Alexander's Bridge, by Willa Cather

Chapter 7

During the fortnight that Alexander was in London he drove himself hard. He got through a great deal of personal business and saw a great many men who were doing interesting things in his own profession. He disliked to think of his visits to London as holidays, and when he was there he worked even harder than he did at home.

The day before his departure for Liverpool was a singularly fine one. The thick air had cleared overnight in a strong wind which brought in a golden dawn and then fell off to a fresh breeze. When Bartley looked out of his windows from the Savoy, the river was flashing silver and the gray stone along the Embankment was bathed in bright, clear sunshine. London had wakened to life after three weeks of cold and sodden rain. Bartley breakfasted hurriedly and went over his mail while the hotel valet packed his trunks. Then he paid his account and walked rapidly down the Strand past Charing Cross Station. His spirits rose with every step, and when he reached Trafalgar Square, blazing in the sun, with its fountains playing and its column reaching up into the bright air, he signaled to a hansom, and, before he knew what he was about, told the driver to go to Bedford Square by way of the British Museum.

When he reached Hilda’s apartment she met him, fresh as the morning itself. Her rooms were flooded with sunshine and full of the flowers he had been sending her. She would never let him give her anything else.

“Are you busy this morning, Hilda?” he asked as he sat down, his hat and gloves in his hand.

“Very. I’ve been up and about three hours, working at my part. We open in February, you know.”

“Well, then you’ve worked enough. And so have I. I’ve seen all my men, my packing is done, and I go up to Liverpool this evening. But this morning we are going to have a holiday. What do you say to a drive out to Kew and Richmond? You may not get another day like this all winter. It’s like a fine April day at home. May I use your telephone? I want to order the carriage.”

“Oh, how jolly! There, sit down at the desk. And while you are telephoning I’ll change my dress. I shan’t be long. All the morning papers are on the table.”

Hilda was back in a few moments wearing a long gray squirrel coat and a broad fur hat.

Bartley rose and inspected her. “Why don’t you wear some of those pink roses?” he asked.

“But they came only this morning, and they have not even begun to open. I was saving them. I am so unconsciously thrifty!” She laughed as she looked about the room. “You’ve been sending me far too many flowers, Bartley. New ones every day. That’s too often; though I do love to open the boxes, and I take good care of them.”

“Why won’t you let me send you any of those jade or ivory things you are so fond of? Or pictures? I know a good deal about pictures.”

Hilda shook her large hat as she drew the roses out of the tall glass. “No, there are some things you can’t do. There’s the carriage. Will you button my gloves for me?”

Bartley took her wrist and began to button the long gray suede glove. “How gay your eyes are this morning, Hilda.”

“That’s because I’ve been studying. It always stirs me up a little.”

He pushed the top of the glove up slowly. “When did you learn to take hold of your parts like that?”

“When I had nothing else to think of. Come, the carriage is waiting. What a shocking while you take.”

“I’m in no hurry. We’ve plenty of time.”

They found all London abroad. Piccadilly was a stream of rapidly moving carriages, from which flashed furs and flowers and bright winter costumes. The metal trappings of the harnesses shone dazzlingly, and the wheels were revolving disks that threw off rays of light. The parks were full of children and nursemaids and joyful dogs that leaped and yelped and scratched up the brown earth with their paws.

“I’m not going until tomorrow, you know,” Bartley announced suddenly. “I’ll cut off a day in Liverpool. I haven’t felt so jolly this long while.”

Hilda looked up with a smile which she tried not to make too glad. “I think people were meant to be happy, a little,” she said.

They had lunch at Richmond and then walked to Twickenham, where they had sent the carriage. They drove back, with a glorious sunset behind them, toward the distant gold-washed city. It was one of those rare afternoons when all the thickness and shadow of London are changed to a kind of shining, pulsing, special atmosphere; when the smoky vapors become fluttering golden clouds, nacreous veils of pink and amber; when all that bleakness of gray stone and dullness of dirty brick trembles in aureate light, and all the roofs and spires, and one great dome, are floated in golden haze. On such rare afternoons the ugliest of cities becomes the most poetic, and months of sodden days are offset by a moment of miracle.

“It’s like that with us Londoners, too,” Hilda was saying. “Everything is awfully grim and cheerless, our weather and our houses and our ways of amusing ourselves. But we can be happier than anybody. We can go mad with joy, as the people do out in the fields on a fine Whitsunday. We make the most of our moment.”

She thrust her little chin out defiantly over her gray fur collar, and Bartley looked down at her and laughed.

“You are a plucky one, you.” He patted her glove with his hand. “Yes, you are a plucky one.”

Hilda sighed. “No, I’m not. Not about some things, at any rate. It doesn’t take pluck to fight for one’s moment, but it takes pluck to go without — a lot. More than I have. I can’t help it,” she added fiercely.

After miles of outlying streets and little gloomy houses, they reached London itself, red and roaring and murky, with a thick dampness coming up from the river, that betokened fog again tomorrow. The streets were full of people who had worked indoors all through the priceless day and had now come hungrily out to drink the muddy lees of it. They stood in long black lines, waiting before the pit entrances of the theatres — short-coated boys, and girls in sailor hats, all shivering and chatting gayly. There was a blurred rhythm in all the dull city noises — in the clatter of the cab horses and the rumbling of the busses, in the street calls, and in the undulating tramp, tramp of the crowd. It was like the deep vibration of some vast underground machinery, and like the muffled pulsations of millions of human hearts.

[See “The Barrel Organ by Alfred Noyes. Ed.] [I have placed it at the end for your convenience]

“Seems good to get back, doesn’t it?” Bartley whispered, as they drove from Bayswater Road into Oxford Street. “London always makes me want to live more than any other city in the world. You remember our priestess mummy over in the mummy-room, and how we used to long to go and bring her out on nights like this? Three thousand years! Ugh!”

“All the same, I believe she used to feel it when we stood there and watched her and wished her well. I believe she used to remember,” Hilda said thoughtfully.

“I hope so. Now let’s go to some awfully jolly place for dinner before we go home. I could eat all the dinners there are in London to-night. Where shall I tell the driver? The Piccadilly Restaurant? The music’s good there.”

“There are too many people there whom one knows. Why not that little French place in Soho, where we went so often when you were here in the summer? I love it, and I’ve never been there with any one but you. Sometimes I go by myself, when I am particularly lonely.”

“Very well, the sole’s good there. How many street pianos there are about to-night! The fine weather must have thawed them out. We’ve had five miles of ‘Il Trovatore’ now. They always make me feel jaunty. Are you comfy, and not too tired?”

“I’m not tired at all. I was just wondering how people can ever die. Why did you remind me of the mummy? Life seems the strongest and most indestructible thing in the world. Do you really believe that all those people rushing about down there, going to good dinners and clubs and theatres, will be dead some day, and not care about anything? I don’t believe it, and I know I shan’t die, ever! You see, I feel too — too powerful!”

The carriage stopped. Bartley sprang out and swung her quickly to the pavement. As he lifted her in his two hands he whispered: “You are — powerful!”

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Last updated Thursday, March 13, 2014 at 21:30