SHORT STORY

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 384, 19 June 1928, Page 3

SHORT STORY

The Picture of Marion Gray

By

W. SHELTON-SMITH

Marian Gray stared into her mirror as if she had seen a ghost. She had —the ghost of her youth, materialised not by thaumaturgy, but by a chance remark overheard at afternoon tea. At first—so successful had been the selfdeception of years—she did not recognise the beautiful girl mirrored in the glass as a ghost. She thought that the girl was herself, and the ugly, tired, old woman leering at her the trick of a depressed imagination. Then the truth devastated her. The ugly, tired, so-old woman was herself; the beautiful girl was her youth come back to mock her age and the futility of her fight against it. A youthful face reflected in Marian Gray's mirror was an anachronism, for it was framed by the devices and artifices of age. The dressing-table was as elaborate as a musical comedy actress’s. There were adjustable side and top mirrors, lit by an intricate system, controlled by a small battery of switches with which she could increase the power until the lamps glared as bright as sunshine, or diminish it until they gave the soft glow of shaded candles on a dinnertable. This arrangement enabled Marian Gray to judge with nicety the application of the contents of the pots, boxes, and tubes that strewed the glass surface of the table. She was mistress of the art of make-up. There was no risk of her committing the solecism of making-up heavily in Indifferent light, and then going into bright sunlight looking like a—well as those people are supposed to look. Nor was there risk of making-up lightly by daylight and then entering a dimly-lit ballroom looking pale as a ghost. Marian Gray found compensation for the necessity for mak-ing-up in the art she applied to It. Her home presented no problems, because she could choose her settings, and she had studied the lighting of every room by day and night. Outside her home there were difficulties, but her circle of friends was not large and she seldom erred, so long as they restricted their entertainments to

their homes. Sometimes, inevitably, there were blunders, and she was miserable in the knowledge that her face was out of the picture. Once she went to a teaplace she knew well that was lit in soft, old-rose shades, to find that, following the mode, the decoration had been changed to represent a desert, with brilliant lighting to simulate the Algerian sun. She scalded herself with her tea and never went there again. Now she knew that the struggle had been in vain. She realised in this moment of selfanalysis before the mirror why she had made the effort. The dieting, the Turkish baths, the exercises, the massaging, the experimenting with every fresh nostrum that promised to bring back youth—all had been to hold John. John, who still looked youthful, despite that his age was the same as hers; who, more than looking youthful, was youthful. The overheard remark of the afternoon had told her brutally that she had failed. The blow had been so brutal that she continued the polite puerilities of hostess at afternoon tea in a daze. The force of the blow had saved her; she felt that had she not been dazed, had she been able to think clearly for a moment, she would have torn that woman to pieces. Now, when she was alone, she felt no rage, only a despair so deep that she had been sitting at her mirror, motionless, for nearly an hour. “He has developed quite a flair for the flappers lately, hasn’t he?” She had heard the words almost without hearing them, and had taken no notice of them. Not for a moment did she suspect that they were associated with her. Then the blow: “Well, what do you expect? Marian is not getting any younger, and she’s showing it, too.” The malice of the tone, the cruel shrug of the shoulders, had meant nothing; her mind was too occupied with the fact that they had been talking about John and her. John, her husband. Everything was painfully clear

now, and she knew that she had only herself to blame. Although she had refused to admit it, they had been growing farther apart for months. She had so jealously guarded the secret of her age that the old, sweet intimacies had ceased. Her face and figure had occupied all her time. Her days had been spent preparing for the night—preparing to enter the din-ing-room a young, beautiful woman. And the only reward had been a glance of admiration from John, an admiration as impersonal as he would give to a painting. That had been the mistake, she realised now. She had overdone her art; her beauty had the flaw of flawlessness; she had been too perfect to be human. John’s impersonal admiration had maddened her. Often she had wanted to cry, “For God’s sake tell me I am beautiful, that you love me.” The words had been stifled; her beautiful mask had not slipped. If it had, she might have won. Had she betrayed herself as a human instead of a work of art she might have penetrated John’s reserve. It was too late now, she had lost him; but she continued to scourge herself with remorse. John had been going out by bimself a great deal lately. That had been her fault, too —she had sent him. Dancing and parties had lost all attraction, and she had shrunk from inviting comparison between herself and flappers. She almost choked at the word. Everywhere she saw youth; her every thought turned to youth. How beautiful she had been when young. That was not imagination, she reflected, but demonstrable fact. Hanging on the wall, of her bedroom was a painting by a famous artist that he had lightly called "The Picture of Marian Gray.” She had removed it to her bedroom long ago, because she did not want it about to remind people of what she had been, and also she wanted it as a model for her make-up. In her bedroom, after she had completed her toilet and adjusted the lights, she could almost persuade herself that she was as she had been. Now she turned to the picture with loathing—the ghost of her lost youth, taunting, mocking. She told the maid that she would not be down for dinner, and turned from the painting of the woman she had been to the reflected woman she was, but she could no longer face her image in the mirror. Weary from the emotional storm of the last hour, her head sank into her arms. If only,

she thought, "The Picture of Marian Gray” had been as “The Picture of Dorian Gray.” If only she had been able to retain her youth while her age had been written on the picture. Youth was the only thing worth while in life. Were it possible to sell her soul to the devil for even one night of youth she would count the price cheap. One night of youth! What would she not give for that? When she raised her head and looked in the mirror she knew that her face was stained with tears, and for a moment the tears prevented her focussing her eyes. When she had blinked away the tears she did not believe for a moment what she saw. The tears had streamed down her cheeks, but they had ploughed no furrow in the make-up, and she realised that she had no make-up. Her face was as it had been —fresh, young; bright eyes of youth, spangled with tears, but clear, and challenging under long naturally curled eyelashes. Even then she did not understand that a miracle had been worked until she looked at “The Picture of Marian Gray.” It was true. The woman of the painting had become the old woman that was she; Marian Gray had become the girl that she had been. One night of youth. Her prayer had been granted, and it did not worry her that it was for only one night. She seized the gift ecstatically, without question. The devil! The devil was an angel. But what to do with the gift! she asked herself. John would have gone now, to . She remembered—Elsa Gibbons’s party. She had not declined, but had asked John to make her excuses. She would go to the party, and enjoy one triumph. After that, who cared?

Dressing was a new pleasure. No need for a corset to-night, for her figure was as slim and as firm as a girl’s. She kicked a pair of corsets across the bedroom, corsets that cleverly concealed the boning underneath pink and hand-loomed elastic, rosebuds, and brocaded broche—but corsets still, despite the camouflage. To-night she would not feel constricted, and she would be able to dance as she loved to, and had pretended that she did not. Bath salts, not too much, because she knew the' charm of a faint perfume, just a suggestion of scent. Underclothes in which had been placed just a single drop of perfume the night before they

were expected to be worn, and she made a careful selection from filmy chiffon and georgette. At last the frock, a youthful affair, bought with no thought that she would ever wear it. She had bought it merely as an objet d’art, a thing to admire and mourn over in her bedroom. It was of pale pink georgette, the bodice with a light jumper effect, a full skirt, with a Vandyke hem, decorated all over with silver beads, and with a border of beads at the bottom of the skirt. Silver shoes and stockings matched the silver beads, and, seizing the huge fan that matched the frock, she examined herself critically in the full length mirrors. Jewellery? No, even a ring would spoil the effect. No need to-night for a necklace to hide the sagging throat, or for rings to conceal the fingers that showed the veins of age. She was young again, beyond the need of artifice. She slipped on the coat of deeper shade than the frock, patterned in silver, roses and with white foi at collar and cuffs, and blew herself a kiss. She had a young body with a mature mind, poise, grace—the sophistication of the woman of the world and the ingenuousness of youth. She had never looked better even in the picture. Elsa Gibbons’s party had been going some time when Marian Gray arrived, so she was able to slip in unnoticed. John was nowhere to be seen, and she was grateful. She needed time to compose herself, to test whether her rejuvenation was real or fancied, before she met him. The band was playing “Blue Heaven,” banal, sickly with sentiment, but how it made her feet impatient to dance. She did not have to wait long for a partner; several men detached themselves from groups, and she realised that they were coming to her. She accepted the first to ask her, and surrendered herself to the dance. It was wonderful to dance and think of nothing else. No need to worry tonight about keeping up the pretence of youth, no mental strain. She felt that she was floating, for her partner was a good dancer, with perfect balance and a real sense of rhythm. When the music ended, and her partner was applauding politely for an encore, he said, “I like ’Blue Heaven’ to dance to, don’t you?” Her head was still in the clouds, and she was vaguely hurt and disappointed. Was that all he could find to say? Why not something about her dancing, her frock, herself? ..

“Yes, it is a good dance number,” she answered, lamely, and her partner seemed relieved when the beginning of the encore made unnecessary another attempt at conversation. He was a good dancer, but that was all, ghe found. He brought her a drink after the dance, and, although she did her best, she could not maintain a conversation with him. He could not talk, he could not flirt. Why, in her day . But what was she thinking about? Her day. She had never been old; this was her day, or night, and she began to feel cheated after several more dances. Her partners disappointed her. They were all young, handsome, good dancers, but nothing more. When she was part of a group of young people for a few minutes she realised why she was not enjoying herself as she should. Marian Gray had regained her youthful appearance, but not her youthful mind. Youth was not so much without as within. The conversation of the young people was meaningless to her, vapid. Dance steps, tennis parties that she had not attended, slangy chit-chat and laughter at jokes she did not see. It meant nothing to her, bored her. Young people were so stupid and selfish. Here was her night of nights, and what could she do with it? It was slipping away rapidly. Something told her that, like Cinderella, she had only until midnight, and it was a quarter-past 11 o’clock already. Then she saw John. She and her partner had gone in search somewhere to sit out a dance, and when they looked in a lounge room she saw her husband. He appeared supremely happy; on either side of him was a flapper young enough to be his daughter. They were gazing at him with wrapt attention, worshipping him with the worship that most young girls have for handsome, sophisticated middle-aged men. Marian Gray withdrew hurriedly from the room, and sent her partner in search of a drink. She felt she had to be alone. Footsteps sounded behind her, and she heard John’s voice. “Pardon me, but I just had to speak to you. You remind me very much of someone I —-—. Do come for a walk in the gar- | den.” She went with him, .without a | thought for the unhappy youth who ! would be searching for her with the I drink. j “Yes,” she said. “I remind you of j someone you ” “Well, if you must know, someone I used to love very dearly.” i “I don’t know that it is very; flatter-

ing to be compared with a dead love.” “No, I don’t mean it that way. Not a dead love, a lost love.” “So you are one of the well-known genus that preys on the sympathy of we poor women.” Marian Gray was enjoying this conversational duel. How different from the halting sentences exchanged with her dancing partners! Besides, here was a chance to know John, to probe his mind. She hoped he would make love to her. “No; I shall not try to make love to you, you need not fear that," he said. “You see, I happen to be in love with my wife.” Marian started. In love with his wife. Surely this was nonsence. She knew he was lying. “What a strange man.” “Do you think so?” They were seated by an Italian pond, and hidden lights changed the spray from the fountain into a million jewels. “It is strange for me to be talking so confidentially to you, whom I have never met before.” Marian smiled to herself. “I don’t seem to be able to help myself. I love my wife, but I have lost her love.” Marian went to speak, but stopped in time. “We were so happy until she got the being young craze. Now she has no time for me. All her time is occupied with turkish baths, massaging, making-up, dieting. I hardly ever see her, and when I do I cannot talk to her. She is too perfect to be human, like an exquisite, fragile vase that must be handled with care. Why cannot she realise that it is undignified, vulgar, weak, to counterfeit youth. Youth is not the best time of life. The present is always the best time —if you make it so. The art of growing old gracefully is the greatest art in life; it’s the secret of life.” “And the tragedy of it all”—Marian Gray could not keep a tone of bitterness from her voice—“is that the poor, misguided woman has been doing all this for you—to hold your love.” She started. “What’s that?” “Only a clock striking midnight Don’t go; I like talking to you.” Marian Gray had risen in a panic. Midnight. She was being trapped, like Cinderella. “I must, good-night.” She began to run. but it was too late. There was a deafening crash, and she felt herself sinking, sinking. WTien she raised herself from the floor of her bedroom the first thing she saw was “The Picture of Marian Gray.” The canvas was in ribbons, torn by the dressing-stool that had been hurled through it. —From “The Australasian.”- ,