Powers of Attorney by Louis Auchincloss

“I’ll have my little say, and then I’ll be off.” She paused, and when she spoke again there was a tremble of deep feeling in her voice. “Dear Morris, I hope that you and I will always be the best of friends. But I cannot marry you.”
    â€œBecause of the diary?”
    â€œBecause of the diary.”
    â€œIs it so terrible?”
    She seemed to consider this. “It’s a monster,” she said in a hushed, low tone. Again she paused and then relented a bit. “Though I suppose there’s nothing wrong with a monster if you don’t happen to be on its bill of fare.”
    â€œAnd you are?”
    â€œOh, my dear, you should know that. Don’t you send a tribute of men and maidens each year to the labyrinth? No, I’m
serious,
Morris,” she exclaimed when he smiled. “You’ve created a robot! He’s grown and grown until you can no longer control him, and now he’s rampaging the countryside. I dared to face him. I tried to give you time to get away. I was even able to stand him off a while. But now my stones are gone, and Goliath is stalking towards me!”
    â€œHow fantastical you are. Really, Aurelia, I wouldn’t have thought it of you. You’ve seen for yourself that the entries stop with our friendship. If anyone’s won, it’s you.”
    â€œBut I tell you I’m out of ammunition!” she exclaimed shrilly. “I have to take my heels while I can. For don’t think Goliath wouldn’t get his revenge for all those missing entries. I should be made his slave, like you. I should be harnessed and put to work. After all, he has missed the woman’s touch, hasn’t he? The woman’s point of view? Isn’t that the one thing he needs. Didn’t Pepys have a wife? Wasn’t there a Mrs. Saint-Simon?”
    â€œThere was a duchess,” Madison said dryly.
    â€œExactly. And your diary wants a Mrs. Madison. But it won’t be me. And if you’re wise, Morris, it won’t be anyone. You and your diary can be happy together. But, I beg of you, don’t listen to it when it points its long, inky finger at another human being!”
    Madison was beginning to wonder if she was sober. “You must think me demented.”
    â€œWell, I don’t suppose you’d burn down New York to make a page for your diary.” She laughed a bit wildly. “After all, you might burn the diary with it. But, no, you have copies in a vault, don’t you?” Here she seemed at last to remember herself, and she placed a rueful hand on his. “Forgive me, my dear, for being so overwrought. Let me slip away now and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll take a pill. And next week we’ll talk on the telephone and see if we can’t put things back on the nice old friendly basis.”
    â€œAurelia—”
    But she was gone. She was hurrying across the room, between the tables, and he had actually to run to catch up with her, clutching his three volumes.
    â€œAurelia!” he cried in a tone that made her turn and stare. “Wait!”
    â€œWhat is it, Morris? What more is there to say?”
    â€œYou haven’t told me what you
think
of the diary.”
    She seemed not to comprehend. “I haven’t?”
    â€œI mean what you think of it
as
a diary.”
    â€œOh.” She treated this almost as an irrelevance. “But it’s magnificent, of course. You know that.”
    â€œIt’s just what I
don’t
know! It’s just what I’ve spent the past several months trying to find out!”
    â€œOh, my dear,” she murmured, shaking her head sadly, “you have nothing to worry about
there.
It’s luminous. It’s pulsating. It’s unbelievable, really. I doubt if there’s ever been anything like it. Poor old Saint-Simon, his nose
will
be out of joint. Oh, yes, Morris. Your diary is peerless.”
    She turned again to go out the door,