The Gilded Cage (22 page)

Lawrence's face had been frozen in an expression of agreeable intelligence, but as the words slowly sank in, his facial muscles went slack. “I beg your pardon.”

“Do not beg my pardon,” Most said tiredly, handing the papers to him. “I will not pardon you for writing slop. Go away, young man. Come back when you have something important to say. This,” he continued with more spirit, jabbing a thick finger at the pages, “is merely a
pastiche,
you know this word?”

Lawrence stiffened. “Of course.”

“A pastiche of ideas and words you have read and heard. So go home and think harder. Better yet,” he went on as Lawrence turned and walked through the fusty office, through dust motes spinning in a shaft of white sunlight, “do not think at all! Do you know what Kropotkin said, that ninny?”

Lawrence turned, speechless. Prince Kropotkin, the brightest light on the anarchist scene, a ninny? The beloved man was a Russian of noble birth, twice imprisoned, now in exile in London. He had swept aside the violent rhetoric of Bakunin to espouse a more philosophical approach, stressing freedom and cooperation as an anarchist ideal. He was a beloved figure, known for his sweet temper. Lawrence couldn't imagine anyone who would dare call him a ninny but Johann Most.

Most gave him a baleful stare. “Even gentle Kropotkin, my young friend, said that a single deed is better propoganda than a thousand pamphlets. You understand the Propaganda of the Deed? Men such as you should not be
thinking!
You are not good at it, my friend.”

Lawrence was in agony. He saw the other workers, how studiously they bent over their tasks, how carefully they must be listening. “Thank you, Herr Most,” he said at last. He wondered at the power of a man who could command a thank you after an insult. The tips of his ears burned with humiliation as he turned and walked out of the
Frieheit
offices. Once again, he'd been thwarted. Once again! Perhaps that awful Emma Goldman—one of Most's disciples, and probably in his bed—had prejudiced the great man against him. He wouldn't be surprised.

He stood on the sidewalk, wondering where to go. He'd planned to celebrate the publishing of his article with Columbine. He thought it was the first step on the road to matching her celebrity. Opening his fingers, he allowed the pages he had labored over for so many hours to drop to the pavement. A gust of chill wind danced them down the street.

His thoughts turned to Columbine. Yet another failure. Lawrence grimaced and began to walk. He might as well admit that his campaign to seduce her was not going as well as he expected. There were times Lawrence thought she was close to falling, times when her eyes would soften, her body seem to yearn toward him, but if he tried to embrace her, she would move away. Suddenly, anger swept over him at the thought of her. He was tired of rejection. He had had enough.

It was dusk when he arrived at Twenty-third Street. Teatime. His mouth was watering as he climbed the stairs. Columbine always had such fine teas, a holdover from her aristocratic days in England. There were usually sandwiches, and scones and cream, and wonderful little cakes she bought from Mrs. Tolliver next door.

Marguerite let him in, an odd expression on her face. Usually she ignored him, but today she waited while he took off his coat. And then he heard it, too—raised voices from Columbine's parlor.

He raised his eyebrows at Marguerite.

“It's Mr. Van Cormandt,” she said. “Perhaps you should return some other time.”

“Perhaps I should,” Lawrence said mechanically, but he stayed rooted to the carpet, listening intently. Then, when Marguerite looked at him quizzically, he said, retreating to the back of the hall, “I'll just wait a moment and see if Mr. Van Cormandt goes.”

Marguerite gave him a shrewd glance underneath spiky black lashes. Then she shrugged and retreated back up the stairs. Whatever was not directly connected with her, she didn't bother with. And she had to pack.

As soon as she'd passed the landing, Lawrence went to the parlor door. He didn't have to press his ear to the crack. The voice came through clearly. He'd never heard Columbine angry before.

“You should know me better than this, Ned,” she said. “To come to me with accusations! With hearsay, innuendo. Do you expect me to adjust my behavior according to this?”

“Yes!” Lawrence heard quick footsteps cross the room. “Yes. You don't have to bar the house to him, but yes, you should be wary.”

A chill passed over Lawrence. They were discussing him, of course. What had Ned found out? Had he gathered information from California?

“And Mr. Reed, too,” Columbine stormed on. “I would think a journalist had some objectivity. A few doubts, a few hesitations from a few anarchists downtown, and he makes the charge of informer—how ludicrous!”

Reed! He had spoken to people downtown. No wonder everyone was distant with him! Reed had poisoned their minds. He had probably gotten through to Most, as well! Lawrence felt rage overtake him. He began to shake. Always, people were against him. Again and again he found that basic human fear of a superior mind. Columbine understood that.

“There are other things,” Ned said. “I have more—”

“No! I will not listen to any more. I cannot. Ned, Ned, can't you remember what I was called? Mad. Adulteress. Prostitute. Wanton. Spy. You name it, I was called it!”

Yes, she understood him. He should have known she would.

Now, Ned sounded angry as well. “And so, because you were called these things once, for the rest of your life you will turn away from any gossip or hearsay of any kind, even if it indicates that a person is not trustworthy? Columbine, surely you can see that at least you must listen, must not completely turn your back—”

“No, Ned, I do not agree. I must trust myself. And I will not listen to any more slander. I think you should go. Take these with you.”

“Don't give me those keys, Columbine. They have nothing to do with this. Here, I'm leaving them on the desk.” There was a pause. “I'm sorry if I pained you.”

Lawrence scuttled backward, for footsteps were approaching. He found the door to the kitchen and quickly stepped into the small pantry. He heard Ned hesitate in the hall, then take his coat from the rack, open the door, and go.

Lawrence stayed a few seconds to compose himself, for he was still shaking with rage. Columbine mustn't know he'd been here, that he'd heard.

He walked into the parlor. She was standing in the middle of the room, her hands clasped before her. She hadn't lit the gas, so dusky shadows filled the room, and the only light came from the fire. She jumped when she saw him enter.

“Lawrence!” She gave a short laugh, a half-gasp. “I thought you were a ghost.”

Closing the door firmly behind him, he hurried toward her. “What is it, my dear? You look upset.”

“No, no, not upset. Oh, Lawrence, people can be so horrid!” She looked at him earnestly. Was she now looking for a trace of dishonesty, of moral baseness? Damn Ned Van Cormandt!

“Let's sit down,” he said, guiding her toward the sofa. He sat down with her and chafed her cold hands. “I saw Mr. Van Cormandt leaving,” he said. “Did he upset you?”

“He didn't mean to,” Columbine said in a low tone. She looked down at Lawrence's bent head. The fire picked out strands of gold. Ned had to be wrong, she thought. Lawrence was so kind.

“
He
didn't seem upset,” Lawrence said. “He looked … triumphant.”

“Did he?”

She kept her hand in his, but it was inert. Lawrence leaned down and kissed it. Then he looked up at her and kissed her mouth softly.

Her lips smiled underneath the kiss, and when he pulled away, she said, “Lawrence, you mustn't do that again.”

“Don't say that,” he said desperately, knowing that now it was time, it was finally time to force the moment. Now, when she had finished defending him, when she was just starting to realize that she was tied to him. “You must know how it pains my heart to think of him with you, to know that you once thought you loved him.”

“Why?” Columbine asked.

Lawrence looked surprised. “Because he is evil.”

Columbine laughed slightly, and pulled her hand away again. “Oh, Lawrence, no. Ned is a good man. And I
did
love him.”

Lawrence felt something tick inside him. She had patronized him. She must never, never patronize him. “It's all right, Columbine. You didn't know,” he said.

She seemed bemused. “Know what?” She leaned over to turn on the gas lamp on the table by the sofa.

He grabbed her by the waist, preventing her. “Please don't,” he said. The softness of his voice belied the strong grip on her waist. “It's easier to talk without the light.”

Columbine pulled back warily. “All right,” she conceded. “For a moment.”

“You didn't know,” he continued, “what your true calling would be yet. You didn't know that later it could hurt you, the fact that you'd been a rich man's mistress.”

Columbine frowned. “Lawrence, I'm not following you.”

“That's exactly what I want!” he cried ecstatically. “For you to follow me!”

A distant alarm bell sounded somewhere in Columbine's brain. Lawrence's pale blue eyes had a light in them she'd not seen before, and it was not a comforting light. She tried an easy laugh. “If you want me to follow you to the tea table, I agree. Why don't I go prepare the tray? Mrs. Brodge left everything in the kitchen. I'll just—”

His arm shot out and he captured her wrist. “Not yet,” he said. “Not yet. No jokes. I want to finish this.”

“Lawrence, let go of my wrist,” she said calmly, and was relieved when he did. “Finish what?”

“Finish telling you. Ned knew your body, but I know your mind, Columbine. You need my ideas. You need to experience the beauty of what I know. Your view of human nature is so false, so pessimistic. That is what is holding you back from a true philosophical commitment to anarchism. If you believed in the goodness of human nature, you'd see that only when the state is destroyed will we be able to live freely and well. The storehouses will open, and everyone will take what they need. We will live according to a social contract.”

“But Lawrence,” Columbine said reasonably, “this is all very noble and good. But I do not believe it will work. And even if I did believe it, I would never countenance violence to achieve it.”

“But violence is the most beautiful part of it!” Lawrence said. “Don't you see? How else do we purify but through fire? How else do we build if we don't destroy?”

Columbine tried to rise, but he took her wrist again. She tried not to be alarmed. He was just overcome with his ideas, with his emotion. He needed to calm down. “Let me get some tea, and we'll continue the discussion,” she said.

“No. Now, now, it must be now.” Spittle formed on the corners of his mouth. “If you will only open your heart and accept it, just think what can be done! With your celebrity, and my ideas, you will be the most famous convert to anarchism in history!”

Now Columbine was beginning to get angry. “Lawrence,” she said with asperity, “my mind is not the
tabula rasa
you think it is. I have my own ideas. And they do not correspond with yours.”

He waved the hand not holding her wrist. “You think you have ideas. What you really need is to learn.”

“Lawrence, let go of me. Let go!” Her voice was higher-pitched now, and he looked at her with interest.

“Do I frighten you?”

“No,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. But she
was
frightened, a little. Ned's warnings flew in her brain, and she sorely wished she had heard him out. He had left so abruptly. Perhaps he would come back! She would be very glad to see him. Lawrence was acting so strangely. “It's just that you won't let go of my arm,” she added. “Please let go, Lawrence.”

He ignored her. “It's because you feel my power that you're afraid. You sense my superiority. That's good. That will make things good for us.” With his other hand, he reached out and stroked her cheek. “The time has come to be close, Columbine.”

She looked into Lawrence's eyes, and she no longer saw the eyes of a friend. He looked angry; if he was trying to seduce her, he was doing a bad job of it. “No, Lawrence,” she said, as gently as she could.

“Yes, Columbine,” he said, and he smoothly took her other wrist in his strong grip. He placed his mouth over hers, and it was wrong. His other kisses had been so gentle, the kisses of a young poet, almost shy but with a hint of the sensuality to come. But now his tongue thrust between her lips and into her mouth too eagerly, making her gag.

“Columbine,” he coaxed, “Feel the power of us together. You have to know I'm right.”

She tore her mouth away from his. “No!” she cried. Panic washed over her. Lawrence was holding her so tightly, and he wasn't letting go. Marguerite was the only one home, and she was upstairs in her room, as she always was these days, her door closed, most likely napping.

“Don't shout,” he said crossly. “Why are you shouting?”

“Lawrence,” she said desperately, “you're forcing me. You don't want to force me.”

“Of course I don't want to force you,” he said. But he did not let go of her wrists, and he raised them above her head and maneuvered himself on top of her.

“Get off,” she said. “Get off now, or I'll hurt you, Lawrence.”

He laughed, but his breath sucked in when her knee came up sharply. “Don't do that again,” he said in a constricted voice. His grip didn't loosen.

“Let me go,” she shouted. Her heart was thundering so she could barely hear her voice. It sounded so weak.

Now Lawrence realized that he
did
want to force her. Hadn't she tantalized him? Hadn't she kissed him, just a few minutes earlier? Wasn't she waiting breathlessly for a strong man to push her, physically and mentally, into her potential? “You don't realize what you can be,” he said with a smile that chilled Columbine's blood. “I'm just showing you the way.”