Butterfly (4 page)

At the same time it became more evident with each passing day that I could no longer live away from Butterfly. It was as if I had left something behind in Japan whose existence I had ignored but without which I was severed from reality. Listless and indifferent to the world around me, I would sometimes catch myself touching parts of the body to reassure myself of their solidity, so curiously disembodied did I feel. Not that Butterfly occupied my mind to the exclusion of all else; for all that I loved
her, she in no way impassioned me as Kate had a year before. But at times I would be overcome by a feeling of want that, unlike passion, went beyond sentimental or physical yearning—it was more like missing some part of my own core.

During this period of impatient waiting, I became conscious of the enormity I had committed. The more I missed Butterfly's presence, the less I felt I had ever deserved it; and the more others condemned my present attachment and urged me to break it off, the less I forgave myself for the wrongs I had already done her. Had I not married her on a caprice, without giving a thought to her feelings or to the position I was placing her in, or even to the consequences for myself? Reviewing what had passed between us, I now discovered offense in a thousand details. My callousness and cynicism mortified me. Even my love for her began to seem suspect. Had my unwillingness to part from her been more than, say, a momentary reluctance to quit a warm bed? Did I miss her so much only because she had made my life so comfortable? True, I had become devoted to her and no longer thought of abandoning her. But would I spend the rest of my life in Japan or take her back to America? That question had been held in abeyance and never confronted.

Perhaps we are not given to reflect upon matters that cannot hurt us. Perhaps our moral sensibility is no more than a generalized sensitivity to pain which, like an insurance policy for the furniture within our walls, covers only that through which we can sustain sensible damages. So long as Butterfly remained a plaything, however favored, I imagined I treated her well and was well-pleased; but once I took stock of what she had become for me, I felt uneasy for having treated her as less. And the deeper my remorse, the worse I endured our separation, for only her physical presence could palliate—by suspending, not canceling—the moral sting. Alas, what we seek so avidly in a woman's body is often not pleasure but oblivion from the knowledge of turpitude knotted indissolubly in our heart.

6

Early in September I announced my decision to sail for Japan on the S.S.
Putnam,
scheduled to leave San Francisco on the eighth of November. My mother, after giving me a withering look, continued to cut her meat; Lisa drew in her breath and averted her face. Neither commented. The silence was uncomfortable, but I felt relieved that they seemed to acquiesce.

Three weeks later, to my considerable surprise, Lisa informed me that Kate would be coming to stay for a while. “You needn't look so consternated,” she said with a little pout. “She's not coming to settle accounts with you. It's me she's coming to see. Now that Dad's gone, there's no reason why she should stay away—except maybe for your presence.”

I made a vague protesting gesture that led Lisa to declare, “Oh, don't think she's afraid to see you! She just didn't want you to feel embarrassed, but I told her you had the skin of an elephant and wouldn't mind in the least. Wasn't I right to do that?” My disapproval no doubt showed on my face, because a sly little smile animated her lips. “She's an angel; she doesn't hate you for being a cad. She doesn't even seem to hold it against you. How she does it I'll never understand.” The smile was gone, and her throat had tightened. “Hen, if it were me, I think I'd scratch out your eyes.” I nearly flinched; a savage rasp in her voice had made the threat feel like a beast ready to spring. She glared at me for an instant, then turned away and stalked from the room.

Lisa's words did not reassure me; on the contrary, they aroused my suspicion. Was this not a last-ditch attempt on the part of my mother and Lisa to dissuade me from returning to Butterfly? When I broke off my engagement with Anne, my mother had reacted even more violently than my father; given her subsequent aversion to Kate, Lisa could not have extended an invitation
without her consent. And Kate for her part would not have chosen this moment to visit; why should she wish to see a faithless lover who had jilted her for another? Unless, encouraged by Lisa and my mother, she was coming in the hope of reconquest—or revenge.

I was vexed at what seemed an underhanded scheme, and a dark premonition made me wish I were safe on the open sea. At the same time, the prospect of seeing Kate again held a secret sweetness that seeped into my heart; I tasted it furtively, and apprehension rippled through my veins like cold sparkling champagne. . ‘

7

(Pinkerton's letter to William Harrington, dated September 10, 1895)

My dear Willy,

A hundred and thirteen pardons—one for each day—for having subjected you to the ignominy of learning about my broken engagement in the society column. My one excuse, weak enough I grant, is that I've been meaning to get down to New York and thought I'd break it to you in person and in detail.

To answer your questions: Yes, I did jilt Anne in a dastardly fashion. And yes, it was for another woman. Charges of ignoble behavior will not be denied; I'll put myself at the court's mercy with only the extenuating plea of a lady's beauty. And who is this lady? Her name will mean nothing to you, and as I do not wish to have to apologize to you a second time for a like reason, I announce to you herewith that we are engaged to be married, which will justify me in
referring to her as Kate. She went to Vassar, and it is there that Lisa met her and—God bless her sisterly solicitude!— brought her home for the spring holidays.

Now, imagine a morning like any other and you're going in for breakfast and suddenly you see in front of you, right there in your own breakfast room, a woman more beautiful than any you've ever seen or imagined! Lisa had written about a girl in the Senior class—two years ahead of herself—who was the
ne plus ultra
and whom I simply
had
to meet, but being already engaged to Anne, I did not take this to heart; and certainly I did not expect something so dazzling—excuse the choice of words, I really was dazzled! I hate to think how I must have looked—surely very foolish, because Lisa laughed at my being starstruck and asked if she wasn't even going to get a kiss to welcome her home. I felt every bit like a schoolboy.

I'm afraid I can't quite tell you what happened during breakfast, Willy—only that we took our time and that by the time we left the table, the sonorities of her rich, melliflous voice had entranced my soul and I knew that I wanted never to leave the side of its owner. It was as if I had stepped across the threshold of the breakfast room into another dimension. My life before that moment was left far behind; everything in it seemed distant and without substance. Anne, whom I had thought charming the night before, now appeared a callow debutante whose every word and gesture betrayed a depthless, conventional spirit. My love for her evaporated—that is, what I had taken to be love; indeed, I understood no longer how I could have imagined myself in love. The fluff and frills of her coming and going, the coy little games she played with me, even her prettiness and physical charms, suddenly seemed insipid, even irritating. I knew then that I could never marry her.

Lisa was an absolute dear during the ten days they were
home. She practically arranged our first tete-a-tete and did everything to bring us together—not that we needed encouragement! After that visit, I was running down to Vassar every second week. Kate, who has a small income and no close kin, took up lodgings in Boston after her graduation, so we've been seeing a great deal of one another (though never enough for me). Willy, I cannot tell you how happy I've been; I hope with all my heart that you'll someday find out for yourself what true happiness is.

Our relations, by the way, remain as chaste as new snow, not for lack of desire, mind you, but rather out of its abundance—a kind of mystical reverence that makes the approach to the shrine a stately if steady procession. Don't laugh, Willy! One day you'll know what it's like. The very strength of our desire quenches its urgency, because in the core of our being we know that our love will be with us as long as we are together—and what can part us, Willy? Nothing! By the way, I speak of the carnal aspect only to forestall the indiscreet questions and insinuations that I know would come if I didn't.

Joking aside, when will you be coming up? We all miss you, and I can't wait to have you meet Kate, and to hear about your latest adventures. In the meantime, Lisa joins me in sending our most affectionate regards,

HENRY

(From Pinkerton's letter to Harrington dated September 23, 1895)

. . . You demanded a description; well, think of Helen appearing on the ramparts before the old men of Troy, or of Phryne wowing the Athenian jurymen. But if you must stick to being your prosy old Willynous self, then think of
Vivian Pearson, but in a transfigured version, or better, think of that stunning dark-haired girl at Madame Pons's —Liddy? or Lydia?—the one with the extraordinary wild eyes who married a Russian count, to the despair of two gallant sophomores I remember who would have vied with each other in ruining themselves over her! I don't mean to say Kate really resembles either of them, but you get an idea of the type. ...

(From a letter written by George Collins to William Harrington dated October 19, 1895)

. . . You might be interested to know that I ran into Henry the other day in the Fine Arts Museum accompanied by Anne Courtland's successor. Like everyone else, I had been surprised by the news of the rupture—as far as I was concerned, Henry and Anne had formed a couple since they were still practically children, and a perfectly assorted one at that. I remember how they used to go off cooing together when we were still in short pants, and with their parents’ blessings
par dessus le marché.

Henry and his new paramour were both very amiable and we ended up spending the afternoon together. Well, after that I understood. Anne is a lovely girl and a Courtland, but she simply cannot hold a candle to her rival, whom I shan't presume to describe; like any great
oeuvre d'art,
Miss Hamilton has to be seen. I can only say that she is a woman such as one would put on the Ark were there a second Deluge; or on the throne if our country had a queen. I am not a pursuer of the
éternel féminin
like you or Henry, but I do believe myself to be at least as sensitive as
vous autres fins connoisseurs
to those qualities not so immediately seized upon by your roving eye; and there I
declare
sans hesitation
that I have rarely if ever beheld a woman of Miss Hamilton's stamp. In the loftiness and depth of her mind, in fineness of sensibility, in nobility and poise and that
je ne sais quoi
of feminine grace, she is the equal of a Beatrice. The Pinkertons should be on their knees thanking God for sending such a woman to their son, who
entre nous
hardly deserves this munificence. Instead, they raise a hue and cry because now the Courtlands are offended and their dynastic ambitions are foiled. As if the Pinkertons needed to expand their dominions! But they probably think of themselves as Aragon and covet Castile. . . .

8

(The Nagasaki ms.)

Kate was standing with her back toward the door when I entered. I had resolved to be composed, but my heart beat wildly when I saw the rich, heavy coils of dark hair poised inimitably over that proud neck whose contours I knew so well. Hearing me, she turned.

The sight of her stopped me in my tracks; for a moment I stood stock-still, as one might in suddenly beholding a masterpiece. No, I had not forgotten how beautiful she was. Who could forget the miracle of harmony that was her face, or the skin that breathed with endless sunshine and spring, or those eyes, dark and vertiginous like the deepest well? But remembering was one thing, meeting in the flesh quite another.

Yet even as I stood suspended in admiration, I took stock of the inner distance that separated us now. I felt acutely how we were detached from one another even as I was merged with Butterfly. At that very instant Butterfly was so strongly present to me that I
could all but feel her looking through my eyes, as I sometimes did through hers. Never had I been so clear about my position with regard to the two women. Released all at once from the apprehension that had been troubling me a second before, I strode confident and smiling toward Kate. My only uncertainty was whether to kiss her in greeting, for I wished to spare her any awkwardness.

Of this there was no danger. Kate, unambiguously offering me her hand, was open, even warm, and apparently without embarrassment or rancor. She congratulated me like an old friend on my marriage and did not shy from talking about Japan; but she invited no confidences and left no opening for intimacy. The ease in her demeanor made my suspicions seem absurd and mean-minded; I, who had feared unwelcome intentions on her part, was now almost piqued to find her manifestly lacking any beyond that of reviving her friendship with Lisa.

In the days to come, Kate neither sought nor avoided my company, but I seldom saw her alone. She was a model of social amiability, no less and no more. Her behavior could not have been more perfectly tailored to my wishes, for what I had most desired for our reunion was peace of mind, hers and mine. Yet if I felt grateful, it was not for long. Soon it began to rankle—not seriously or excessively, but there it was nonetheless—that I should receive so little of her attention while seeing so much of her person. I took to wondering about what she felt in my presence, about what and whether she thought of me, about what she did with memories of moments I still treasured. Surely it was not possible for her to forget how happy we had been together, or remembering, to be unaffected. I, well, I had Butterfly; but she? Had she truly put me out of her heart, or was she only maintaining an outward dignity? I spied in vain for some telltale sign of unavowed interest and retired each evening a little more convinced of her indifference.