Alice Ruth Moore
1895
Font Size
Medium
This is an image of dried petals scattered on an old book.
Alice Ruth Moore (1875-1935) was an American poet, journalist, and political activist. In this story, a woman describes memories of an old love.
Yes, Eleanor, I have grown grayer. I am younger than you, you know, but then, what have you to age you? A kind husband, lovely children, while I — I have none of that. Time goes slowly, slowly for me now.
Why did I never marry? Bernard? Oh, that’s a long story. I’ll tell you if you wish; it might pass an hour.
Do you ever think about the old school days? We thought such foolish things then, didn’t we? Every one of us imagined we would have only to knock ever so faintly on the portals of fame and they would fly wide for our entrance into the magic realms. On Commencement Night, we whispered merrily among ourselves on the stage to see our favorite planet, Venus, of course, smiling at us through a high, open window, “bidding adieu1 to her astronomy class,” we said.
Then you went away to plunge into the most brilliant whirl of society, and I stayed in the beautiful old city to work.
Bernard liked you a great deal in those days, because in school-girl parlance2 you were my “chum.” You say — thanks, no tea — you say you know what happiness means — maybe, but I don’t think any living soul could experience the joy I felt in those days; it was absolutely painful at times.
Lord Byron3 and his counterparts are ever dear to the enamoured heart, whether young or old. Such a man was Bernard: gloomy, tired of the world, with a few dozen broken relationships among his varied experiences. Of course, I worshipped him secretly, what romantic, silly girl of my age would not?
One day, he folded me securely in his arms, and said:
“I have nothing to give you in exchange for that priceless love of yours but a heart that has already been at another’s feet, but may I ask for it?"
“It is already yours,” I answered.
Then began some of the happiest hours that ever the jolly old sun beamed upon or the lovesick moon clothed in her rays of silver. Deceived me? No, no. He admitted that the old love for Blanche was still in his heart, but that he had lost all faith and admiration for her, and could nevermore be other than a friend. Well, I was foolish enough to be content with such crumbs.
We had five months of happiness. I tamed down during that time — even consented to adopt his peerless Blanche as a model. I gave up all my most ambitious plans and cherished schemes because he disliked women whose names were constantly in the mouth of the public. In fact, I became quiet, sedate, and renounced some of my best and dearest friends upon his request. Still, for all the suffering I’ve experienced, I’d be willing to go through it all just to experience those five months again. Every day together, at nights on the lake-shore listening to the soft lap of the waters as the silver sheen of the moon spread over the dainty curled waves; sometimes in a hammock swinging among the trees talking of love and reading poetry. Talk about paradise!
But there is an end to all things. His father sent for his wayward4 son after falling ill. I will always believe he loved me, but he was eager to get home to his mother and father, and anxious to view Blanche in the light of their new relationship. We had a whole series of parting scenes — tears and vows and kisses exchanged. We clung to each other and swore never to forget, and to write every day. Then there was a final wrench. I went back to my old life — he, away at home.
For a while, I was content; there were daily letters from him to read, his many little tokens to adore — until there came a change — letters less frequent, more mentions of Blanche and her love for him, less of his love for me, until the truth was forced upon me. Then I grew cold and proud, and with an iron will crushed and stamped all love for him out of my tortured heart and cried for vengeance.
Yes, quite melodramatic, wasn’t it? It is a dramatic tale, though.
So I threw off my habits of seclusion, mingled again with friends, and took up all my long-forgotten plans. It was really wonderful, wasn’t it? It seems as though that fickle goddess, Fortune, showered every blessing on my path. Success followed success, triumph succeeded triumph. I was lionized, honored, exalted by the social and literary world. You often used to wonder how I withstood it all those years. With the heart-sick weariness and the fierce loathing that possessed me, I hardly know myself.
But, mind you, Eleanor, I schemed well. I had everything seemingly that humanity craved for, but I suffered, and by all the gods, I swore that he should suffer too. Blanche turned against him and married his brother. An unfortunate chain of circumstances drove him from his father’s home branded as a fraud. Strange, wasn’t it? But money is a strong weapon, and its long arm reaches over miles and miles of land and water.
One day, he found me in a distant city, and he begged for my love again, and for mercy and pity. Blanche was only a mistake, he said, and he loved me alone, and so on. I remembered all his trilling tones and tender glances, but they might have moved granite sooner than me. He knelt at my feet and pleaded. I laughed at him and sneered at his misery, and I told him what he had done to my happiness, and what I, in turn, had done to his.
Eleanor, I shall never forget his face as he rose from his knees, and with one awful, indescribable look of hate, anguish, and scorn, walked from the room. As he neared the door, all the old love rose in me like a flood, drowning the sorrows of past years, and overwhelming me in a deluge of pity. Strive as I did, I could not repress it. I called to him in terror, “Bernard, Bernard!” He did not turn; gave no sign of having heard.
He passed slowly away with bent head, out of the house and out of my life. I’ve never seen him since, never heard of him. Somewhere out there, he wanders outcast, forsaken, loveless. I have my vengeance, but it is like Dead Sea fruit, all bitter ashes to the taste. I am a miserable, heart-weary wreck — a woman with fame, without love.
Vengeance is an arrow that often falls and strikes the hand that sent it.
What are TWO ways in which the narrator changed for Bernard? (Paragraph 11)
A. She became more sincere.
B. She spent more time indoors.
C. She changed her appearance.
D. She abandoned plans for her future.
E. She spent less time with her friends.
F. She spent less time with her family.
1 answer
The two ways in which the narrator changed for Bernard are:
D. She abandoned plans for her future.
E. She spent less time with her friends.
In paragraph 11, the narrator indicates that she gave up ambitious plans and renounced some of her best friends at Bernard's request, suggesting significant changes in both her future aspirations and her social life to align with his preferences.
1 answer
1 answer
1 answer
1 answer