e Viberts again. It was too painful an experience; and yet I could see
that Vibert cared for his wife in a weak sort of a way. But she was too
overpowering for him and her robust, intellectual nature needed
Nietzsche's whip--a stronger, more passionate will than her own. It was
simply a case of mismating, and no good would result from the union.

Later I felt as if I had been selfish and priggish, and resolved to
visit the home in Harlem and try to arrange matters. I am not sure
whether it was curiosity rather than a laudable benevolence that
prompted this resolve. However, one hot afternoon in May, Arthur Vibert
entered my room and throwing himself in an easy-chair gave me the news.

"She's left me, old man, she's gone off with Paul Goddard." ...

I came dangerously near swearing.

"Oh, it's no use of your trying to say consoling things. She's gone for
good. I was never strong enough to hold her, and so it's come to this
disgraceful smash."

I looked eagerly at Arthur to discover over-mastering sorrow; there was
little. Indeed he looked relieved; his life for nearly a year must have
been a trial and yet I mentally confessed to some disappointment at his
want of deep feeling. I saw that he was chagrined, angry, but not really
heart-hurt. Lucky chap! he was only twenty-two and had all his life
before him. I asked for explanations.

"Oh, Ellenora always said that I never understood her; that I never
could help her to reach the rim of finer issues. I suppose this fellow
Goddard will. At least she thinks so, else she wouldn't have left me.
She said no family could stand two prima-donnas at the same time: as if
I ever posed, or pretended to be as brilliant as she! No, she stifled
me, and I feel now as if I might compose that romanza for my concerto."

I consoled the young pianist; told him that this blow was intended as a
lesson in self-control; that he must not be downcast, but turn to his
music as a consolation; and a whole string of such platitudes. When he
left me I asked myself if Ellenora was not right, after all. Could she
have reached that visionary rim of finer issues--of which she always
prated--with this man, talented though he was, yet a slender reed shaken
by the wind of her will? Besides, his chin was too small.

He could not master her nature. Would she be happy with Paul Goddard,
that bright-winged butterfly of aestheticism? I doubted it. Perhaps the
feminine, receptive composer was intended to be her