The Clock and the Key

her Jacqueline nor I, under the red and white striped awni

hat hung over the enchanted city. A great stillness was over all–only th

a single moment. But there it is, your dear, dear Venice–the green garden away up there; the white Riva, basking in the sunlight; the rosy palace; and the red and orange sails, drifting slowly a

of Venice, I had been intoxicated with the beauty of Jacqueline. I mus

Look, there is a penny steamer making its blatant way from the Molo to the Giudecca. And that far-off rumble is the express crossing the long bridge from Mestre

n her seat and look

will you answer

But don’t forget, Jacqueline, Venice

goons that you quite made me long for them. But now, when I am at last under one of your wonderful skies and on your wonderful lagoon, instead of hel

ust not allow myself to forget that

don’t under

d brought Jacqueline alone with me here to tell her why I must not allow myself to love her; and, I may add, to hear her laugh to delicious sc

n living in Venice?” I asked pre

ears, is

e to be dreaming an

looked gravely

man of–shall we say–thirty years of age, to spend three

nervously; “hardly

contrast rather unfavorably with the lives

pend one’s life well

d rather

the Lido and a swim, if it is summer. At five another long smoke and incidentally a long drink on the Piazza again, and the band. At seven, dinner at the Grundewald, a momentous affair, when one hesitates ten minutes over the menu. Then another long smoke out in the lagoon, under the sta

ntentness, and I was uneasy under her gaze. I knew s

keep quite fit in

she said at last, almost in admiration. It was

ndon in January and February, and a few weeks in the

ke it?” she asked,

iking it again. I have despis

as on Tuesday that Jacqueline and her aunt had arrived i

eplied dreamily. Then quite abruptly, “You di

N

sh tutor, who took me for solemn walks in the park for recreation. I was hardly any better off than the pale-faced little idiots you see marching about Rome and Palermo two by two, dressed up in ridiculous uniforms of broadcloth, and carrying canes–not so well off, for ther

sick boy,” she mu

s on the river, and dreams bad for a boy of my years–just a long s

habits of boyhood told now. I found it harder than ever to get into things. I found myself more and more the mere

y, she had no mercy for the man. “And so because you idled through college and liked it,

st time came face to face with my father. At least it was the first time that he had taken the trouble to s

are supposed to demand much of their husbands and fathers. But at least they res

e loves you in his way. That you have so little ambition is the bi

d asked me without any preliminaries what I thought I was fit for. I told him that I really hadn’t any idea. He thumped his great fist on his desk and roared: ‘So far, young man, your mother has had her turn. S

anded to me, and shook him dutifully by the hand. ‘Good-by,’ he said, ‘and when I say a chemist, I mean a good ch

ut,” said Jacqueline

of students of the university. I drank a lot of beer, but I studied very little chemistry. At the end of my two years’ probat

s what to do, I received word that my mother

y father. Why should I? I began to ask m

life is one of work and yet more work–of tasks and habits that bind one more and more inexorably as the years go on. This is not success at all, but the direst failure. A life made up of habits an

lash? There are thousands to agonize and strive, to create the beautiful–and to fail, terribly. Why should you be dragged into the ranks of those slaves to an ideal? There are hundreds to make the world better. Why should you be a slave to conscience? Bu

said Jacqueline wistfully. “But there’s sophi

ess I alone can tell. Dear Jacqueline, I had left one thin

ne looked troubled.

tten that on

inting through the red and white striped awning, I took her hand. “Dea

withdrew her hand gently. I

you are in Venice, I have tried to remind myself just as strongly that you come from the world of the penny steamboat and factory–a workaday world–a relentless world. In that world men tear and rend one another for a name, for a position. Each one is for himsel

knees, and looked at me with a curious intentness. When she did speak, it

ree years. Your very last words about my poor world show how great a gulf is fixed between you and me. Yes, I am of that world. I glory in it. But you sneer at the very qualities you lack. That is so easy, and, forgive me, so weak. You call my poor world ruthless. But often ruthlessness, yes, and unscrupulousness even, go with strength. The man I love must have a touch of this rele

the truth. Presently she looked at

urt you,” s

e final? If I plunge into this struggle–if I show you that I too can strive and achieve thi

hange his spots?”

have not cared to succeed before, perhaps it was because there was nothing or no one to work for. If I show you th

to show that?” aske

ork to-morrow. I could jo

o-morrow!” she

usly. I had caught

responsibility unless I loved you. 14I do not love you. But

pt to do what you have condemned me f

t here in Veni

ce? Impo

of writing up the legends of Venice. You said they ha

exclaimed di

why

abits and ambition and tastes. Why not at

rence how obscure one’s task is. It may be even a useless task, o

you are giv

her gloved h

ove you, now. I could not love such a one as you. Whether I could love y

make you love m

nstant, then hers fell

row faster? I shall be late for luncheo

’t see you th

ccompany my aunt and mysel

delighted.

aler in antiquities is to take us there. He is to buy the contents of the palace as they stand. Y

-brac here in Venice. He is a J

unt and I know him we

s n

as an immense sho

claimed, “and he i

u know

e. He is responsible for my wasting these past three years. I feel a grudge against him for that. He owes me som

azza at three. But you have n

s cigarette and bent to his oar. The gondola, like a thing