A Bloodsmoor Romance (78 page)

The more The Beast haunted her, the more Malvinia bathed, seeking to purge herself of offensive odors; she applied harsh depilatories, to rid herself of ugly hairs, that sprouted in her armpits, and elsewhere, with brutal persistence. She found that The Beast was somewhat subdued, if she went for most of a day without eating, and drinking naught but water. And, when the
unitary act
was unavoidable, as a consequence of her companion's natural lustful appetite, and his imbibing of copious quantities of alcohol, the cunning young woman acquired the discipline of lying immobile, as if paralyzed, or a veritable corpse, the better to overcome unspeakable inclinations: and so, much of the time, her pride was maintained. (For she could not bear it, that Orlando Vandenhoffen, who had adored her from the first as his “Princess”—his “Angel”—his “Snow White”—should have any true suspicion, of the degree to which The Beast ofttimes permeated her being.)

I shall not succumb,
Malvinia grimly instructed herself, but, alas, she had not always the choice.

FIFTY-SEVEN

I
t was many years later, at a private dinner in a most sumptuous dining room, in one of the newer and more palatial Fifth Avenue mansions, that Mark Twain said of Malvinia Morloch that he “would, but for his rheumatism, fall down in worship at her feet: for he greatly admired such vivacious
life,
to the extent that his own heart was
dead.
”

This drawling observation was greeted with somewhat confus'd laughter, and, from her position farther down the table, the greatly flattered actress made a show of opening her silk embroidered fan, that she might display her slender fingers, upon which many a jewel licentiously glittered; and, cleverly choosing not to have heard these words with any precision, tilted her head coquettishly, and said, in a charming mock drawl (in a pretty imitation of Mr. Twain's slow, twangy, Western speech): “It would be a regrettable waste, sir, that so distinguished a man of letters, attired, moreover, in so dazzlingly resplendent a white costume, might so misconstrue the natural order of things, as to concern himself with my
feet.
” A speech greeted with even more appreciative laughter, from both the ladies and the gentlemen present (for, I hardly need say, the “ladies” in attendance at a banquet of such a kind, were possessed of no more natural feminine reticence than Malvinia herself).

It may have been the case that Malvinia Morloch's cheeks
did
betray a light rosy blush, as if in girlish consternation at such words; but the blush, I assure you, had been
cosmetically
applied, some hours earlier, by the young woman's adroit hand.

Malvinia's slight acquaintanceship with the famed man of letters harked back nearly a decade, when, as I have recorded, she played an agreeably fresh
ingénue
in
Ah Sin,
and caught the erstwhile playwright's eye. She had, however, glimpsed him but rarely in the intervening years, less I might infer, as a consequence of the married gentleman's moral disapproval of her liaison with Vandenhoffen, than of the fact that, business and professional exigencies having arisen, Mark Twain had found it more pragmatic to dwell, for much of the year, in Europe.

The great man's public person was so widely known, and his frequent presence in New York City so noted, that even the self-absorbed Malvinia Morloch could hardly fail to be aware of him, and to admire him, rather more for his enormous success and prosperity, than for his writings. (There is a distinct possibility that, as a girl, she might have glanced through a copy of
Roughing It,
and
The Innocents Abroad
—that lively book being one of Judge Kidde­master's great favorites, for, as he phrased it, “he had badly needed instructions not to feel
guilt,
that Europe, with its interminable cathedrals, and madonnas, and gibbering jabbering culture, had left him stone cold every time.”) And, too, a merry imperative of Twain's—
Earn a character if you can, and if you can't, assume one
—had struck her innocent ears as altogether sensible, rather than cynical: tho', for many years, she had believed it to be yet another of Franklin's waggish epigrams.

Like all observers who gazed upon Mr. Twain, knowing in fact that he
was
Mr. Twain, and not a mere nobody with a sudden surplus of cash, that allowed him to hire a tailor, and give himself a swaggering mock-modest style, Malvinia admired his manly countenance, and thought him, for his age (he was fifty-eight years old, when Malvinia was thirty-three), wondrously appealing: with his thick unruly gray-white hair; and his bushy eyebrows that gave him a look of leonine but playful ferocity; and his slow, guarded, twangy “bumpkin” speech; and his bristling mustache—so large, it covered his entire upper lip, and subtly masked his expression—whether he smiled or grimaced, or merely pursed his lips, in habitual amused censure of the folly glimpsed on all sides. She could not fail, like any young woman of her ilk, to admire his ostentatious clothes, and his evident wealth, which displayed itself in the size and elegance of the carriages he hired, and, tho' I must not give the impression that, over the years, Malvinia Morloch truly took note of the illustrious author, with anything approaching a systematic interest (being frantically absorbed in both her professional career, and her tumultuous private life), she would certainly have concurred with popular sentiment, because it
was
popular, that Mr. Mark Twain ranked with the highest literary geniuses of all time, whether American, or European; or whatever. (“I have read your books, Mr. Twain,” Malvinia said, upon the occasion of his taking her to dine at the Park Lane, on canvasback duck, turbot, and roast beef, “tho' perhaps not
all
of them,” she allowed, so dipping her melodious voice, that her archness was for once infused with a most pleasant sweetness, “and, I must say, they have made me laugh, and made me think; and I am most grateful to you.” Mr. Twain then tugged at his generous, manly mustache, and allowed himself a small gratified smile, and inquired of his pretty companion which book of his she most cherished,
Thrice-Told Tales,
or
The Fall of the House of Usher?
Whereupon the shrewd Malvinia, sensing something amiss, pouted, and murmured that she did not like to be interrogated, let alone trifled with: for it was in her nature to be
artless
and
sincere,
and to speak her heart fully, with no thought of being quizzed or judged.)

 

THE OBSESSIVE PURSUIT
of Miss Malvinia Morloch by Mr. Mark Twain was to occupy that bemused gentleman for but eight or nine months, out of a most complex and troubled lifetime; and within, as well, a particularly troubled year, so far as Mr. Twain's chronic business difficulties were concerned (his investment in the doomed Paige typesetting machine taking precedence over other vexations); and his heartrending familial problems, of which he took care never to allude to, in Malvinia's presence (for his faithful wife, Livy, at that time dwelling in Europe, continued to suffer ill-health, as did his epileptic daugther, Jean); and his own deepening perceptions as to the “malign thug” who ruled over the universe. (Such heretical usage giving me pause, as I hardly need inform the reader, in the very act of recording it: for is not one susceptible to wickedness merely by
taking note of it?
—and is the chronicler, however innocent, and proceeding but along the lines laid out by Duty, perhaps guilty of
disseminating
that very wickedness she would
transcen
d
?
)

That the licentious “love affair” came to a most disastrous, and, indeed, humiliating conclusion, for both principals, is a fact that should be softened by our superior knowledge that it figured but slenderly in the lifetime of each; and that, in particular, the episode for Malvinia is most cogently comprehended as a
stopgap,
and a near-desperate means of
distraction,
as the storm clouds that brooded over the unhappy young woman's life began, with grim resoluteness, to close in.

(For, yes! Miss Malvinia Morloch, envied by so many, was a deeply unhappy young woman: no matter that her public gaiety would seem to deny it, and the lavishness of her jewels, and elaborately fashioned hair, and her ermines and minks and other furs; and the stern-willed
defiance
of her beauty.)

The fiery liaison with Vandenhoffen had ended, it is true, some years back: but, lest the romantic-minded reader immediately deduce that it was this loss that had pierced Malvinia's heart, to render her incapable of contentment, let alone those paroxysms of euphoria she almost daily simulated, I must inform you that the loss figured comparatively little in Malvinia's emotional life—to her shame be it said. For the sharp-eyed career woman had cruelly, but accurately, seen that her lover was past his prime, both so far as his thespian activities were concerned, and his youthful energies: she had noted the frequent slurring of his words, on stage, and an increasing slovenliness in his performance, as a consequence of the imbibing of alcohol, and a general indifference. (“Our audiences are but sheep, idiots, and love-starved females,” Vandenhoffen had observed. “Why, then, must we memorize each line to perfection, for
them?
”) If she suffered some small pang of regret, now and then, it was as much for the fact—which she and her associates at the Fanshawe had done their best to correct—that the public might believe
he
had left
her,
in order to return to his wife: and naturally her vanity was prick'd.

No, the loss of Vandenhoffen did not deeply distress her, nor inspire many genuine tears: rather less, I suppose, than she was accustom'd to shedding in her nightly performances, when she portrayed, with a singular
authenticity,
now an aggrieved widow, now a betrayed wife, now a heartsick daughter, now a fiancée whose lover was in jeopardy.

Vandenhoffen was at once replaced by a new lover, and he in turn by another: a middle-aged manufacturer of ladies' parasols; a gentleman-attorney in the hire of the copper trust; a widower-banker with several anxious sons (and heirs); an associate of Chauncey Depew; an amiable ne'er-do-well, the youngest son of a wealthy family, who spoke often of having “quite pulverized” Theodore Roosevelt, at Harvard, in the semifinals for the lightweight boxing championship. And, one giddy evening, when, it seemed, a political victory of some sort was being celebrated, by gentlemen conspicuously
not
in the company of their wives, but of another sort of woman altogether, Malvinia had even come face-to-face with—of all people—Cheyney Du Pont: so hideously chang'd, as to his physical being, and so pathetically drunk, that she no more recognized him at first than he did her.

“My dear
Mademoiselle,
” the bulbous-nosed creature began, attempting a leering smile, and a bow so clumsy he nearly toppled against Malvinia, “unless I am gravely mistaken—and I am ofttimes so mistaken—are we not, to your knowledge, previously acquainted? Or are you but a part of my dream? My dream that goes on—and on—and
on:
and is so hideously compelling, I am tempted to believe it is real!”

It was that night, whilst tossed by chaotic dreams, that Malvinia experienced,
for the first time in more than twenty years,
a sudden and unmistakable flood of grief—and loss—and anguish—and, yes, heartrending
guilt:
not for her cold-blooded treatment of Mr. Du Pont, nor even for her heinous treatment of her belovèd parents: but for her inexplicable disregard for that gentle man of the cloth, the
Reverend Malcolm Kennicott!

You may well register surprise, as I do; and yet it is so. Some obdurate rock in Malvinia's soul must have been o'erturned, by the ghastly reappearance in her life of the once-dashing Cheyney; and by the frenetic gaiety of the revelers, which had left her more than ordinarily exhausted, and desirous of being alone. Her toilette but half completed, she collapsed upon her bed, and, by way of the great mystery of the night, in which all the laws of nature and logic are suspended, the glamorous
Malvinia Morloch
found herself transform'd into the child
Malvinia Zinn:
but eight years old, and weeping copious tears, as if her heart would break!—for the childish cruelty she had unwittingly perpetrated upon Mr. Malcolm Kennicott, whom she adored above all men, save her father.

Mr. Malcolm Kennicott—whom she adored above all men, save her father!

Hoarse shuddering sobs roused her from her alcoholic slumber, and, for some affrighted moments, Malvinia scarce knew where she was: murmuring in a piteous voice, “Octavia? Octavia? Why have you slipped out of bed, and left me alone? I am so very, very frightened!”

Gradually her senses returned; she knew she lay in a bed not her own, in a hotel, in a great city (for down on the street, even at this godless hour, the clatter of horses' hooves sounded on the cobblestones, and drunken masculine laughter arose), she knew she had traveled a great distance—a tragic distance—from her lost, belovèd Bloodsmoor, and from the innocent little girl she had been, at the age of eight years.

Lost—ah, lost!

And never to be retrieved!

Whether Mr. Malcolm Kennicott was deceased, and now dwelt in Spirit World, from which his phantom might be freed at such exigent moments; or whether it was but hallucination, I cannot say: but Malvinia so clearly beheld his melancholy visage, she would have sworn he had entered her bedchamber. His dreamy, poetical countenance—his shy-smiling eyes—the hair which was fawn-colored, and wavy, and silken-soft—the boyish air, suffused with wounded reproach!

“I am so sorry—I did not know—O dear Mr. Kennicott! I was but a heedless child,
and did not know
—”