“How do you explain it? I have never felt ecstatically happy, in those circumstances.”
“I can’t tell you,” she replied. “The children want me to discuss it. I don’t want to discuss it. The beautiful thing about it is that it doesn’t have to be discussed. All I know is, that in this fixed and blessed mood of mine I feel my life in relation with what hasn’t changed and won’t change; and if one can only keep one’s life there, what actually becomes of one, in ordinary personal relations, doesn’t matter, simply doesn’t matter.”
“I felt that way once,” I said, “or something like that. It was when I had ended a labor of ten years, and had written the last page of my Roman Epigraphy. I didn’t care for several days whether I lived or died, after that. ‘All the best of me,’ I said to myself, ‘is there, exempted from time, safe in that book.’ But I found that I couldn’t get my table companions at the University Club to take that view. When it was published, not a soul of them read a word of my ‘best.’ They seemed still to prefer the worst of me, the mere empty shell from which the oyster had been extracted—and canned.”
Cornelia looked at me gravely. “You are jesting,” she said. “Please don’t. I am in earnest. When I step into our little church, I say to myself, ‘Cornelia, what you really care for is safe here. You don’t need to worry because other people don’t agree with you, and don’t value what you value.’ And then the final responsibility, for everything, seems to slip so blissfully from my shoulders, and to be accepted by a Power so much stronger and surer than myself, that sometimes I envy the white-cowled peaceful-faced women who have gone into the Church and closed the door behind them.”
“You would have to leave Dorothy and Oliver behind you,” I said, “if you did that; and they are worth saving, too. My dear Cornelia, I am afraid this ‘blessed mood’ is a little dangerous to you, and very dangerous to the rest of us. Don’t wrap it too closely around you. I knew a woman once who never gave her husband any occasion for anxiety about any other man, but she fell so much in love with her clothes that she became inaccessible to him, and finally made him frantically jealous—jealous of her necklace and of her gowns.”
“Do you think I am really like that?”
“No, but that is a parable. You are becoming very fond of Church clothes. You are so ‘dressy’ that you have become a little inaccessible to the children, already—to their sympathies, I mean. They are essentially so informal, you see. They don’t understand you. I do understand you—somewhat. And what I understand chills me a little. I understand you to be on the verge of losing heart over the problem of reconciling yourself to the undistinguished mixture of life. Your son would say that you have the ‘retreat-complex.’”
“I’m sure I don’t know what he would mean by that. What do you mean by it?”
“I understand you to be on the point of making a mystical surrender of your personality—on the verge of lapsing into a beatific mood which will separate you still farther from Oliver—and from me, and will ensure you against the pain and bitterness of reality. If you should surrender and really become spiritual, like Father Blakewell, or saintly, like no one of my acquaintance, you would drop out and desert us. If you became saintly, which Heaven forbid, your character would melt away like a little cloud in the moonlight. Your charm for me, for all of us, is in the definiteness of your personality, the clearness and distinction of your individuality. You are piquant and delightful because you are a challenge, a whiff of the wind, a counterblast. You have the ‘fighting edge.’”
Cornelia smiled as if she were recalling something sweet. “I am a little tired just now,” she said, “of fighting. There are pleasanter things than that. I want to surrender and repent.”