Butterfly (26 page)

Well, Dada hadn't wanted to say anything about it, but hearing her ask like that, he just wasn't able to keep it in any longer. “Butterfly is dead,” he blurted, and stopped because he was too choked up to get any more out.

For a second or two, Grandma Charlotte just kept on looking at him without moving while he did his best to stick his hands through the bottom of his pants pockets. “My poor George,” she started saying under her breath, and next thing Dada knew she'd burst into tears and was sniffing and grieving her heart out. Dada was too flabbergasted to do anything. “I was standing there watching her come toward me with tears streaming from her eyes,” he said to me. “And first thing I knew, she'd taken my head in her hands and I was crying too. I couldn't be, I thought to myself; why, I haven't cried since I was five years old. And for some reason, thinking that got me crying even harder, that and Charlotte's tears. I cried so hard my legs wouldn't hold me up any more. Charlotte got me shuffled over to the sofa and with her holding me, I bawled like a little tot, making up for the lulls by taking off again twice as hard. The funny thing was that in between I felt detached and amazed at myself: a grown man
like me, hollering and carrying on because Butterfly was dead, and Charlotte of all people crying with me over Butterfly! I couldn't believe it was really happening.” Dada looked so bewildered for a second that I thought he was going to start crying all over again right then and there, in front of my eyes. But he only looked into them with a mild expression and said, “That was my spot of light, Milly. Though it took me a while to realize.”

The two of them didn't talk about it afterwards, and they didn't mention Butterfly any too often either, although Dada did end up telling Grandma Charlotte most everything that'd happened—everything he knew anyhow. But crying over Butterfly had brought them closer together. Before that, their marriage had somehow gotten twisted up into a hard knot, and this had dissolved it. They started talking to one another again, talking and touching. Dada said it was a little like getting married all over again; and this time it didn't get tied up. They stayed close right to the end, when Grandma Charlotte died. Dave and I used to be tickled when we saw them holding hands. The old folks, they were to us then. I guess they were pretty old, too. Anyhow, it was affecting.

85

(The Nagasaki ms.)

The door slammed shut, leaving me alone and in a daze. My first thought was that I had lost them both. Yet there was no impulse to follow either one in an attempt to retrieve. I felt oddly detached, like a spectator before an empty stage from which the actors had retired.

My bewilderment presently dispersed. For the first time in months, my head felt clear. It was as if Kate's blows had knocked
me back into a saner, better world; I suddenly saw the divers elements in my life fit into place where before they had been violently juxtaposed. All the tortured ups and downs receded like a fading nightmare; what remained, what mattered, appeared simple and clear: I was back in Japan, I had been pardoned, Butterfly and my daughter were waiting. As for Kate, I felt that our destiny had run its course; I had loved her, betrayed her, and done my penance, and she had been right to impose freedom upon me. Tasting now of that freedom which before had been an empty word, I felt a surge of immense gratitude to Kate for having insisted.

I sat for I know not how long in the large empty room that a new and wondrous light seemed to transfigure. There was no need now for hurry or resolve; all my remaining years lay before me in seemingly endless leisure like an expanse of meadow in the afternoon sun.

I got up to announce my plans to Kate, but not hearing her stir, I decided first to pack my things and make certain practical arrangements. Thus it was late afternoon when I knocked at her door.

I found her in bed looking wan; I could see that she had been crying. “Oh, Henry,” she said in a subdued voice and motioned me wearily to an armchair near her bed. Ordinarily such an invitation would have astounded me, but it confirmed me in my new identity and I felt it to be appropriate. “It's all right—you're still free for the rest of today. But first help me with the pillows. I want to sit up.”

I had it on my tongue to announce there and then that I had come to say good-bye, but by the time I had made her comfortable and taken my seat, she was already speaking again.

“We've arrived at a crucial moment in our relations, Henry, a watershed. You seem bent on slavery, and apparently I can do nothing about that, but there are a few things I'd like you to know
before we go on. I don't suppose they'll change your mind, but I do want you to know who it is you're marrying and making your mistress for life. It would incommode me for you to stumble blindly into this serious matter.

“To begin with, much of what you think you know about me isn't true. My father wasn't an English baron as I had given out; he was an adventurer who pretended to be one—he wasn't even English but Hungarian, though he grew up in England. Mainly he was a cardsharp and confidence man. My mother was a Viennese cabaret dancer. She did not want to keep the child, but my father, who was in love with her at the time, insisted. Afterward her attitude was that if God had let the child come into the world, God would also take care of it. Fortunately for me, my mother had an older sister who was a music teacher and one of the finest people I've known. She lived by herself, and I spent a lot of time with her, often weeks at a time. She gave me books to read, talked to me, taught me piano, and generally was a second mother to me. But she died when I was fourteen. Without her, things became worse, much worse. My father was losing his good looks and skills through drink and had trouble taking in the kind of money he was used to spending. My mother, too, was drinking by then. There were debts; my parents fought. In tight moments, my father would look at me in a peculiar way; I knew what he was thinking, and I'm sure he spoke to my mother about it, because she was afraid for me. Which was one reason why she espoused so eagerly his idea of sending me to my uncle in America. The uncle was my father's brother and he had immigrated there many years before; he was, according to my father, a “stinking rich businessman.” So he wrote, and I was soon off to New York. With few regrets, I have to say.

“At first things went well enough. My uncle and aunt, who had no children of their own, really did want to adopt me, and I was prettier and smarter than they ever could have expected. But
my qualities became my undoing. I found my aunt boring, and though I made heroic efforts not to show it, I was unable to keep her from gradually feeling it. But far more serious were my good looks, which I couldn't hide. By the time I turned sixteen, I was no longer a ravishing child but a beautiful woman, and my uncle was more than conscious of it—his wife, too, for that matter. For a time, I resisted his advances, but I ended by giving in, in a manner of speaking—in reality it was more rape than seduction. I had hoped he would leave me alone once he had had his way with me—I was still innocent then—but on the contrary he became frightfully inflamed. He wanted to come to me at night, to have me for his concubine; when I proved unwilling, he even spoke of divorcing his wife and marrying me.

“The situation became more and more tense. Failing to persuade, he tried to coerce. He did his best to impress upon me how much I depended on him: my parents had given me up, I could as well forget them; he was my legal guardian, I was entirely in his power; he would have ways of bringing me about, et cetera. But his threats only hardened my resistance; I ended by not letting him touch me at all. After that his passion turned into hate; the household erupted into open warfare. It was not hard for my uncle to turn his wife against me; already resentful, she was all too ready to swallow whatever tales he chose to tell. Soon she became even nastier than he.

“I was well aware that it was time for me to quit their house, and I began to look for ways. In the meantime I was determined that they wouldn't get the better of me. As I said, it was war and I expected underhanded tactics—I was not above them myself—but what happened was beyond anything I had imagined could happen.

“One day I was seized in the street by two men and put into a coach. They blindfolded me and took me to a house where I was quite literally kept a prisoner. It was a brothel, and I was to be one
of the inmates. I resisted, of course, and for that I was beaten, tortured, starved, raped, and subjected to every conceivable pressure. I fought them in whatever way I could. I told them my uncle would find me; they laughed and said my uncle was the one who had sold me, and to convince me, they made him come and admit it. I told them I would escape; they laughed and said I couldn't, and even if I did, they'd find me and bring me back, only I should have it twice as bad then. I retorted that I would go to the police; they laughed and said nothing, but the next day a police captain came, and from that day on I have never thought of turning to the police for aid.

“Ultimately, I capitulated. More than anything else, I was afraid they would make me pregnant. But I was so sullen and cutting that clients were put off—except for certain ones. The worse I treated those, the more eagerly they came back. It was then that the madam put me in ‘specialities.’ With my temperament and my looks, she said, I was perfect; and once I became good at it, I wouldn't even have to let the man touch me anymore. She brought in an expert from the outside to instruct me, and I took to it immediately. I had developed such a loathing for men by then that I took a tremendous pleasure in mistreating them. This pleasure didn't last, but in the beginning it was quite real and helped make me an instant success, which improved my situation considerably. I remained a prisoner of sorts and continued to be shamelessly exploited, but I enjoyed a prestige that allowed me to do as I pleased in the house; in time I became almost comfortable there and was no longer watched. I was not happy, but I had sunk into a hebetude, not unpleasant, that drowned all initiative and will. Who knows how long I'd have stayed if I had been left to my own devices? But such was not my destiny.

“One day I had a distinguished visitor—he was not the only one, by any means, but he was special. It was the French
ambassador, an elderly and elegant gentleman, highbred, cultivated, intelligent. An avowed voluptuary, too, but romantic. He was not one of the common ilk; he had heard about me, he explained, and was curious to see for himself what it was like. Well, he came back, though it was not for another ‘special session’ but to spend the evening with me—talking, because I no longer allowed clients, even the most distinguished, to touch me. And I charged him an outrageous sum for the favor. Far from being discouraged, he was back again the following day: he liked me, he said, he liked me so well that he wanted to take me to Washington with him. Was I willing? I was dumbfounded and at first did not take him seriously. But he convinced me that he meant it, and that it was entirely feasible. He was used to acting with vigor and proposed to take me with him that very evening. I said no. He gave me a deep, quizzical look, kissed my hand, and left. ‘I always respect a lady's wishes,’ he said as he was leaving, and then added with a roguish smile, ‘But sometimes I know her wishes better than she.’

“I brushed him off as a romantic Frenchman who had let himself get carried away by a momentary infatuation, and was surprised when a letter arrived a month later. It was a beautiful letter—beautiful in every way. I spent two weeks framing a reply; fortunately, French was a language I could write correctly, thanks to my aunt's intransigence—in fact, I wrote it better than English or even German. He later confided that my command of the French language had impressed him as much as my beauty.

“That was the beginning of a fervent correspondence. Our letters were very fine—his especially; they ought to be published someday. Through them I came to know him, respect him, and almost love him. He had apparently thought about everything under the sun. And that included everything about me. I was impressed and touched to discover how attentive he was to everything I told him; I never touched upon a question that he
did not pick up and elaborate on, and small details I hardly remembered mentioning would suddenly be alluded to. For five months, the correspondence was my entire life. Then he came and took me away.

“I spent three wonderful years in Washington. Much of the time I was alone—I could not appear in society as the ambassador's mistress, and he had a wife in addition to all his other activities. But I did not mind. I had a small but lovely house, a piano, books that came by the armful, and the best mentor in the world. I read, I practiced, I reflected; I was happy.

“Only love was missing. For I did not love my ambassador, though I had the deepest affection for him in addition to boundless esteem and gratitude. I endured our intimacies with the best of grace, but that was about the extent of it.

“Then he was recalled back to Paris. He offered to take me, but I chose to stay. I explained to him quite honestly that three years of that secluded life was enough, and that I had a plan: I wanted to go to college, as much to create a new identity for myself as to complete my education. As a student, I would quite naturally make friends with well-connected young women and through them gain an entry into society. My ambassador did not want to part with me, but he loved me enough to comply with my wishes, and to help. He left me the house in Washington, along with a modest but by no means negligible sum of money. To the last, his generosity toward me was exemplary.

“The rest you know. I sold the house to go to Vassar. All went as I had envisioned. I impressed everyone, faculty and students alike. A great many girls vied for my friendship, and I could have my choice. Soon I was being courted by a number of highly eligible young men—brothers, family friends—as well as some older but more interesting professors. Among my admirers were a few that were quite attractive, but I bode my time. Only with you did I finally let myself fall in love.

“Our meeting was no accident. I knew about you before accepting Lisa's invitation, and I knew about your family of course. So you see, I was every bit the adventuress your father thought me. Yet in a deeper sense, he was wrong, fatally wrong. He saw only the hands reaching for his fortune; he didn't see the heart that directed them. He didn't consider my love for you, and what my love would mean to someone like you, somebody who apparently had everything—everything, that is, but character. And that was precisely what I could have given you. You needed me.
Me
,
and not just another woman, because she wouldn't have seen it, your potential, and your weakness. At first sight you were just another rich young man, richer than most and rather more attractive, but that was all. I realized only after a time that you had something else, a sensibility that made your horizons elastic, a passionate core that could soar if it found its direction. That was what, taken together with your other advantages, made for such exciting potential. Perceiving that potential, I began to love you. And that love brought out the best in me. Part of me that had been forced under by circumstances now reemerged. I had ideals, talent, beauty, and I wanted to do things, great things, wonderful things; and I could do them with you. Oh, the things we could have done together! For me it was an awakening into a dream, a dream of life that was just beginning to dawn.