall. They both laughed. A new Miss Lord.
She was letting David talk. She was silent, so the “moral tone” was
silent. Her body spoke and after all it was a lovely body.
David chatted. He was out of himself. His words came frictionless. His
words slowed down. He was aware of the stimulus that had taken him out
of himself, that had made him chatter.... Caroline. Lord. He saw her. Hands
rested in her lap: white strong hands in a wide strong lap. A body
luxuriantly full: it was strong. A wave of light from the lamp touched her
hair, made it a glow in the room.... She had without words a maternal
comeliness: she looked down, while he spoke, at her hands with a girlish
reserve.... David got up and kissed her.
She flushed and did not respond. He kissed her several times.
He was up to leave, she stood close under him. She was warm. A certain
discomfort kneaded her firm body, cloying it. She took his hand, looked
down at it, she looked up to his face, not quite meeting his eyes. She
squeezed his hand and pressed it against her waist. She said:
“You can’t really care for me, David?”
So David knew he did not really care. But she had one charm: the joy
there was in bringing a timid flush upon so strong a body.
He came frequently. He delighted to kiss her. Caroline Lord loved to be
kissed.
She had not planned this. She had in a deep way planned nothing in her
life. But she had the gift, as each new fact dawned on the rim of her world,
to be convinced that she had ordered it. Since David was there,—the
nephew of Mr. Deane—and since her senses loved his kissing her, she
planned a marriage.
The unfortunate circumstance was this: by the time she had hatched her
plans and cleared the way in her mind, she had already tasted the delight of
being kissed by David. And this was unfortunate because she felt as part of
her campaign toward marriage the need of circumspection in such advances
as kisses.
David noticed no change at first. Miss Lord feared to go too fast. She
had a sickening sense that she might lose all in her effort to gain all. She
found herself shamefully willing to temporize, and to enjoy the evils of the
day.
But as he held her in his arms, her little shifts began.
She said to him: “David, you do care for me?”
“David, if I felt that you could misunderstand why I let you kiss me, oh,
David,—it would kill me.”
 “David, what is going to become of us? I feel that we must be doing
wrong.”
David began to feel how she was indeed asking him a question. She was
expecting something of him. He must give her an answer.
He said to himself: “She wants me to propose to her. Oh, I am sorry!”
His passion was gone.
He was too kind abruptly to stop his visits. It would have been the
kindest thing to do. But David was not egoist enough to know it. He came
less often, and left her alone. He tried to talk to her. He realized how little
talk there had been in the happy visits: how fully those evenings of delight
had been evenings of kisses. The talk wearied him: the “moral tone” was
pervasive and obtrusive.
“Give! Give yourself!” her blood cried against her temples.
Had she given, she might have won at least a part of him. David was in
no state to resist self-bestowal. Unknown to himself, he was wandering
through life, seeking the life that would exchange with his. Nowhere had he
found it; without vision of that he would be ever tantalizingly remote from
capture.
He was swollen in her senses, now that he held himself stiffly away in
his chair and listened to her words. Her power to take-in flooded her body
and mellowed it, left dim her eyes whereby to see him. She saw his sweet
heaviness beneath the drab of his suit. She had a sense of her fingers
running through his hair, of being drunk with him. And it was possible! The
room was quiet and suppliant. The lamp was dim for such secrecies. She
fought against herself, and passion ran through her, melting her, drenching
her, like tears.
But she was a lady. She had not reached thirty years to be seduced by a
boy who would not marry....
His visits filtered away: ceased. Again he invited her to an occasional
lunch. In his heart, from it all, there remained chiefly self-rebuke. He had
not been a gentleman. He had kissed her with casual flippancy: she had not
understood. Why, he wondered, was he so superficial in his way with
women? Why was their hold on him so slight? This was not love. Tom must
be right, and love did not exist. Friendship was the deeper, lovelier
passion.... At times, he recalled the little girl in the car or his mother....
 An added year upon the emptiness of David.
He had a dream. He was in a pit—or was it a well? He groped round and
round its circular bottom. He looked up. Far beyond his eyes was a dimness
he knew was Light. It hurt him to look up. It made him dizzy. It made him
tremble. He groped round and round.... Then, he stopped. Quite still. The
bottom of the pit swung up and struck against his eyes. Tom lashed him
from behind with a whip. “Go ahead!” Tom muttered. David faced about.
The well began to swing maddingly around with shattering strokes like a
vast piston. The bottom where he groped swerved up, went up, high, high.
He had the sense of a terrific altitude. The well was upside down. He was
tumbling, rushing down the well. Beneath him, infinitely far, he saw the
dimness he knew was Light....
David awoke: horror crept over all his flesh. He clutched his bed. He lay
there stabbed by every mutter of the night.
It was long before his mind that was cowering far in a corner of the room
came back to him, sat with him, took away his fears: before the stirrings of
the dark silence ceased to be a shatter and shriek in his nerves.
It was long before he forgot the dream. He made no effort to remember
it. A dream was a bit of nonsense. Nonsense also that its mere coming to his
mind brought back the streaking of darkness into veins of horror....
It was not long before he put to himself for the first time a question:
What was killing the friendship between Tom and himself? For an
uncharted time, he had been in fever, in trance; he had not looked at all.
Now, seeing with sudden eyes, he saw their friendship and how it had
changed, and how a blight was on it.
Always there had been flurries of irritation; swift misgivings; shadows.
How much else there had been! Warm communion: the sweet living in
Tom’s strength and in the knowledge of his caring: the sheer delight of
watching his clear mind cut through the mists of life, like a bird soar and
sing over his head. Where now these delights?... It came to David how, for a
long time already, they had not been....
Tom came home without taking his dinner. He was not hungry: also he
knew that David would be out. He sat motionless in his favorite straight-
back chair and took the storm of his senses with heroic grimness.
 In such an hour, David’s absence moved him obliquely. He was glad of
his solitude in their room: fearful of the tread in the hall that must break it.
And yet, he was listening, yearning,—suddenly possessed of the sense of
something missing, and that thing vital, and that thing David. He caught
himself back, in an eternal question: “If he were here, what would you say
to each other?”
This raging schism there was in all his thoughts: he yearned to hold
David, and he yearned to be rid of him. Two monsters, these desires,
feeding upon each other, feeding upon him. He helpless against them. If he
wounded the one, its hurt was strength to the other. How could he kill the
one, without being overwhelmed at once by its opponent? In their balance
he was torn away by conflict, yet in their balance he was saved from some
black annihilation he could not envisage. How could he lose David
altogether? In what realm lived his wish altogether to have him?
David came in.
Night had crept up sweetly from the street. The City brooded in memory
of an August which had come like a woman’s madness. It was still warm. A
breeze came dancing through the open window. The room where Tom sat
rigid seemed faintly a-swing in a sea: the glow and scent and murmur of the
City was a wave, heaving the room. The wind whipped it gently.
David came in and saw Tom sitting so strangely stiff; he stopped. Tom,
this time, had not budged. He looked at David. He saw his open gentle face
and its sweetness, he knew how unbearable it was that he should lose him.
“David, won’t you come and sit down?”
David came. Crossing the room, he stumbled on the rug.
“David ... what is there wrong between us?”
His head was turned toward his friend. David looked; there was Tom’s
full face pleading toward him. His eyes were bright in the shadow: they
glanced with a sharp pain and a great welling wish, like tears.
David’s hand instinctively went out: he rested it upon his own knee.
“I don’t know, Tom.... I don’t know.”
Very faintly he spoke. There was a warm moistness in his mouth.
“David, I am sorry! I am sorry for so many things. But I love you,
David. I am your real friend.... You believe that, don’t you?”
“Tom, I don’t know how.”
 “What have I done to make you doubt my friendship?”
David’s chance! Simple and naked stood the issue between them. Let
him but meet it. Had he not grievances enough? No: he would not say
“grievances.” Had he not reasons—inexorable reasons?
He sat there, looking away toward the window. Swiftly, now, it was
getting dark. The frame of the window seemed very far away—dimly
etched out against the surrounding darkness. The window was light. With a
vague stir that was heliotropic, David gazed on it.
His mind had the sudden need of grasping reasons. Reasons were
scurrying, scattering, melting away.
His reasons—his reasons for doubting that Tom was his friend! Where
were they? Why did he want reasons, after all? Was not Tom sitting there
with tears in his eyes no dimmer than this light, pleading for faith? Had he
not previously understood with a rare insight he was proud of, the problem
of Tom? Here he was, collecting reasons, picking up reasons! Missiles to
strike with? Why? Why not? Was he not unhappy with Tom? Was not his
whole life poisoned by this poison that hid in their friendship? He was not
seeking stones to attack with, he was seeking defense. Many reasons there
were, if only he could fasten his mind—how strange it was swerving about!
—to take them up.
Tom said:
“I know—I know—I know——” He was mentioning faults. He was
proving they were no reasons. “But we are friends, Davie. Oh, do you not
feel there is no one I love like you? Not my sister, Davie! No one.
Everything I would throw away to help you. My work, my ambitions—
what makes them bearable, David, except your friendship? Can’t you
understand....”
There was something wrong. Under the precision of Tom’s words,
something wrong. Above the clouded stretch of Tom’s emotions, something
wrong. Something wrong. The reasons! For God’s sake, the reasons!
David began to stammer: “You tell Lunn and Durthal you are their
friend. To me you run them down. How should I know ...?”
He stopped. Tom was silent. No: this was no reason. David could know.
David needed no proof. He had to forgive these stupid relationships of Tom.
“How should you know?” asked Tom. “Ask yourself, David.”
 Groping again. There sat his friend. He felt him like a flame in the dark.
Why was he, David, crouched there, gathering strength to strike him? Why
could he not accept him?... Past pains, past miseries. He had not wanted
better than to accept him. What had cast him off? Surely not his desire?
Tom it was, who made him not accept him. He was not fighting. He was
holding himself safe. By God! holding himself clean. Reasons! Reasons
against Tom!
“What help do you give me in my troubles?” he said, low in his seat:
half to himself: placing his words before him very near, as if to look at
them, rather than give them to Tom—lest he wish to recall them. “I have my
worries. I have to keep them to myself. Is that what I should feel with my
friend? I have had problems with—women. If I mention them to you, you
sneer or laugh or turn hard. And difficulties with my relatives—worries
downtown....”
“I do not coddle you, David.”
How much he laid upon these words, and how these words were like a
shaft—running slow from Tom to him!... Did David wish ease and flattery
from friendship? Did David wish help that might hurt, or soothing that
would hinder? David was childish and selfish. No! Tom could not take so
seriously his petty affairs with women. Oh, yes, he knew about them—
every one: or his untidy problems with his uncle’s family or with his Chief
downtown. No! he was not David’s wet-nurse. If he wanted a friend—one
who took him ever upon the most real level, who by dint of treating him as
mature and strong might help him to achieve maturity and strength....
David again gazed at the light casemented from the night-packed room.
There was something: yes, there were reasons. These were not the true
ones. Let him then say aloud: “These are not the true reasons, Tom.” What
would happen? Tom’s quiet voice—he was quiet now: why was his voice
not always so quiet—would ask: “And the true reasons, David?” His
answer! Let him now bring forth his answer. Why was that silly nightmare
protruding in his mind? Tom was a flame in the room. It burned him. Let
him come to hate it, to avow his hatred!
“It seems, Tom, that we are so very far apart.” Oh, but were they not
near? To whom was David, these past years, growing and nearing? “I do not
know how to express my dreams, my ideals, Tom. I am not ashamed of that.
I have time to learn to express them. But they are real. I fed as if to you,
they are not real. You have no love for them ... no faith....” He was silent.
He went on: “When a woman is going to have a child, she has not seen it,
she does not know how it looks or what it will be named. But it is real to
her, and she loves it.”
“Can’t you see, David, that this child in you,—this dream-life at your
heart—is what I love more than all in the world?”
“You are perpetually hurting me: sneering at me: stabbing my efforts to
understand with your logical proofs that understanding and ideals and truth
are nonsense!”
“Is this, then, why you doubt my friendship?”
“That vague thing in my heart is very near to me.”
“And to me, David!”
“Then why do you say the things you do?—and why—Tom—why ...?”
“Yes, David?”
“Why do you do the things, and lead the life you do?”
“Oh, David, if you would help me to understand?”
“Are you sincere?”
“No, David, I am not sincere. Help me to be sincere.”
“It seems to me that sincerity must be there first of all.”
“We are not all so fortunate as you are, David.”
“I do not understand.”
“Nor I. I want to be sincere. I want to be strong enough to be always,
always sincere, as I am now sincere only with you.”
“Tom, what does all this mean?”
“Can’t you believe me when I tell you, I do not understand? I try, Davie!
It hurts. You ask me for help. I have helped you often, Davie. Perhaps most
when I seemed cruel and harsh and distant. Isn’t that true? But you seem to
think I must be always strong. My mind—my poor mind you expect so
much of, Davie—I hate it at times, because, if it has helped you, it has done
me disservice. It has estranged us. I am weak, also. Oh, dear, dear Boy, I am
weaker than you! You spoke of a woman who is to be a Mother. What is so
strong as such a woman? Her fidelity to her child, her confidence, her vast
unuttered love of which all her being is symbol. The breath she takes, the
food she eats—is for a purpose. That is strength, David. Even if she cannot
name her child, or, call it. And you are indeed like that. You have a strength
a little like that woman. I love you for that, David! I have no such purpose.
When one has purpose, growing within one,—one’s flesh and blood,—it is
easy to be sincere. When one has no such purpose, it is hard....”
“Tom, you do not know how you hurt me.”
“Will you stand those hurts, for my sake?”
Why should he? Why should he? What load of service was Tom placing
upon him? And the reasons for this? Tom was speaking again:
“——all I can say is that all my life seems suddenly to run on edge. Off-
track. It is hard to explain ... two lines faintly divergent at first, yet how they
widen!... Some little dissonance deep in my heart, and it creeps into all the
words I say, at times, into all the acts I do: the discord widens and
multiplies. Until it—shrieks! Do you understand at all?”
No, David could not understand. Tom could not understand. With
bleeding nerves, he had made this symbol of his self-division. It was
beautifully true. But to make the symbol was not to understand it.
Yet, although neither saw, they were impressed. Tom’s words were
nonsense, perhaps: but they were like song. They held their hearers. The
more raptly since neither knew that this was music. So birds, perhaps, listen
to song and dimly descrying its beauty, which is its meaning, obey its call.
David was silent. He was near Tom. A new plenitude in Tom that hurt him
no less than the emptiness he had feared.
A very faint pull from himself, a very faint losing of balance. As it went
on, from deep within him, invisibly deep, it widened toward the world.
Tom sat still, seeing his hurt, seeing he could not heal it. He had to watch
a bleeding he could not stem. He watched it, now: with David watching
him. He saw the dissonant thing that spread and shattered his world: he saw
the deepest of his thrusts to right himself die far from the mark....
And David there before him with clear eyes! David ready to judge him!
David in search of words wherewith to judge him!... Tom came to himself
in anger. All his effort to be, for once, harmoniously himself rose up from
its defeat and surged toward David. Anger for David! If he lacked fingers
long and skilled enough to remove this cancer in his friendship, setting him
balanceless toward life, then let him blot it out. Let David be blotted out!...
He turned against him.
 “The worst thing about you is that you make me take you seriously. Your
troubles are nothing but selfishness. Selfishness is insatiate. So is a dull
humorlessness like yours. My Lord, man, what a state you put me in just
because we’re friends—just because I want to think well of you, well of
your interests and your doubts. What is it all about? Eh, tell me that. What
the Devil have you to complain of?”
He stood over David and menaced him with words. “You’re a spoilt
child: what you need is a Mamma. If you had a spark of wit you’d roar at
yourself, roar at me when I am fooled by your childishness into being
tender. I am to give, and give, and give. If I weary or get out of breath, I am
judged. Supposing I turned about, just for a change, and began judging
you?”
David sat numb. The need of striking back, the need of defense—where
was it? Tom lighted the gas-jets. Every gas-jet. The room showed yellow
and hard. The light was like the lying of sand, the room was a barbarous
arena. Tom’s eyes were one with the blazing gas-jets.
Their bell.
“Sometimes I am sick, I am sick of it all,” said Tom. “Sometimes I
wonder what it must be like, just for a moment to be taken as I am:—to be
embraced in understanding; to receive.”
The door opened, Durthal and Lunn came in.
“You have come just in time!” he clasped their hands. “You have rescued
me from the presence of my Maker!”
Lunn blinked. Durthal was sniggling already. He had caught Tom’s
mood, the directions of favor and attack. That was enough.
“Oh—oh,” Tom laughed. “Don’t look scared. Markand is my Maker.
Didn’t you know that? Being with Markand is a perpetual Day of Judgment.
Even in the strictest Faith that should come only once. Living with Markand
it never stops. Down—down one must go on one’s knees. And stay there.”
David felt Tom’s sneers cut him and bind him motionless.
“I am sorry, Tom. I did not mean——”
“Oh, it is easy for him.” Tom broke his words. He was facing Durthal
and Lunn who had found quick seats on the couch, as one hastens to settle
at a performance that has begun already. Tom’s back was to David. Lunn
was peering toward him with his heavy head low on his shoulders: blinking
and smiling. Durthal beamed into Tom’s face.
“It is easy for him. You see, he has nothing to confess. His soul is empty
of sin. Did you know that, you fellows? He can promenade about in his soul
quite freely, as one takes a stroll by the sea-shore. Altogether empty, I
assure you—of sin. I must go dragging along.”
He paced up and down. He was very bitter.
David was still viced in the hurt of the interruption.
“Well, Darby, how is the picture? It promises, my dear chap, to be the
best you have done. Real improvement there.... No, no—my friend, you
must not let that happen! Stick it out. I don’t care if it is beginning to bore
you. Ability to stand boredom is the mark of power. Yes.... Inspiration is
cheap as birds twittering. Sustainment of inspiration is rare as genius. It is
genius, I tell you.”
Lunn was happy. Tom praised his picture: called him his friend. He
sensed that the reason for all this was devilish. It made no difference. One
had to take Tom as he came. Durthal glared snakishly at David: dissatisfied
that Tom’s onslaught was in abeyance.
David wished to right himself. Perhaps he was sulking. Perhaps Tom
was watching to see what he would do. Let him try to join in.
“I wish you would let me see some of your pictures, sometime,” he said
to Lunn.
Lunn frowned ungraciously.
“Sure,” with a stirring of his feet. “Any time.”
“They’re immoral, David.” Tom turned. “They’ll shock you. They tell
the truth. They accept the world as it is.”
His voice had a sing-song emphasis, as if he were warning a child away
from the fire.
“And what a world it is!” Durthal had merely been waiting. He had not
dared hope that David would so aptly accommodate himself to his hostile
wishes. He fell in at once with Tom’s accent. “Better not see them,
Markand. The women Lunn paints aren’t pure: the men aren’t moral.”
“Think of that, Davie! Wasting his good time painting impure women!”
Lunn bobbed his long head with delight.
 “I would paint a pure person, if I could find one.”
Tom came up to David, and placed his hand under his chin.
“What about this?” he said.
David was stiff, waiting for the hand to go away.
“How can we be sure he’s pure?” exclaimed Durthal.
“That is true,” Tom stepped away a little. “We must be sure. How can we
be sure?... David, give us your credentials. Your proofs. For Lunn’s sake,
David. Think of the unhappy fix he is in—painting nothing but wicked
creatures! Think what an unselfish service you can perform.”
“——if he is pure,” Durthal insisted.
“Yes. If you are pure,” said Tom.
All three of them smiled. All three of them fell spontaneously to this
delicious game of baiting David. The ugliness of life, the folly of hope—
these were their themes. They seemed to be baiting not so much David as a
Dream in David: a bloom of loveliness in David thinking the world was
lovely. This was the unbearable presence in the room, the maddening thing.
This they joined hands and minds to blemish and befoul....
David was stark with the treachery of Tom. He could manage Tom. It
was bitter hard, but he could manage Tom. These others—these living
missiles of mud Tom used to fling at him, now he was weak and angry:——
Tom goaded on. Never had he been so lonely, never had he needed
David more. Yearning to fling himself on David’s side, to his feet, his words
grew sharper, falser.
“He is silent,” mocked the emboldened Durthal. “Perhaps he isn’t pure,
at all. This is important, you know. How shall we ever find out?”
“But even if he is, do you think, Darby, that would make him worth
painting?” Tom leaned back on his heels and poised David. “Yes,” he said
slowly, “he is worth painting.”
“Tell us, Markand—are you what you profess to be,” Durthal mock-
pleaded.
David was up. He was white. He was suddenly strong and gentle.
He walked to the door and opened it.
“Get out,” he said.
 They sat there, rigid. They looked to Tom. The gap of the open door was
a drawing burn upon them. Tom said no word. He gave a little laugh and
was silent also.
Lunn fumbled for his hat.
“Guess I’ll be going,” he rose jerkily to his feet. Durthal rose glibly.
They came close to David. His hand held the door wide open. They
passed his eyes; they strained to hold to their slow pace. As they moved
down the dark hall, they had the sense in their backs of an impending
blow....
David stood with his back against the shut door. He had done a violent
thing; he was afraid be had done wrong. These were Tom’s friends. No—by
the truth—these were not! But by what human right—he could not look at
Tom’s eyes. He had a sense of guilt. All his sense of hurt was gone before
his sense of guilt. Tom stood waiting for his eyes, in order to tell him with
his own how much he thanked him.
David struggled with his body: turned it about: left the room. He knew
he would go wandering aimless through the streets. Tom was alone. His
eyes had failed to give their message.
He had not moved from his seat. He sat upright, rigid. Had sentence
been passed against him: and why was it good? And why were his hands so
empty? A strange despair crept over Tom, stiffened his muscles, dimmed his
mind. So he sat, knowing not how long....
A knock at the door. Another knock. He lifted his head laboriously to see
the door. He saw the room. It was cruel clear. The ugly paint of the
woodwork, the neat pale paper cutting and empty against him, the rocker
where David loved to sit and where he felt his absence like a poignant
mirthless presence. How terrible clear was the room’s emptiness and the
path of something sweet that had been there and was gone! Two grimaces
remained, sitting on the couch, sitting for him.... It knocked again.... He felt
that he was very faint. “I had no supper,” he said. “It is knocking.” He knew
that his head was light.
“Come in.”
The door burst open. A little boy stamping in: a messenger boy. His face
round and swarthy. His eyes roamed about the room like listless beasts,
taking in nothing.
 “Rennard?” he shouted. Strangely his eyes wandered, took in nothing!
Such tired eyes: such disillusioned eyes. So weary a boy. He was not there.
In Tom’s hands a letter.
His unconscious glance made him know already without knowledge it
was from Cornelia. He sat, holding the letter out as his hands had received
it: unopened....
“What does she want?” beat sluggish in his head like an alarum chiming
through thick fog.
He opened it: he put on his hat: he was gone.
This sense he had very sharp: that he was gone. He should, he felt, have
stayed, stayed in their room until David returned. But Cornelia wanted him.
Coming to her, he had this detached sense: that he was gone....
She gave him both her hands. He felt her face, its sweetness, its dear
sweet homeliness. He saw that she was glad he had come, and that she had
missed him: how she would always forgive him, and how cruelly for near
two years he had been treating her.
She placed a letter in his hand. He faced it. He went to the couch
suddenly and sat down....
The pall lifted that was over his great hurt, he knew how he was
suffering. The world had been clear—their room—and he in cloud: it had
been like a shrill close lake under a hidden sky. Now all else was dim save
the burning sun of his hurt. The letter was from their sister, Ruth: it told of
the death of their father.
Tom hid his face, he buried also his hard hands in the cushions. That he
might clench his fists and his teeth, unseen. Cornelia placed her hand on his
shoulder. She was torn by his weeping.
He righted himself. His eyes were burned with tears. Cornelia sat beside
him. She took his hand. She placed his hand to her lips.
“Dear Tom!” She was trying to smile. Instead of the smile, came tears to
her also. She turned away her face, struggling, not understanding.
“I am not weeping for father,” said Tom. “I am weeping for ourselves....
So are you!”
Cornelia gave way. She also hid her face in order to give way. Tom,
stroking her hand, looked beyond them: from the sun of his hurt into the
dim world.
 XIII

C ORNELIA loved to sit by her open window and look out.

She had the need of seeing the City clear: a cold pattern. Her own
mind was chaos and she saw no help to crystallize the swirling
problems that consumed her. Like one who in great heat wins comfort from
vision of cool waters, she thought of the City as a design, carefully plotted
out.
It was not easy. Looking beyond her house, with the street swarming in
her eyes and the battlemented roofs surging above her head, she was dim in
revery. In the dimness, the City lost its geometric outlines. It veered in and
out of her grasp like a delirious dream: its streets were parabolas, freighted
with teeming particles of life which each had a centrifugal direction. It all
was a frangent swarm, knotted, heaving upon itself, forever ashift. She saw
it a monstrous replica of her own mind: there was no relief.
She struggled with it. She said to herself: “What is so regular as the
streets of New York?” When she dispelled her inchoate vision, also there
was pain. For now she had the sense of streets cut livid through human
lives: each street was a sharp thrust and heaped about it mounds of
desiccated bones.
At last Cornelia shut the City out. She sat in her little rocking chair with
a candle glowing, and huddled upon herself as if her pains were a swinging
swarm about her. With hidden eyes she came to a dim world of thought.
She had never needed to find the word for what she felt toward David.
Often, she needed to say to herself in self-assertion: I am a woman. Her life
brought doubt of that. Were women supposed, like her, to live alone and
work, and have no home, and have no one to care for? Her instinct
despaired often of the life she gave her body and her mind. In protest,
sometimes it would speak: am I a woman? But here was a harmony so deep
it required no voice outside itself: in what she felt toward David. Long since
it was an atmosphere: a wide world she fed in or starved in: howsoever,
lived and would died in. She did not say to herself: I am in the world. She
did not speak to herself of her own self with David. Endlessly, now, she
worried about him, asked herself how she could help him. Still more
frequently, she asked herself how she could save him. And in her next
question: Save him from what? she was already deep in her tangled
problem. She was like one who lived at the edge of a dark forest:
whithersoever she went, with a step there she was in it. Its tangled shadows
were always at her side.
Cornelia could understand, could also not understand. She had the sense
that David suffered: suffered with her brother. She had the instinct of some
struggle hidden between them, and of danger for them both. She knew not
what it was. So it was horrible: it was like the nocturnal stirring of unknown
life in her forest. She knew it was not merely the worldliness of Tom, his
efforts to make David worldly. She knew how eased she must have been to
believe it was no worse. But touching upon this, the terror still prowled at
large. She had no hold upon her terror.
It was years now, growing on her like the loom of a Curse. It blackened
and dried her life. She lived with it. All of her being was a shrunken point,
veering blindly about in order to forfend some visitation so obscure and
vast that she was nothing before it. If it was fearful that she knew nothing to
bring her comfort, it was fearful as well that she knew nothing to knit her
fear. She was a little swirling point under a sky that was black.
Sudden words came, like jagged movements in her mood. She said: “It is
not for me that I am miserable. I do not want him for myself. God knows I
have no hope of him for myself. It is not that.... God grant it be true that
under this all, it is not merely that I want him for myself.... Oh, God grant it
be only this! No other danger. I will face that. How gladly then I will give
him up!...”
She buried her head in her arms, she prayed: she knew not what to pray
for. She had the sense of an unholy loneliness, of praying to herself. She
sprang up, wide-eyed, looked at her long, transparent hands: she said aloud:
“Why am I alive?”
A thought came sweeping and cleansing: she was like a sea torn by swift
winds, now suddenly a sheet of rain came down and smoothed it, soothed it.
So a thought came glancing and offered peace.
“I do not have to live,” it said. And that in her which alone she did not
question, which alone needed no words since her whole life was its Word,
gave answer.
“No: what of him? With David in trouble, I must at least be here.”
Once more she was a sea churned by the winds of her dilemma.
 But at least she had the faith that it was good for David that she should
live. No faith this. Rather the matrix of her life—the hollow of the world in
which lay her sea, however restless it beat....

Through the City walked Tom. He and his thoughts were a nimble line
parting the City. Through the warm weather and the thick crowds of men
and women he cut. Past the great loads of stone, he made his way. He was
in Cornelia’s room; it was as if his path had left a wake—half fire, half
blood—where his thoughts simmered and soaked into the living City.
“Cornelia,” he said to her, “what is there wrong with us?”
She looked at him. She loved him. She was glad always to be with him.
Why did he not come back to her? In that way alone could she save him. If
he stayed where he was——
“Let us cheer up, Tom dear. We’re depressed. I wouldn’t have thought
that father’s death could depress us so.”
“You know better than that!”
“Is there anything more wrong with us, Tom, than with the world?”
Tom smiled wanly.
“How like a woman that is. However deep we rot, if the world rots as
deep, no matter? You women accept the world.... Cornelia, that thought
which to you brings consolation, would make me desperate.”
She said: “Perhaps we have not found ourselves, yet, Tom.”
And he: “Father’s death has suddenly set me to thinking where we are:
and you to feeling.”
“I am not thinking of father. Ruth’s letter made me think far more of
Ruth. Poor wasted Ruth. And Laura—bitter, sick Laura. I think of them.”
“Are they the only victims, Sister?”
Cornelia was pale. She drew back in her chair as if Tom threatened to
strike her. Tom leaned toward her and with a quiet voice went on:
“Cornelia,” he said, “Father is dead. The father we revolted from and
left. Tell me, Sister, how have we improved upon him?”
There was a silence. There was calm, very deliberate in Tom. He was
smoking a cigarette. He took the red-tipped toy and held it before his eyes
and looked at it; he blew on it with his half-parted lips. His lips were very
hard against his teeth. The burning tip of the cigarette flared for an instant
under the draught, burned more ash.
“Is not that the question which haunts us, Cornelia?”
She had no word for him. She felt he was unjust and cruel. She was
helpless under his mood. Always in the past, she had been able—the sister,
the mother in Cornelia—to veer him from himself and from herself when
his mood went shattering. She had been wise and poiseful. Now she lay
quivering with him, underneath his words.
“We don’t talk very often, do we, of father and the past? I wonder why
we avoided them. Were they not the scene of our great Victory? Where is
our pride, Cornelia?” He was deliberate and slow: his irony stiff like a rod.
“Just think,” he said, “what we left: what we overcame! Father! He is
dead now. His remains—all of them, including Ruth and Laura—lie rotting
on the Farm. We should be able to make some sort of estimate of what he
was....”
She wanted to stop him. She wanted to know. Tom was right. Let them
make some estimate of what they were.
“... a man whose blood had turned to poison.... Do you remember how
he used to beat his daughters? The thing to remember in that is that he loved
it. He had one successful daughter: Laura: she loved it also. And the world
we lived in, Cornelia. Few children are brought up in so real a world. We
alone had no illusions about America. We knew that in America, quite as
elsewhere, only the few were to be saved. The rest were damned. We knew
that the deeds of the masses were damned deeds here, quite as in Europe.
Yes:—were there illusions about what he told us of the Revolutionary
Fathers? or the Pioneers? We were wise children. And the reason was
simply that Father taught us to see the truth. Have you ever thought of that?
He taught us better than he knew, himself. For Father saw through the real
world: he saw what a cold and lustful monster it all is. But he had his way
of refuge. He had his God who had predestined him to heaven. Blessed
Father! He had his revenge, for there was always the same God damning
the irritating mob to hell. For his sake, Sister.... Do you see what I mean?
Father gave us his knowledge for weighing facts, which means that he gave
us his disillusions about Earth. But we did not stop there. We turned that
same power against his own fairy-tales. God went, heaven went, hell went
also. All that remained was the Earth that he had taken from us....”
 Tom was silent. He smoked measuredly. He went on:
“Father was a happy man: he had a place to go to, from this desecrated
world. Father was a strong man: he had his God. Where is our God,
Cornelia?”
He sprang up. His eyes flashed. Deep anger was with his hands above
his head. He sank down once more, and dropped his cigarette.
“We have no gods,” he said. “We have lost the old one. We have won no
new ones.”
He smiled with the same hard half-parted lips. “I am not sure that we
were so very wise. All the searing and desecrating vision that Father gave
us of this reality was mere preparation for his Faith. He and his kind helped
desecrate the world in order to enjoy their heaven. Without his heaven, is
this reality he gave us altogether truth? Where are we with it? What is an
abortion in relation with a life that is fully born? We rebelled; we left him
and his blows and his hell and his God. We took with us the corroding
poison of his blood. Were we not fools, Cornelia?”
“But, Tom, what else could we have done?”
“Nothing, of course.”
“Then, perhaps——”
“Be brave and honest, for once! A little more like father. His souls in hell
could also not have done otherwise....”
“Tom! I won’t believe....”
He cut her short. “Very well, then: what will you believe?”
She was silenced. His smile was over her, a hateful bitter triumph.
“That is it, precisely. Don’t you see? What will we believe, Cornelia?”
He came and lifted her out of her chair. They sat down on the couch. His
hand was very gentle on hers. He kissed her.
“We are neither the old nor the new, Sister. I sometimes think we are
nothing. We are not happy. We are not strong. We have no gods at all.”
“We are unhappy, Tom.”
He looked at her fiercely.
“Are we that?” he asked her. “Have we the strength to be unhappy? To
remain unhappy? Oh, how I wish I could believe that!”
He was grasping both her wrists. He dropped them.
 “No,” he said. “It’s a lie. We are nothing. We are not even martyrs. I with
my Law—my successful rotten Law. You with your paltry, remunerative
Art! We are on the way. Something is on the way, through us, perhaps,
through the wilderness of life. We are they who shall fall by the wayside.”
He looked over his shoulder, out of the window. The night was a blue
haze, deep and far. It was streaked with the murmur of men, with the glow
of a million lights. A tremor ran through him like the pulse of blood, and
came about them, seated in the room.
“Let us face that, Cornelia....”
“But Tom:—in what you said—that is faith of a sort. You spoke of a
wilderness to go through. Of a way. It must lead somewhere. There must be
something else?”
“For us?”
“Perhaps not for us.”
“I should like,” Tom pondered, “to have some Church in which to
perform a service for my father.”
She looked at him close. His head was down. She took his face in her
hands and touched his shut eyes with her lips.
“Dear Tom! Don’t I help?”
There was a great hope in her. If she could find him again: hold him
again! Tom, her first child....
He was searching her with eyes her lips had opened.
Her thoughts ran on. Dimly she felt the peril in her thoughts, running
along.... No, Tom was not her child. Tom, no longer. He was like her. It was
true. Only, he would not accept. She knew the wilderness of life stretched
mountainously far beyond where her feet could bring her. She knew the
truth for her in what Tom had said. She had hoped, not for herself, but for
him. She had hoped falsely. They were one—they were one. For there was
another who was so infinitely more, that they were nothing.
And so her mind ran on, while Tom’s eyes searched her. David was not
maimed like them. In his eyes was the promise of a new God. And Tom was
waging war against that promise. Talk as he would, understand as his mind
made him, Tom waged war against that faith in David which he lacked.
Strove to snatch it from him: steal it and wear it dead, rather than let David
go on alone, with his eyes living.
 She had said to him: “Do I not help?”
With an uncanny closeness, Tom sought in herself the answer.
Cornelia turned her eyes away. She could not look at her brother. It was
her brother whom she loved. Yet, turning away her eyes, she felt that she
was leaving him by a wild wayside, to parch and perish. She felt that even
so let it be. All of her must be girded beyond him.
He also had said no word. He went to the window and stood there
looking out. She knew that both of them had understood....

Twelve years before they had set out on a great enterprise together. They
had come up from a common childhood which was a common suffering.
They had reached Being together. Everything they had was a thing they had
shared. The sere soil of the world was a single path they had traveled. Their
hands had been joined. Now, facing each other over the communion of their
years, they were prepared for war.
The bitterest of all was this: that it seemed natural. It was as if their
common anguish, the hopes born of their hated home and the fruits they had
wrung courageously from their adventure, pointed inevitably to this end.
For the most natural of all was this: that the end also should be bitter.
The death of their father had brought Tom for the moment closer to
Cornelia. He was coming again to see her. There had been months without a
sign of him. She knew that when this mood wore out there would be months
again. If she had questions of Tom, there was no time to lose.
It was bitter hard to bring herself to speak of David. She did not flinch:
“How does your friendship stand with him?” she asked him.
“It is stormy. It will always, I guess, be stormy. But it will always be.”
They were at war, but they were generous to each other. Their war was a
hidden and a sacred thing: it was not more nor less than the confronting of
themselves upon the path they had helped hew, had helped each other walk.
It was a hidden thing, but they had no desire to conceal it. They were open
to each other insofar as each could be. They were the brother and sister who
had waged life and war together.
“Do you think it is helping David—this ‘friendship’ that will always
be?”
“I have not your acute moral sense, Cornelia. How should I know?”
 She bit her lips.
“Why,” he asked with his ironic smile, “why don’t you ask if it is
helping me!”
“You have made it plain to me, Tom, that you do not need my help. Out
of self-protection I had to withdraw thinking too much of that.”
He nodded as if he understood and agreed. This hurt Cornelia. Even the
words of contradiction would have been hostage to something precious.
“David is growing masterful. That much I can say for our friendship. I
told you how he turned Lunn and Durthal out of our place, one evening.
What I did not tell you was this: the following day David was contrite. He
wanted to apologize for the splendid thing he had done. I would not let
him.”
“Why?”
“What he did was himself. It is himself I care for. I will not let him be a
renegade to his own instincts.”
She laughed at him. It was an effort, turning her bitterness to laughter.
“In the contradiction, you simply had a higher sort of triumph. Don’t you
think I understand? You labor to beat him down and break him. When you
see signs of your work you turn about. When you get him beaten and
broken at last, doubtless you will have no more use for him.”
“Doubtless, Cornelia.”
“Tom! Leave David alone!”
His cutting calm had parted her restraint. All of her fear threatened to
burst out. She was close to Tom, beseeching. In a moment, her hands would
be suppliant.
He let her plead.
“Do that for me, Tom. Leave him! Insult him! Turn him away!”
“I often try to. It’s no use. I can sustain no mood long enough for that.”
She was blinded by his words into a sense of hope.
“Oh, a little longer! Send him to me. He never comes to me, now. He
will if you send him. I’ll help you, Tom.”
She stopped. She saw the folly of her outburst. Was there not war
between them? He was there with his irony.
 “What have you, really, against our friendship? There is something
unreasonable in this. What is it? Of course, I shall send him to you. I
promise that.”
Never had she seen him so contained before her. He was winning. A
flourish and a dare in his promise to send him. She pressed her lips with
hands that had been almost suppliant before her brother. She would accept
his ironic bounty: turn it against him. Many a battle was lost through excess
of confidence. She could not answer his questions.
“You talk, positively, Sister, as if I were ruining the lad,—instead of
slowly bringing him up.”
“Bringing him up to what?”
“Well, to what? I ask you?”
“Tom, I cannot explain. There is something here I cannot explain. I want
David to be free of you. That is all.”
“So you can have him?—is that all?”
“You know that’s a lie!”
She was breathing hard with her hurt.
He examined her. “Yes: that is a lie. That would be a reasonable reason.
Too reasonable for you. I could respect that: even coöperate with it. If there
were any chance of success,” For an instant, he had tricked her into stirring
toward him. She winced. “You can’t expect me to crucify myself and David
for your vague philanthropic folly.”
“No, Tom—I cannot.”
Then: “Tom, are you altogether frank with me? Do you really think my
haunting fears are due to a selfish cause?”
“No, Cornelia.”
“Do you think, Tom—answer me on your honor—do you think they are
really vague and foolish?”
Waiting for his word, as he stood silent, she found that she wanted him
so to think them.
His answer came: “No. They are not foolish. And only we are vague
about them.”
“Tom!"...
 She must look out. She was so weak before him. She was ever so near to
dangerous pleading. She straightened herself back.
“——but since we are so vague, Cornelia? Necessarily so. I call the
whole discussion nonsense.”
He was flippant over her tragedy: over her life. He was clear-eyed
admitting it, and then he was flippant! He stood next to her with his light
grace and she hated him. For he was the brother whom she loved.
He went and did not for a long time come back. He stayed away too
long. But he wrote her a note:
Dearest Sister:
In accordance with my promise, I have urged David to go and see you. I
scolded him for a thoughtless friend. He is thoughtless, you know. I have
found that out, many a time, to my unhappiness.
These books I am sending you I have just read this year and liked. I am
sure you will like them also.
Lots of love, dearest Sister, and good fortune.
Tom.
How sure he was of David! How sure he was of her. She saw that he
loved her in the same deep confident way of the younger brother whom she
had nursed and led. The eternal way. She had unending hurt of this. For
how could she deny the call of his love through his little note? And how
could she answer it? She was torn. She knew there was now a reason for
Tom’s staying away. She wondered if Tom knew how he tore her. But if he
had written her coldly, cruelly, would it have been less cruel?...

Cornelia found herself nursing in her arms a life that she must make to
thrive against all hazards: the little life of a great resolve. She looked at it,
and gave herself up to it. Dimly she knew that if she held it close enough,
and warm, and endless against her breast, it would gain in strength.
David must be saved!
From now on, she went about with it. While she worked or played—
seldom this was—and went through the grimacings of a social creature;
while she slept—there it was ever upon her breast: that David must be
saved!
 He had not come to see her.
She said to herself: it is no matter. To have seen him would have been
joy, or rather ecstasy so packed she could for many days have had her joy of
it. It was no matter. For she had no plan. What would she say to him, or do,
when he came? Let him stay away until she was more ready. It was bitter to
know he had not come, and she expecting him. It was no matter.
Her sleep was a strange thing. No real dreams—streakings of thought
and dream ran through her night like falling flames. So that her night was
neither sleep nor waking. It was an endless trembling between two worlds,
it was a part of Chaos. She lay there and her body was a restless weight
holding her down. She was like a little boat tossed at anchor by a broken
sea. Her body and her consciousness: these were the anchor. They kept her
from running wild with the waves. And the waves kept her from being quiet
at her anchor. She was torn. She was a continuous play of hindered
movement.
When the day came, she lay there wearied as if she had been swept by a
great fury.
Her nights were streaked by these running ribbons of dream: and always
they were the same insofar as always they were really nothing. They were
David. Her problems in David. Her plans and her helplessness to solve
them. Never, even in her sleep, did she sink to some quiet haven of dream
with David: have him there to talk to gently, to be with gladly. Something
surging within her took this great Wish and cut it up into bloody fragments
and strewed her night with them. All of David was never there: nor all of a
single moment with her holding his head on her breast. David’s laughter or
David’s troubled frown or David’s voice: or merely David’s name—David,
David, David—falling down her night like drippings of blood. And she, lost
in this welter of struggle between wish and the real, unable to take sides.
There was no rest in such nights. She lay in her narrow bed, cast up in
her cell-like room as upon some rocky shore. And looking back upon her
sleep, she had a sense of a delirious underworld, yellow of hue with veins
of livid red wriggling athwart it, and of herself who followed the veins. It
was a shattered and scattered self that had been thrown through the night,
thrown, somehow intact, upon the shore of the morning.
Like a bruised woman, she was out of her bed. She placed the coffee on
the gas-burner, and took a bath. Cornelia had no pleasure of her body.
Unclothing herself, she did not care to look at her lean nakedness. It was as
if she had feared to find great bruises upon it. She laid her gaunt hands on
her breast and shivered, for it was cold and the water was none too hot
which she had heated. She noticed how small were her breasts and that they
had begun to droop. She remembered that once they had been beautiful and
that she had been tempted to use them for a model; she had not dared, since
then people would look on them. And after all, they were girl breasts, not
those of a mother. Now they were neither. They were beginning to shrink
and narrow and droop. They were becoming the breasts of a woman who
had not lived. Yet, looking at them now, Cornelia felt no sorrow or regret.
She took this fading as she took the world—the world outside her. She was
outside herself. She did not care if her breasts were no longer beautiful.
Who, indeed, had ever seen them? What good had she had of their beauty?
She stood before her dresser and put on her clothes. She dressed
meticulously. There was no warmth in the care with which she braided her
thin hair and knotted it into a Psyche back of her head. What was her hair to
her? There was no warmth in her choice among her waists of the one she
would wear that morning. She smoothed the loose ends under the belt and
tidied the little linen collar. Her hands were fast at their work. They did not
fail: also they did not linger.
Very neatly, Cornelia spread a napkin for a cloth on the table and placed
down the tray and proceeded to eat her breakfast. She took a slice of bread
and butter and an egg, and two strong cups of black coffee. She loved
coffee. It was her one real vice. Lately she had needed it more than ever.
Night gave her no rest: and coffee weakened the pall of morning.
She cleared away her dishes.
There was her work before her and it was time to be working.
She looked at the little huddle of clay on the level of her head. She
unwound the clinging cloth. She knew that she was bored. It was nothing
but a huddle of dull clay. In it was lost somewhere the head of a boy. It was
her task to find him, to bring him out, so she could go on when her model
came. She found she did not care. The clay and the boy’s head were remote.
With all her effort, she could not bring them nearer. She looked at her work
as if it had been the work of another person, very dim and weak, and very
far away. She saw that it was hopelessly bad. She saw that Tom was right.
He did not take her Art with any seriousness. That did not matter. Plenty of
people did. She had won prizes. She was on Committees of Exhibition. Last
year the Metropolitan Museum had bought her Dawn. But all of this was
wrong. She did not care. She knew! She knew her Art was worthless.
Because it bored her. It was a task. Ever since she had had time to give
herself to it, it had not deceived her. Ever since she was an artist she had
known she was no artist at all. David never spoke of her work. It meant
nothing to him. He said he did not understand such matters. Nonsense! She
remembered his childish outburst of joy at a Chinese vase they had seen one
day in a shop-window on Fifth Avenue. What did he know of Chinese
vases? Yet he had loved it. Had he once captured such a moment from her
casts, it had perhaps been different.
How strange it all was, what an ironic time of it the world was having
with its men and women! She had yearned to escape in order to be an artist.
She had left home, risked life. She and Tom slaved, at one time nearly
starved, while she pursued her dream. Here she was: Cornelia Rennard,
Sculptress. And ashes in her hand. But what was more than strange: she did
not seem to care. It all seemed natural enough. Like a tale whose end she
knew and whose telling bored her.
Tom was right....
She found she had unconsciously redraped the wet rag around her
model. She thought of David. The resolve: the resolve! How dimly she
reacted to life this morning! Not alone this morning. She had never thought
even of looking out of the window. Look! it was snowing. She leaned
against the window-seat. The snow came swirling, merry, through blue air.
There was little wind. The street was muffled and passive: strangely quiet
street under the merry snow.
David might have come. Did he hate her? she wondered. She was
importunate, cloying perhaps. Young blood hates such a woman. Almost
she blamed herself for the fact that her nights were streaked with yearning
for him.
“But he does not know. He does not know. I have not bothered him
really....” She pleaded with him. Let her have at least her nights of broken
dreams, her days broken with worry.
She had definitely given up her modeling for the day, she had a sense of
relief.
 “Giulio does not seem to be coming at any rate,” she excused herself.
She went on: “If he comes, I’ll pay him and send him off.”
Why should she worry about work? She had plenty of money. She had
enough left over from last year to take her through two seasons. She spent
so little.
Her relief widened and deepened. It was as if she had found for herself a
holiday. Let her be alone with her reveries and her anguish. Let her
vegetate, if she would, or die. Let her art die, at any rate. Who cared?
As she went musing about, she hummed a broken aria, from Tristan.
Very broken since all now that came from her was broken, and since,
besides, she had no ear for music. But often she went to the Opera—away
upstairs—and listened to the cloudy and clotted passions of Richard
Wagner.
Almost unknown to herself she had taken a pile of paper and all the
paraphernalia of water-color from a drawer; set it out on the table. There it
was! She looked at it and smiled.
“Oh, you lazy one,” she said half aloud, “what an escape from your real
work! What nonsense!” Under her hand was a set of sheets she had already
daubed. A new foible, this: which she never more than half allowed. There
was much of her father in Cornelia. Her sculpture she admitted: it was
work. These blind, wandering daubs were play—were some sort of
dissipation—were nonsense and wicked.
This morning Cornelia was indulging herself. Giulio had not come. Let
her be wicked. It was no worse to be wicked than to be a wearied artist. So
she spread out her daubs of water-color and examined them. And they were
unlike the model of clay in this, that they seemed near her; she let her eyes
and her mind wander among them and they were very near herself.
She grasped a brush and wet it and sat down. Something dim came over
her eyes. It was as if they turned inward. Cornelia relaxed. Her breathing
came more like the natural ebb and flow of a tide within her. Her head and
neck fell easily forward. She had the sentiment of having returned, sweetly
and without effort, to her night. It was like the coming to a loved trysting
place. She was once more with her sleep, streaked in shreddings of dream.
Her brush made strokes on paper....
Suddenly, whatever this was she painted was done. For she stopped. She
left her night-world. She held out the sheet at arm’s length and tried to look