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The Arrow Of Gold
By
Joseph Conrad
THE ARROW OF GOLD=
A STORY BETWEEN T=
WO
NOTES
BY JOSEPH CONRAD<= o:p>
Celui qui n’=
;a
connu que des homes polis et raisonnables, ou ne connait pasl’homme, =
ou
ne le connait qu’a demi.
CARACTERES.
TO RICHARD CURLE<= o:p>
* * * * *
Contents
The pages which follow have been
extracted from a pile of manuscript which was apparently meant for the eye =
of
one woman only. She seems to =
have
been the writer’s childhood’s friend. They had parted as children, or ve=
ry
little more than children. Ye=
ars
passed. Then something recall=
ed to
the woman the companion of her young days and she wrote to him: “I ha=
ve
been hearing of you lately. I=
know
where life has brought you. Y=
ou
certainly selected your own road.
But to us, left behind, it always looked as if you had struck out in=
to a
pathless desert. We always re=
garded
you as a person that must be given up for lost. But you have turned up again; and =
though
we may never see each other, my memory welcomes you and I confess to you I
should like to know the incidents on the road which has led you to where you
are now.”
And he answers he=
r:
“I believe you are the only one now alive who remembers me as a
child. I have heard of you fr=
om
time to time, but I wonder what sort of person you are now. Perhaps if I did know I wouldnR=
17;t dare
put pen to paper. But I don=
8217;t
know. I only remember that we=
were great
chums. In fact, I chummed wit=
h you
even more than with your brothers.
But I am like the pigeon that went away in the fable of the Two
Pigeons. If I once start to t=
ell
you I would want you to feel that you have been there yourself. I may overtax your patience with t=
he
story of my life so different from yours, not only in all the facts but alt=
ogether
in spirit. You may not
understand. You may even be
shocked. I say all this to myself; but I know I shall succumb! I have a distinct recollection tha=
t in
the old days, when you were about fifteen, you always could make me do what=
ever
you liked.”
He succumbed. He begins his story for her with t=
he
minute narration of this adventure which took about twelve months to
develop. In the form in which=
it is
presented here it has been pruned of all allusions to their common past, of=
all
asides, disquisitions, and explanations addressed directly to the friend of=
his
childhood. And even as it is =
the
whole thing is of considerable length.&nbs=
p;
It seems that he had not only a memory but that he also knew how to
remember. But as to that opin=
ions
may differ.
This, his first g=
reat
adventure, as he calls it, begins in Marseilles. It ends there, too. Yet it might have happened
anywhere. This does not mean =
that
the people concerned could have come together in pure space. The locality h=
ad a
definite importance. As to the
time, it is easily fixed by the events at about the middle years of the
seventies, when Don Carlos de Bourbon, encouraged by the general reaction of
all Europe against the excesses of communistic Republicanism, made his atte=
mpt
for the throne of Spain, arms in hand, amongst the hills and gorges of Guip=
uzcoa. It is perhaps the last instance of=
a
Pretender’s adventure for a Crown that History will have to record wi=
th
the usual grave moral disapproval tinged by a shamefaced regret for the
departing romance. Historians are very much like other people.
However, History =
has
nothing to do with this tale.
Neither is the moral justification or condemnation of conduct aimed =
at
here. If anything it is perha=
ps a
little sympathy that the writer expects for his buried youth, as he lives it
over again at the end of his insignificant course on this earth. Strange person—yet perhaps n=
ot so
very different from ourselves.
A few words as to
certain facts may be added.
It may seem that =
he
was plunged very abruptly into this long adventure. But from certain passag=
es
(suppressed here because mixed up with irrelevant matter) it appears clearly
that at the time of the meeting in the café, Mills had already gathe=
red,
in various quarters, a definite view of the eager youth who had been introd=
uced
to him in that ultra-legitimist salon.&nbs=
p;
What Mills had learned represented him as a young gentleman who had
arrived furnished with proper credentials and who apparently was doing his =
best
to waste his life in an eccentric fashion, with a bohemian set (one poet, at
least, emerged out of it later) on one side, and on the other making friends
with the people of the Old Town, pilots, coasters, sailors, workers of all
sorts. He pretended rather ab=
surdly
to be a seaman himself and was already credited with an ill-defined and vag=
uely
illegal enterprise in the Gulf of Mexico.&=
nbsp;
At once it occurred to Mills that this eccentric youngster was the v=
ery person
for what the legitimist sympathizers had very much at heart just then: to
organize a supply by sea of arms and ammunition to the Carlist detachments =
in
the South. It was precisely to
confer on that matter with Doña Rita that Captain Blunt had been
despatched from Headquarters.
Mills got in touch
with Blunt at once and put the suggestion before him. The Captain thought t=
his
the very thing. As a matter of
fact, on that evening of Carnival, those two, Mills and Blunt, had been act=
ually
looking everywhere for our man.
They had decided that he should be drawn into the affair if it could=
be
done. Blunt naturally wanted =
to see
him first. He must have estim=
ated
him a promising person, but, from another point of view, not dangerous. Thus lightly was the notorious (an=
d at
the same time mysterious) Monsieur George brought into the world; out of th=
e contact
of two minds which did not give a single thought to his flesh and blood.
Their purpose
explains the intimate tone given to their first conversation and the sudden
introduction of Doña Rita’s history. Mills, of course, wanted to hear a=
ll
about it. As to Captain
Blunt—I suspect that, at the time, he was thinking of nothing else. In addition it was Doña Rit=
a who
would have to do the persuading; for, after all, such an enterprise with its
ugly and desperate risks was not a trifle to put before a man—however
young.
It cannot be deni=
ed
that Mills seems to have acted somewhat unscrupulously. He himself appears to have had some
doubt about it, at a given moment, as they were driving to the Prado. But perhaps Mills, with his penetr=
ation,
understood very well the nature he was dealing with. He might even have envied it. But it’s not my business to =
excuse
Mills. As to him whom we may =
regard
as Mills’ victim it is obvious that he has never harboured a single
reproachful thought. For him =
Mills
is not to be criticized. A
remarkable instance of the great power of mere individuality over the young=
.
Certain streets have an atmosphere =
of
their own, a sort of universal fame and the particular affection of their
citizens. One of such streets=
is the
Cannebière, and the jest: “If Paris had a Cannebière it
would be a little Marseilles” is the jocular expression of municipal
pride. I, too, I have been un=
der
the spell. For me it has been=
a
street leading into the unknown.
There was a part =
of
it where one could see as many as five big cafés in a resplendent
row. That evening I strolled =
into
one of them. It was by no mea=
ns full. It looked deserted, in fact, festa=
l and
overlighted, but cheerful. The
wonderful street was distinctly cold (it was an evening of carnival), I was
very idle, and I was feeling a little lonely. So I went in and sat down.
The carnival time=
was
drawing to an end. Everybody,=
high
and low, was anxious to have the last fling. Companies of masks with linked arm=
s and whooping
like red Indians swept the streets in crazy rushes while gusts of cold mist=
ral
swayed the gas lights as far as the eye could reach. There was a touch of
bedlam in all this.
Perhaps it was th=
at
which made me feel lonely, since I was neither masked, nor disguised, nor
yelling, nor in any other way in harmony with the bedlam element of life. But I was not sad. I was merely in a state of
sobriety. I had just returned=
from
my second West Indies voyage. My eyes
were still full of tropical splendour, my memory of my experiences, lawful =
and
lawless, which had their charm and their thrill; for they had startled me a
little and had amused me considerably.&nbs=
p;
But they had left me untouched.&nbs=
p;
Indeed they were other men’s adventures, not mine. Except for a little habit of
responsibility which I had acquired they had not matured me. I was as young as before. Inconceivably young—still be=
autifully
unthinking—infinitely receptive.
You may believe t=
hat
I was not thinking of Don Carlos and his fight for a kingdom. Why should I? You don’t want to think of t=
hings
which you meet every day in the newspapers and in conversation. I had paid some calls since my ret=
urn
and most of my acquaintance were legitimists and intensely interested in the
events of the frontier of Spain, for political, religious, or romantic
reasons. But I was not intere=
sted. Apparently
I was not romantic enough. Or=
was
it that I was even more romantic than all those good people? The affair seemed to me commonplac=
e. That man was attending to his busi=
ness
of a Pretender.
On the front page=
of
the illustrated paper I saw lying on a table near me, he looked picturesque
enough, seated on a boulder, a big strong man with a square-cut beard, his
hands resting on the hilt of a cavalry sabre—and all around him a
landscape of savage mountains. He
caught my eye on that spiritedly composed woodcut. (There were no inane snapshot-repr=
oductions
in those days.) It was the ob=
vious
romance for the use of royalists but it arrested my attention.
Just then some ma=
sks
from outside invaded the café, dancing hand in hand in a single file=
led
by a burly man with a cardboard nose.
He gambolled in wildly and behind him twenty others perhaps, mostly
Pierrots and Pierrettes holding each other by the hand and winding in and o=
ut
between the chairs and tables: eyes shining in the holes of cardboard faces=
, breasts
panting; but all preserving a mysterious silence.
They were people =
of
the poorer sort (white calico with red spots, costumes), but amongst them t=
here
was a girl in a black dress sewn over with gold half moons, very high in the
neck and very short in the skirt. Most of the ordinary clients of the caf&e=
acute;
didn’t even look up from their games or papers. I, being alone and idle, stared
abstractedly. The girl costum=
ed as
Night wore a small black velvet mask, what is called in French a
“loup.” What made=
her
daintiness join that obviously rough lot I can’t imagine. Her uncovered mouth and chin sugge=
sted
refined prettiness.
They filed past my
table; the Night noticed perhaps my fixed gaze and throwing her body forward
out of the wriggling chain shot out at me a slender tongue like a pink
dart. I was not prepared for =
this,
not even to the extent of an appreciative “Très foli,”
before she wriggled and hopped away.
But having been thus distinguished I could do no less than follow her
with my eyes to the door where the chain of hands being broken all the masks
were trying to get out at once. Two
gentlemen coming in out of the street stood arrested in the crush. The Night (it must have been her
idiosyncrasy) put her tongue out at them, too. The taller of the two (he was in e=
vening
clothes under a light wide-open overcoat) with great presence of mind chuck=
ed
her under the chin, giving me the view at the same time of a flash of white
teeth in his dark, lean face. The other
man was very different; fair, with smooth, ruddy cheeks and burly shoulders=
. He was wearing a grey suit, obviou=
sly
bought ready-made, for it seemed too tight for his powerful frame.
That man was not
altogether a stranger to me. =
For
the last week or so I had been rather on the look-out for him in all the pu=
blic
places where in a provincial town men may expect to meet each other. I saw him for the first time (wear=
ing
that same grey ready-made suit) in a legitimist drawing-room where, clearly=
, he
was an object of interest, especially to the women. I had caught his name as Monsieur
Mills. The lady who had intro=
duced
me took the earliest opportunity to murmur into my ear: “A relation of
Lord X.” (Un proche par=
ent de
Lord X.) And then she added,
casting up her eyes: “A good friend of the King.” Meaning Don Carlos of course.
I looked at the
proche parent; not on account of the parentage but marvelling at his air of
ease in that cumbrous body and in such tight clothes, too. But presently the same lady inform=
ed me
further: “He has come here amongst us un naufragé.”
I became then rea=
lly
interested. I had never seen a
shipwrecked person before. Al=
l the
boyishness in me was aroused. I
considered a shipwreck as an unavoidable event sooner or later in my future=
.
Meantime the man =
thus
distinguished in my eyes glanced quietly about and never spoke unless addre=
ssed
directly by one of the ladies present. There were more than a dozen people =
in
that drawing-room, mostly women eating fine pastry and talking
passionately. It might have b=
een a Carlist
committee meeting of a particularly fatuous character. Even my youth and inexperience were
aware of that. And I was by a=
long
way the youngest person in the room.
That quiet Monsieur Mills intimidated me a little by his age (I supp=
ose
he was thirty-five), his massive tranquillity, his clear, watchful eyes.
He turned his big
fair face towards me with surprise in his keen glance, which (as though he =
had
seen through me in an instant and found nothing objectionable) changed subt=
ly
into friendliness. On the mat=
ter of
the shipwreck he did not say much.
He only told me that it had not occurred in the Mediterranean, but on
the other side of Southern France—in the Bay of Biscay. “But this is hardly the plac=
e to
enter on a story of that kind,” he observed, looking round at the room
with a faint smile as attractive as the rest of his rustic but well-bred
personality.
I expressed my
regret. I should have liked t=
o hear
all about it. To this he said=
that
it was not a secret and that perhaps next time we met. . .
“But where =
can
we meet?” I cried. R=
20;I
don’t come often to this house, you know.”
“Where? Why on the Cannebière to be
sure. Everybody meets everybo=
dy else
at least once a day on the pavement opposite the Bourse.”
This was absolute=
ly
true. But though I looked for=
him
on each succeeding day he was nowhere to be seen at the usual times. The companions of my idle hours (a=
nd all
my hours were idle just then) noticed my preoccupation and chaffed me about=
it in
a rather obvious way. They wa=
nted
to know whether she, whom I expected to see, was dark or fair; whether that
fascination which kept me on tenterhooks of expectation was one of my
aristocrats or one of my marine beauties: for they knew I had a footing in =
both
these—shall we say circles?
As to themselves they were the bohemian circle, not very wide—=
half
a dozen of us led by a sculptor whom we called Prax for short. My own nick-name was “Young
Ulysses.”
I liked it.
But chaff or no c=
haff
they would have been surprised to see me leave them for the burly and
sympathetic Mills. I was read=
y to
drop any easy company of equals to approach that interesting man with every
mental deference. It was not
precisely because of that shipwreck.
He attracted and interested me the more because he was not to be
seen. The fear that he might =
have
departed suddenly for England—(or for Spain)—caused me a sort of
ridiculous depression as though I had missed a unique opportunity. And it was a joyful reaction which
emboldened me to signal to him with a raised arm across that café.
I was abashed
immediately afterwards, when I saw him advance towards my table with his
friend. The latter was eminen=
tly
elegant. He was exactly like =
one of
those figures one can see of a fine May evening in the neighbourhood of the
Opera-house in Paris. Very Pa=
risian
indeed. And yet he struck me =
as not
so perfectly French as he ought to have been, as if one’s nationality
were an accomplishment with varying degrees of excellence. As to Mills, he was perfectly
insular. There could be no do=
ubt
about him. They were both smi=
ling
faintly at me. The burly Mill=
s attended
to the introduction: “Captain Blunt.”
We shook hands. The name didn’t tell me much=
. What surprised me was that Mills s=
hould
have remembered mine so well. I
don’t want to boast of my modesty but it seemed to me that two or thr=
ee
days was more than enough for a man like Mills to forget my very
existence. As to the Captain,=
I was
struck on closer view by the perfect correctness of his personality. Clothes, slight figure, clear-cut,=
thin,
sun-tanned face, pose, all this was so good that it was saved from the dang=
er
of banality only by the mobile black eyes of a keenness that one doesn̵=
7;t
meet every day in the south of France and still less in Italy. Another thing was that, viewed as =
an
officer in mufti, he did not look sufficiently professional. That imperfection was interesting,=
too.
You may think tha=
t I
am subtilizing my impressions on purpose, but you may take it from a man wh=
o has
lived a rough, a very rough life, that it is the subtleties of personalitie=
s,
and contacts, and events, that count for interest and memory—and pret=
ty
well nothing else. This—=
;you
see—is the last evening of that part of my life in which I did not kn=
ow
that woman. These are like th=
e last
hours of a previous existence. It
isn’t my fault that they are associated with nothing better at the
decisive moment than the banal splendours of a gilded café and the
bedlamite yells of carnival in the street.
We three, however
(almost complete strangers to each other), had assumed attitudes of serious
amiability round our table. A
waiter approached for orders and it was then, in relation to my order for
coffee, that the absolutely first thing I learned of Captain Blunt was the =
fact
that he was a sufferer from insomnia.
In his immovable way Mills began charging his pipe. I felt extremely embarrassed all at
once, but became positively annoyed when I saw our Prax enter the caf&eacut=
e;
in a sort of mediaeval costume very much like what Faust wears in the third
act. I have no doubt it was m=
eant
for a purely operatic Faust. A
light mantle floated from his shoulders.&n=
bsp;
He strode theatrically up to our table and addressing me as “Y=
oung
Ulysses” proposed I should go outside on the fields of asphalt and he=
lp
him gather a few marguerites to decorate a truly infernal supper which was
being organized across the road at the Maison Dorée—upstairs.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> With expostulatory shakes of the h=
ead
and indignant glances I called his attention to the fact that I was not alo=
ne. He stepped back a pace as if aston=
ished
by the discovery, took off his plumed velvet toque with a low obeisance so =
that
the feathers swept the floor, and swaggered off the stage with his left hand
resting on the hilt of the property dagger at his belt.
Meantime the
well-connected but rustic Mills had been busy lighting his briar and the
distinguished Captain sat smiling to himself. I was horribly vexed and apologize=
d for
that intrusion, saying that the fellow was a future great sculptor and
perfectly harmless; but he had been swallowing lots of night air which had =
got
into his head apparently.
Mills peered at me
with his friendly but awfully searching blue eyes through the cloud of smok=
e he
had wreathed about his big head.
The slim, dark Captain’s smile took on an amiable expression.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Might he know why I was addressed =
as
“Young Ulysses” by my friend? and immediately he added the rema=
rk
with urbane playfulness that Ulysses was an astute person. Mills did not gi=
ve
me time for a reply. He struc=
k in:
“That old Greek was famed as a wanderer—the first historical
seaman.” He waved his p=
ipe vaguely
at me.
“Ah! Vraiment!” The polite Captain seemed incredul=
ous
and as if weary. “Are y=
ou a
seaman? In what sense,
pray?” We were talking =
French
and he used the term homme de mer.
Again Mills
interfered quietly. “In=
the
same sense in which you are a military man.” (Homme de guerre.)
It was then that I
heard Captain Blunt produce one of his striking declarations. He had two of them, and this was t=
he
first.
“I live by =
my
sword.”
It was said in an
extraordinary dandified manner which in conjunction with the matter made me
forget my tongue in my head. I
could only stare at him. He a=
dded
more naturally: “2nd Reg.
Castille, Cavalry.” Then
with marked stress in Spanish, “En las filas legitimas.”
Mills was heard,
unmoved, like Jove in his cloud: “He’s on leave here.”
“Of course I
don’t shout that fact on the housetops,” the Captain addressed =
me
pointedly, “any more than our friend his shipwreck adventure. We must not strain the toleration =
of the
French authorities too much! =
It
wouldn’t be correct—and not very safe either.”
I became suddenly
extremely delighted with my company.
A man who “lived by his sword,” before my eyes, close at=
my
elbow! So such people did exi=
st in
the world yet! I had not been=
born
too late! And across the tabl=
e with
his air of watchful, unmoved benevolence, enough in itself to arouse
one’s interest, there was the man with the story of a shipwreck that
mustn’t be shouted on housetops.&nbs=
p;
Why?
I understood very
well why, when he told me that he had joined in the Clyde a small steamer
chartered by a relative of his, “a very wealthy man,” he observ=
ed
(probably Lord X, I thought), to carry arms and other supplies to the Carli=
st
army. And it was not a shipwr=
eck in
the ordinary sense. Everythin=
g went
perfectly well to the last moment when suddenly the Numancia (a Republican
ironclad) had appeared and chased them ashore on the French coast below
Bayonne. In a few words, but =
with evident
appreciation of the adventure, Mills described to us how he swam to the bea=
ch
clad simply in a money belt and a pair of trousers. Shells were falling all round till=
a
tiny French gunboat came out of Bayonne and shooed the Numancia away out of
territorial waters.
He was very amusi=
ng
and I was fascinated by the mental picture of that tranquil man rolling in =
the
surf and emerging breathless, in the costume you know, on the fair land of
France, in the character of a smuggler of war material. However, they had never arrested or
expelled him, since he was there before my eyes. But how and why did he get so far =
from
the scene of his sea adventure was an interesting question. And I put it to him with most na&i=
uml;ve
indiscretion which did not shock him visibly. He told me that the ship being only
stranded, not sunk, the contraband cargo aboard was doubtless in good
condition. The French custom-=
house
men were guarding the wreck. =
If
their vigilance could be—h’m—removed by some means, or ev=
en
merely reduced, a lot of these rifles and cartridges could be taken off qui=
etly
at night by certain Spanish fishing boats.=
In fact, salved for the Carlists, after all. He thought it could be done. . . .=
I said with
professional gravity that given a few perfectly quiet nights (rare on that
coast) it could certainly be done.
Mr. Mills was not
afraid of the elements. It wa=
s the
highly inconvenient zeal of the French custom-house people that had to be d=
ealt
with in some way.
“Heavens!=
8221;
I cried, astonished. “Y=
ou
can’t bribe the French Customs. This isn’t a South-American
republic.”
“Is it a
republic?” he murmured, very absorbed in smoking his wooden pipe.
“Well,
isn’t it?”
He murmured again,
“Oh, so little.” =
At
this I laughed, and a faintly humorous expression passed over Mills’
face. No. Bribes were out of the question, he
admitted. But there were many
legitimist sympathies in Paris. A
proper person could set them in motion and a mere hint from high quarters to
the officials on the spot not to worry over-much about that wreck. . . .
What was most amu=
sing
was the cool, reasonable tone of this amazing project. Mr. Blunt sat by very detached, hi=
s eyes
roamed here and there all over the café; and it was while looking up=
ward
at the pink foot of a fleshy and very much foreshortened goddess of some so=
rt
depicted on the ceiling in an enormous composition in the Italian style tha=
t he
let fall casually the words, “She will manage it for you quite
easily.”
“Every Carl=
ist
agent in Bayonne assured me of that,” said Mr. Mills. “I would have gone straight =
to
Paris only I was told she had fled here for a rest; tired, discontented.
“These flig=
hts
are well known,” muttered Mr. Blunt.=
“You shall see her all right.”
“Yes. They told me that you . . . ”=
;
I broke in:
“You mean to say that you expect a woman to arrange that sort of thing
for you?”
“A trifle, =
for
her,” Mr. Blunt remarked indifferently. “At that sort of thing women=
are
best. They have less
scruples.”
“More
audacity,” interjected Mr. Mills almost in a whisper.
Mr. Blunt kept qu=
iet
for a moment, then: “You see,” he addressed me in a most refined
tone, “a mere man may suddenly find himself being kicked down the
stairs.”
I don’t know
why I should have felt shocked by that statement. It could not be because it was
untrue. The other did not giv=
e me
time to offer any remark. He
inquired with extreme politeness what did I know of South American
republics? I confessed that I=
knew
very little of them. Wandering about the Gulf of Mexico I had a look-in here
and there; and amongst others I had a few days in Haiti which was of course
unique, being a negro republic. On
this Captain Blunt began to talk of negroes at large. He talked of them with knowledge,
intelligence, and a sort of contemptuous affection. He generalized, he particularized =
about
the blacks; he told anecdotes. I
was interested, a little incredulous, and considerably surprised. What could this man with such a
boulevardier exterior that he looked positively like, an exile in a provinc=
ial
town, and with his drawing-room manner—what could he know of negroes?=
Mills, sitting si=
lent
with his air of watchful intelligence, seemed to read my thoughts, waved his
pipe slightly and explained: “The Captain is from South Carolina.R=
21;
“Oh,”=
I
murmured, and then after the slightest of pauses I heard the second of Mr. =
J.
K. Blunt’s declarations.
“Yes,”=
; he
said. “Je suis
Américain, catholique et gentil-homme,” in a tone contrasting =
so
strongly with the smile, which, as it were, underlined the uttered words, t=
hat
I was at a loss whether to return the smile in kind or acknowledge the words
with a grave little bow. Of c=
ourse
I did neither and there fell on us an odd, equivocal silence. It marked our final abandonment of=
the
French language. I was the on=
e to speak
first, proposing that my companions should sup with me, not across the way,
which would be riotous with more than one “infernal” supper, bu=
t in
another much more select establishment in a side street away from the Canne=
bière. It flattered my vanity a little to=
be
able to say that I had a corner table always reserved in the Salon des
Palmiers, otherwise Salon Blanc, where the atmosphere was legitimist and
extremely decorous besides—even in Carnival time. “Nine tenths of the people
there,” I said, “would be of your political opinions, if
that’s an inducement. Come along.&nb=
sp;
Let’s be festive,” I encouraged them.
I didn’t fe=
el
particularly festive. What I =
wanted
was to remain in my company and break an inexplicable feeling of constraint=
of
which I was aware. Mills look=
ed at
me steadily with a faint, kind smile.
“No,”
said Blunt. “Why should=
we go
there? They will be only turn=
ing us
out in the small hours, to go home and face insomnia. Can you imagine anything more disg=
usting?”
He was smiling all
the time, but his deep-set eyes did not lend themselves to the expression of
whimsical politeness which he tried to achieve. He had another suggestion to offer=
. Why shouldn’t we adjourn to =
his
rooms? He had there materials=
for a
dish of his own invention for which he was famous all along the line of the
Royal Cavalry outposts, and he would cook it for us. There were also a few bottles of s=
ome
white wine, quite possible, which we could drink out of Venetian cut-glass =
goblets. A bivouac feast, in fact. And he wouldn’t turn us out =
in the
small hours. Not he. He couldn’t sleep.
Need I say I was
fascinated by the idea? Well,
yes. But somehow I hesitated =
and
looked towards Mills, so much my senior.&n=
bsp;
He got up without a word. This
was decisive; for no obscure premonition, and of something indefinite at th=
at,
could stand against the example of his tranquil personality.
The street in which Mr. Blunt lived
presented itself to our eyes, narrow, silent, empty, and dark, but with eno=
ugh
gas-lamps in it to disclose its most striking feature: a quantity of flag-p=
oles
sticking out above many of its closed portals. It was the street of Consuls and I
remarked to Mr. Blunt that coming out in the morning he could survey the fl=
ags
of all nations almost—except his own. (The U. S. consulate was on the ot=
her side
of the town.) He mumbled thro=
ugh
his teeth that he took good care to keep clear of his own consulate.
“Are you af=
raid
of the consul’s dog?” I asked jocularly. The consul’s dog weighed abo=
ut a
pound and a half and was known to the whole town as exhibited on the consul=
ar
fore-arm in all places, at all hours, but mainly at the hour of the fashion=
able
promenade on the Prado.
But I felt my jest
misplaced when Mills growled low in my ear: “They are all Yankees
there.”
I murmured a conf=
used
“Of course.”
Books are
nothing. I discovered that I =
had
never been aware before that the Civil War in America was not printed matter
but a fact only about ten years old.
Of course. He was a So=
uth
Carolinian gentleman. I was a=
little
ashamed of my want of tact.
Meantime, looking like the conventional conception of a fashionable
reveller, with his opera-hat pushed off his forehead, Captain Blunt was hav=
ing
some slight difficulty with his latch-key; for the house before which we had
stopped was not one of those many-storied houses that made up the greater p=
art
of the street. It had only one row of windows above the ground floor. Dead walls abutting on to it indic=
ated
that it had a garden. Its dark
front presented no marked architectural character, and in the flickering li=
ght of
a street lamp it looked a little as though it had gone down in the world. The greater then was my surprise to
enter a hall paved in black and white marble and in its dimness appearing of
palatial proportions. Mr. Blunt did not turn up the small solitary gas-jet,=
but
led the way across the black and white pavement past the end of the stairca=
se,
past a door of gleaming dark wood with a heavy bronze handle. It gave access to his rooms he sai=
d; but
he took us straight on to the studio at the end of the passage.
It was rather a s=
mall
place tacked on in the manner of a lean-to to the garden side of the
house. A large lamp was burni=
ng
brightly there. The floor was=
of mere
flag-stones but the few rugs scattered about though extremely worn were very
costly. There was also there a
beautiful sofa upholstered in pink figured silk, an enormous divan with many
cushions, some splendid arm-chairs of various shapes (but all very shabby),=
a
round table, and in the midst of these fine things a small common iron stov=
e. Somebody
must have been attending it lately, for the fire roared and the warmth of t=
he
place was very grateful after the bone-searching cold blasts of mistral out=
side.
Mills without a w=
ord
flung himself on the divan and, propped on his arm, gazed thoughtfully at a
distant corner where in the shadow of a monumental carved wardrobe an
articulated dummy without head or hands but with beautifully shaped limbs
composed in a shrinking attitude, seemed to be embarrassed by his stare.
As we sat enjoying
the bivouac hospitality (the dish was really excellent and our host in a sh=
abby
grey jacket still looked the accomplished man-about-town) my eyes kept on
straying towards that corner. Blunt
noticed this and remarked that I seemed to be attracted by the Empress.
“It’s
disagreeable,” I said.
“It seems to lurk there like a shy skeleton at the feast. But why do you give the name of Em=
press
to that dummy?”
“Because it=
sat
for days and days in the robes of a Byzantine Empress to a painter. . . I
wonder where he discovered these priceless stuffs. . . You knew him, I
believe?”
Mills lowered his
head slowly, then tossed down his throat some wine out of a Venetian goblet=
.
“This house=
is
full of costly objects. So ar=
e all
his other houses, so is his place in Paris—that mysterious Pavilion
hidden away in Passy somewhere.”
Mills knew the
Pavilion. The wine had, I sup=
pose,
loosened his tongue. Blunt, too, lost something of his reserve. From their talk I gathered the not=
ion of
an eccentric personality, a man of great wealth, not so much solitary as
difficult of access, a collector of fine things, a painter known only to ve=
ry
few people and not at all to the public market. But as meantime I had been emptyin=
g my
Venetian goblet with a certain regularity (the amount of heat given out by =
that
iron stove was amazing; it parched one’s throat, and the straw-colour=
ed
wine didn’t seem much stronger than so much pleasantly flavoured wate=
r)
the voices and the impressions they conveyed acquired something fantastic t=
o my
mind. Suddenly I perceived that Mills was sitting in his shirt-sleeves. I had not noticed him taking off h=
is
coat. Blunt had unbuttoned his
shabby jacket, exposing a lot of starched shirt-front with the white tie un=
der his
dark shaved chin. He had a st=
range
air of insolence—or so it seemed to me. I addressed him much louder than I
intended really.
“Did you kn=
ow
that extraordinary man?”
“To know him
personally one had to be either very distinguished or very lucky. Mr. Mills here . . .”
“Yes, I have
been lucky,” Mills struck in.
“It was my cousin who was distinguished. That’s how I managed to ente=
r his
house in Paris—it was called the Pavilion—twice.”
“And saw
Doña Rita twice, too?” asked Blunt with an indefinite smile an=
d a
marked emphasis. Mills was al=
so
emphatic in his reply but with a serious face.
“I am not an
easy enthusiast where women are concerned, but she was without doubt the mo=
st
admirable find of his amongst all the priceless items he had accumulated in
that house—the most admirable. . . ”
“Ah! But, you see, of all the objects t=
here
she was the only one that was alive,” pointed out Blunt with the
slightest possible flavour of sarcasm.
“Immensely
so,” affirmed Mills.
“Not because she was restless, indeed she hardly ever moved fr=
om
that couch between the windows—you know.”
“No. I don’t know. I’ve never been in there,=
221;
announced Blunt with that flash of white teeth so strangely without any
character of its own that it was merely disturbing.
“But she
radiated life,” continued Mills.&nbs=
p;
“She had plenty of it, and it had a quality. My cousin and Henry Allègre=
had a
lot to say to each other and so I was free to talk to her. At the second visit we were like o=
ld friends,
which was absurd considering that all the chances were that we would never =
meet
again in this world or in the next.
I am not meddling with theology but it seems to me that in the Elysi=
an
fields she’ll have her place in a very special company.”
All this in a
sympathetic voice and in his unmoved manner. Blunt produced another disturbing =
white
flash and muttered:
“I should s=
ay
mixed.” Then louder:
“As for instance . . . ”
“As for
instance Cleopatra,” answered Mills quietly. He added after a pause: “Who=
was
not exactly pretty.”
“I should h=
ave
thought rather a La Vallière,” Blunt dropped with an indiffere=
nce
of which one did not know what to make.&nb=
sp;
He may have begun to be bored with the subject. But it may have been put on, for t=
he
whole personality was not clearly definable. I, however, was not indifferent. A=
woman
is always an interesting subject and I was thoroughly awake to that
interest. Mills pondered for a
while with a sort of dispassionate benevolence, at last:
“Yes,
Doña Rita as far as I know her is so varied in her simplicity that e=
ven
that is possible,” he said.
“Yes. A romantic
resigned La Vallière . . . who had a big mouth.”
I felt moved to m=
ake
myself heard.
“Did you kn=
ow
La Vallière, too?” I asked impertinently.
Mills only smiled=
at
me. “No. I am not quite so old as that,R=
21; he
said. “But it’s not very difficult to know facts of that kind a=
bout
a historical personage. There=
were
some ribald verses made at the time, and Louis XIV was congratulated on the
possession—I really don’t remember how it goes—on the
possession of:
“. . . de ce bec amour=
eux Qui d’une oreille
à l’autre va, Tra là là=
.
or something of t=
he
sort. It needn’t be fro=
m ear
to ear, but it’s a fact that a big mouth is often a sign of a certain
generosity of mind and feeling.
Young man, beware of women with small mouths. Beware of the others, too, of cour=
se;
but a small mouth is a fatal sign.
Well, the royalist sympathizers can’t charge Doña Rita =
with
any lack of generosity from what I hear.&n=
bsp;
Why should I judge her? I
have known her for, say, six hours altogether. It was enough to feel the seductio=
n of
her native intelligence and of her splendid physique. And all that was brought home to m=
e so
quickly,” he concluded, “because she had what some Frenchman ha=
s called
the ‘terrible gift of familiarity’.”
Blunt had been
listening moodily. He nodded
assent.
“Yes!”=
; Mills’ thoughts were still
dwelling in the past. “=
And
when saying good-bye she could put in an instant an immense distance betwee=
n herself
and you. A slight stiffening =
of
that perfect figure, a change of the physiognomy: it was like being dismiss=
ed
by a person born in the purple.
Even if she did offer you her hand—as she did to me—it w=
as
as if across a broad river. T=
rick
of manner or a bit of truth peeping out? Perhaps she’s really one of
those inaccessible beings. Wh=
at do
you think, Blunt?”
It was a direct
question which for some reason (as if my range of sensitiveness had been
increased already) displeased or rather disturbed me strangely. Blunt seemed not to have heard it.=
But after a while he turned to me.=
“That thick
man,” he said in a tone of perfect urbanity, “is as fine as a n=
eedle. All these statements about the sed=
uction
and then this final doubt expressed after only two visits which could not h=
ave
included more than six hours altogether and this some three years ago! But it is Henry Allègre tha=
t you
should ask this question, Mr. Mills.”
“I
haven’t the secret of raising the dead,” answered Mills good hu=
mouredly. “And if I had I would
hesitate. It would seem such =
a liberty
to take with a person one had known so slightly in life.”
“And yet He=
nry
Allègre is the only person to ask about her, after all this
uninterrupted companionship of years, ever since he discovered her; all the
time, every breathing moment of it, till, literally, his very last breath.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I don’t mean to say she nurs=
ed
him. He had his confidential =
man
for that. He couldn’t b=
ear
women about his person. But t=
hen
apparently he couldn’t bear this one out of his sight. She’s the only woman who eve=
r sat
to him, for he would never suffer a model inside his house. That’s why the ‘Girl i=
n the
Hat’ and the ‘Byzantine Empress’ have that family air, th=
ough
neither of them is really a likeness of Doña Rita. . . You know my
mother?”
Mills inclined his
body slightly and a fugitive smile vanished from his lips. Blunt’s eyes were fastened o=
n the
very centre of his empty plate.
“Then perha=
ps
you know my mother’s artistic and literary associations,” Blunt
went on in a subtly changed tone.
“My mother has been writing verse since she was a girl of
fifteen. She’s still wr=
iting
verse. She’s still
fifteen—a spoiled girl of genius.&nb=
sp;
So she requested one of her poet friends—no less than Versoy
himself—to arrange for a visit to Henry Allègre’s
house. At first he thought he
hadn’t heard aright. Yo=
u must
know that for my mother a man that doesn’t jump out of his skin for a=
ny woman’s
caprice is not chivalrous. But
perhaps you do know? . . .”
Mills shook his h=
ead
with an amused air. Blunt, wh=
o had
raised his eyes from his plate to look at him, started afresh with great
deliberation.
“She gives =
no
peace to herself or her friends. My
mother’s exquisitely absurd.
You understand that all these painters, poets, art collectors (and d=
ealers
in bric-à-brac, he interjected through his teeth) of my mother are n=
ot
in my way; but Versoy lives more like a man of the world. One day I met him=
at
the fencing school. He was
furious. He asked me to tell =
my
mother that this was the last effort of his chivalry. The jobs she gave him to do were t=
oo
difficult. But I daresay he h=
ad
been pleased enough to show the influence he had in that quarter. He knew my mother would tell the
world’s wife all about it.
He’s a spiteful, gingery little wretch. The top of his head shines like a
billiard ball. I believe he
polishes it every morning with a cloth.&nb=
sp;
Of course they didn’t get further than the big drawing-room on=
the
first floor, an enormous drawing-room with three pairs of columns in the
middle. The double doors on t=
he top
of the staircase had been thrown wide open, as if for a visit from
royalty. You can picture to
yourself my mother, with her white hair done in some 18th century fashion a=
nd
her sparkling black eyes, penetrating into those splendours attended by a s=
ort
of bald-headed, vexed squirrel—and Henry Allègre coming forwar=
d to
meet them like a severe prince with the face of a tombstone Crusader, big w=
hite
hands, muffled silken voice, half-shut eyes, as if looking down at them fro=
m a balcony. You remember that trick of his,
Mills?”
Mills emitted an
enormous cloud of smoke out of his distended cheeks.
“I daresay =
he
was furious, too,” Blunt
continued dispassionately.
“But he was extremely civil.&=
nbsp;
He showed her all the ‘treasures’ in the room, ivories,
enamels, miniatures, all sorts of monstrosities from Japan, from India, from
Timbuctoo . . . for all I know. . . He pushed his condescension so far as to
have the ‘Girl in the Hat’ brought down into the
drawing-room—half length, unframed.&=
nbsp;
They put her on a chair for my mother to look at. The ‘Byzantine Empress’=
; was
already there, hung on the end wall—full length, gold frame weighing =
half
a ton. My mother first overwh=
elms
the ‘Master’ with thanks, and then absorbs herself in the adora=
tion
of the ‘Girl in the Hat.’
Then she sighs out: ‘It should be called
Diaphanéité, if there is such a word. Ah!
This is the last expression of modernity!’ She puts up suddenly her
face-à-main and looks towards the end wall. ‘And that—Byzantium
itself! Who was she, this sul=
len
and beautiful Empress?’
“‘The=
one
I had in my mind was Theodosia!’&nbs=
p;
Allègre consented to answer. ‘Originally a slave
girl—from somewhere.’
“My mother =
can
be marvellously indiscreet when the whim takes her. She finds nothing better to do tha=
n to
ask the ‘Master’ why he took his inspiration for those two faces
from the same model. No doubt=
she
was proud of her discerning eye. It
was really clever of her.
Allègre, however, looked on it as a colossal impertinence; bu=
t he
answered in his silkiest tones:
“‘Per=
haps
it is because I saw in that woman something of the women of all time.’=
;
“My mother
might have guessed that she was on thin ice there. She is extremely intelligent. Moreover, she ought to have known.=
But women can be miraculously dense
sometimes. So she exclaims,
‘Then she is a wonder!’
And with some notion of being complimentary goes on to say that only=
the
eyes of the discoverer of so many wonders of art could have discovered
something so marvellous in life. I
suppose Allègre lost his temper altogether then; or perhaps he only
wanted to pay my mother out, for all these ‘Masters’ she had be=
en
throwing at his head for the last two hours. He insinuates with the utmost
politeness:
“‘As =
you
are honouring my poor collection with a visit you may like to judge for
yourself as to the inspiration of these two pictures. She is upstairs changing her dress=
after
our morning ride. But she
wouldn’t be very long. =
She
might be a little surprised at first to be called down like this, but with a
few words of preparation and purely as a matter of art . . .’
“There were
never two people more taken aback.
Versoy himself confesses that he dropped his tall hat with a crash.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I am a dutiful son, I hope, but I =
must
say I should have liked to have seen the retreat down the great staircase.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Ha!
Ha! Ha!”
He laughed most
undutifully and then his face twitched grimly.
“That
implacable brute Allègre followed them down ceremoniously and put my
mother into the fiacre at the door with the greatest deference. He didn’t open his lips thou=
gh,
and made a great bow as the fiacre drove away. My mother didn’t recover fro=
m her
consternation for three days. I lunch
with her almost daily and I couldn’t imagine what was the matter. Then
one day . . .”
He glanced round =
the
table, jumped up and with a word of excuse left the studio by a small door =
in a
corner. This startled me into=
the consciousness
that I had been as if I had not existed for these two men. With his elbows
propped on the table Mills had his hands in front of his face clasping the =
pipe
from which he extracted now and then a puff of smoke, staring stolidly acro=
ss
the room.
I was moved to as=
k in
a whisper:
“Do you know
him well?”
“I don̵=
7;t
know what he is driving at,” he answered drily. “But as to his mother she is=
not
as volatile as all that. I su=
spect
it was business. It may have been a deep plot to get a picture out of
Allègre for somebody. =
My
cousin as likely as not. Or s=
imply
to discover what he had. The =
Blunts
lost all their property and in Paris there are various ways of making a lit=
tle
money, without actually breaking anything.=
Not even the law. And =
Mrs.
Blunt really had a position once—in the days of the Second
Empire—and so. . .”
I listened
open-mouthed to these things into which my West-Indian experiences could not
have given me an insight. But=
Mills
checked himself and ended in a changed tone.
“It’s=
not
easy to know what she would be at, either, in any given instance. For the rest, spotlessly
honourable. A delightful, ari=
stocratic
old lady. Only poor.”
A bump at the door
silenced him and immediately Mr. John Blunt, Captain of Cavalry in the Army=
of
Legitimity, first-rate cook (as to one dish at least), and generous host,
entered clutching the necks of four more bottles between the fingers of his
hand.
“I stumbled=
and
nearly smashed the lot,” he remarked casually. But even I, with all my innocence,=
never
for a moment believed he had stumbled accidentally. During the uncorking and the filli=
ng up
of glasses a profound silence reigned; but neither of us took it
seriously—any more than his stumble.
“One
day,” he went on again in that curiously flavoured voice of his,
“my mother took a heroic decision and made up her mind to get up in t=
he middle
of the night. You must unders=
tand
my mother’s phraseology. It meant
that she would be up and dressed by nine o’clock. This time it was not Versoy that w=
as
commanded for attendance, but I.
You may imagine how delighted I was. . . .” It was very plain=
to
me that Blunt was addressing himself exclusively to Mills: Mills the mind, =
even
more than Mills the man. It w=
as as
if Mills represented something initiated and to be reckoned with. I, of course, could have no such
pretensions. If I represented
anything it was a perfect freshness of sensations and a refreshing ignoranc=
e,
not so much of what life may give one (as to that I had some ideas at least)
but of what it really contains. I
knew very well that I was utterly insignificant in these men’s eyes.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Yet my attention was not checked b=
y that
knowledge. It’s true th=
ey
were talking of a woman, but I was yet at the age when this subject by itse=
lf
is not of overwhelming interest. My
imagination would have been more stimulated probably by the adventures and
fortunes of a man. What kept =
my interest
from flagging was Mr. Blunt himself.
The play of the white gleams of his smile round the suspicion of
grimness of his tone fascinated me like a moral incongruity. So at the age when
one sleeps well indeed but does feel sometimes as if the need of sleep were=
a
mere weakness of a distant old age, I kept easily awake; and in my freshnes=
s I
was kept amused by the contrast of personalities, of the disclosed facts and
moral outlook with the rough initiations of my West-Indian experience. And all these things were dominate=
d by a
feminine figure which to my imagination had only a floating outline, now
invested with the grace of girlhood, now with the prestige of a woman; and
indistinct in both these characters.
For these two men had seen her, while to me she was only being
“presented,” elusively, in vanishing words, in the shifting ton=
es
of an unfamiliar voice. She was being
presented to me now in the Bois de Boulogne at the early hour of the
ultra-fashionable world (so I understood), on a light bay “bit of
blood” attended on the off side by that Henry Allègre mounted =
on a
dark brown powerful weight carrier; and on the other by one of Allèg=
re’s
acquaintances (the man had no real friends), distinguished frequenters of t=
hat
mysterious Pavilion. And so t=
hat
side of the frame in which that woman appeared to one down the perspective =
of
the great Allée was not permanent.&=
nbsp;
That morning when Mr. Blunt had to escort his mother there for the
gratification of her irresistible curiosity (of which he highly disapproved)
there appeared in succession, at that woman’s or girl’s
bridle-hand, a cavalry general in red breeches, on whom she was smiling; a
rising politician in a grey suit, who talked to her with great animation but
left her side abruptly to join a personage in a red fez and mounted on a wh=
ite
horse; and then, some time afterwards, the vexed Mr. Blunt and his indiscre=
et
mother (though I really couldn’t see where the harm was) had one more
chance of a good stare. The t=
hird
party that time was the Royal Pretender (Allègre had been painting h=
is
portrait lately), whose hearty, sonorous laugh was heard long before the
mounted trio came riding very slowly abreast of the Blunts. There was colour in the girl’=
;s
face. She was not laughing. Her expression was serious and her=
eyes
thoughtfully downcast. Blunt
admitted that on that occasion the charm, brilliance, and force of her
personality was adequately framed between those magnificently mounted,
paladin-like attendants, one older than the other but the two composing tog=
ether
admirably in the different stages of their manhood. Mr. Blunt had never before seen He=
nry
Allègre so close.
Allègre was riding nearest to the path on which Blunt was dut=
ifully
giving his arm to his mother (they had got out of their fiacre) and wonderi=
ng
if that confounded fellow would have the impudence to take off his hat. But he did not. Perhaps he didn’t notice.
“What was it?” asked Mills, who had not changed his pose for a very long time.<= o:p>
“Oh, an
accident. But he lingered.
There was the
slightest contraction of Mr. Blunt’s facial muscles. Very slight; but I, staring at the
narrator after the manner of all simple souls, noticed it; the twitch of a =
pain
which surely must have been mental.
There was also a suggestion of effort before he went on: “I su=
ppose
you know how he got hold of her?” in a tone of ease which was astonis=
hingly
ill-assumed for such a worldly, self-controlled, drawing-room person.
Mills changed his
attitude to look at him fixedly for a moment. Then he leaned back in his chair a=
nd
with interest—I don’t mean curiosity, I mean interest: “D=
oes
anybody know besides the two parties concerned?” he asked, with somet=
hing
as it were renewed (or was it refreshed?) in his unmoved quietness. “I ask because one has never=
heard
any tales. I remember one eve=
ning
in a restaurant seeing a man come in with a lady—a beautiful
lady—very particularly beautiful, as though she had been stolen out of
Mahomet’s paradise. With
Doña Rita it can’t be anything as definite as that. But speaking of her in the same st=
rain,
I’ve always felt that she looked as though Allègre had caught =
her
in the precincts of some temple . . . in the mountains.”
I was delighted.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I had never heard before a woman s=
poken
about in that way, a real live woman that is, not a woman in a book. For this was no poetry and yet it =
seemed
to put her in the category of visions.&nbs=
p;
And I would have lost myself in it if Mr. Blunt had not, most
unexpectedly, addressed himself to me.
“I told you
that man was as fine as a needle.”
And then to Mills:
“Out of a temple? We kn=
ow
what that means.” His d=
ark eyes
flashed: “And must it be really in the mountains?” he added.
“Or in a
desert,” conceded Mills, “if you prefer that. There have been temples in deserts=
, you
know.”
Blunt had calmed =
down
suddenly and assumed a nonchalant pose.
“As a matte=
r of
fact, Henry Allègre caught her very early one morning in his own old
garden full of thrushes and other small birds. She was sitting on a stone, a frag=
ment
of some old balustrade, with her feet in the damp grass, and reading a tatt=
ered
book of some kind. She had on=
a short,
black, two-penny frock (une petite robe de deux sous) and there was a hole =
in
one of her stockings. She rai=
sed
her eyes and saw him looking down at her thoughtfully over that ambrosian b=
eard
of his, like Jove at a mortal. They
exchanged a good long stare, for at first she was too startled to move; and
then he murmured, “Restez donc.” She lowered her eyes again on her =
book
and after a while heard him walk away on the path. Her heart thumped while she listen=
ed to
the little birds filling the air with their noise. She was not frightened. I am telling you this positively b=
ecause
she has told me the tale herself.
What better authority can you have . . .?” Blunt paused.
“That’=
;s
true. She’s not the sor=
t of
person to lie about her own sensations,” murmured Mills above his cla=
sped
hands.
“Nothing can
escape his penetration,” Blunt remarked to me with that equivocal urb=
anity
which made me always feel uncomfortable on Mills’ account. “Positively nothing.”<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He turned to Mills again. “After some minutes of
immobility—she told me—she arose from her stone and walked slow=
ly
on the track of that apparition.
Allègre was nowhere to be seen by that time. Under the gateway of the extremely=
ugly
tenement house, which hides the Pavilion and the garden from the street, the
wife of the porter was waiting with her arms akimbo. At once she cried out to Rita: =
216;You
were caught by our gentleman.’
“As a matte=
r of
fact, that old woman, being a friend of Rita’s aunt, allowed the girl=
to
come into the garden whenever Allègre was away. But Allègre’s goings =
and
comings were sudden and unannounced; and that morning, Rita, crossing the
narrow, thronged street, had slipped in through the gateway in ignorance of
Allègre’s return and unseen by the porter’s wife.
“The child,=
she
was but little more than that then, expressed her regret of having perhaps =
got
the kind porter’s wife into trouble.
“The old wo=
man
said with a peculiar smile: ‘Your face is not of the sort that gets o=
ther
people into trouble. My gentl=
eman
wasn’t angry. He says y=
ou may
come in any morning you like.’
“Rita, with=
out
saying anything to this, crossed the street back again to the warehouse ful=
l of
oranges where she spent most of her waking hours. Her dreaming, empty, idle,
thoughtless, unperturbed hours, she calls them. She crossed the street with a hole=
in
her stocking. She had a hole =
in her
stocking not because her uncle and aunt were poor (they had around them nev=
er
less than eight thousand oranges, mostly in cases) but because she was then
careless and untidy and totally unconscious of her personal appearance. She told me herself that she was n=
ot
even conscious then of her personal existence. She was a mere adjunct in the twil=
ight life
of her aunt, a Frenchwoman, and her uncle, the orange merchant, a Basque
peasant, to whom her other uncle, the great man of the family, the priest of
some parish in the hills near Tolosa, had sent her up at the age of thirtee=
n or
thereabouts for safe keeping. She
is of peasant stock, you know. This
is the true origin of the ‘Girl in the Hat’ and of the
‘Byzantine Empress’ which excited my dear mother so much; of th=
e mysterious
girl that the privileged personalities great in art, in letters, in politic=
s,
or simply in the world, could see on the big sofa during the gatherings in
Allègre’s exclusive Pavilion: the Doña Rita of their
respectful addresses, manifest and mysterious, like an object of art from s=
ome
unknown period; the Doña Rita of the initiated Paris. Doña Rita and nothing
more—unique and indefinable.”&=
nbsp;
He stopped with a disagreeable smile.
“And of pea=
sant
stock?” I exclaimed in the strangely conscious silence that fell betw=
een
Mills and Blunt.
“Oh! All these Basques have been ennobl=
ed by
Don Sanche II,” said Captain Blunt moodily. “You see coats of arms carve=
d over
the doorways of the most miserable caserios. As far as that goes she’s
Doña Rita right enough whatever else she is or is not in herself or =
in
the eyes of others. In your e=
yes,
for instance, Mills. Eh?̶=
1;
For a time Mills
preserved that conscious silence.
“Why think
about it at all?” he murmured coldly at last. “A strange bird is hatched
sometimes in a nest in an unaccountable way and then the fate of such a bir=
d is
bound to be ill-defined, uncertain, questionable. And so that is how Henry All&egrav=
e;gre
saw her first? And what happe=
ned
next?”
“What happe=
ned
next?” repeated Mr. Blunt, with an affected surprise in his tone. “Is it necessary to ask that
question? If you had asked ho=
w the
next happened. . . But as you=
may
imagine she hasn’t told me anything about that. She didn’t,” he contin=
ued
with polite sarcasm, “enlarge upon the facts. That confounded Allègre, wi=
th his
impudent assumption of princely airs, must have (I shouldn’t wonder) =
made
the fact of his notice appear as a sort of favour dropped from Olympus. I really can’t tell how the =
minds
and the imaginations of such aunts and uncles are affected by such rare vis=
itations. Mythology may give us a hint. Ther=
e is
the story of Danae, for instance.”
“There
is,” remarked Mills calmly, “but I don’t remember any aun=
t or
uncle in that connection.”
“And there =
are
also certain stories of the discovery and acquisition of some unique object=
s of
art. The sly approaches, the =
astute
negotiations, the lying and the circumventing . . . for the love of beauty,=
you
know.”
With his dark face
and with the perpetual smiles playing about his grimness, Mr. Blunt appeare=
d to
me positively satanic. Mills&=
#8217;
hand was toying absently with an empty glass. Again they had forgotten my existe=
nce
altogether.
“I don̵=
7;t
know how an object of art would feel,” went on Blunt, in an unexpecte=
dly
grating voice, which, however, recovered its tone immediately. “I don’t know. But I do know that Rita herself wa=
s not
a Danae, never, not at any time of her life. She didn’t mind the holes in=
her
stockings. She wouldn’t=
mind
holes in her stockings now. . . That is if she manages to keep any stocking=
s at
all,” he added, with a sort of suppressed fury so funnily unexpected =
that
I would have burst into a laugh if I hadn’t been lost in astonishment=
of
the simplest kind.
“No—r=
eally!” There was a flash of interest from=
the
quiet Mills.
“Yes,
really,” Blunt nodded a=
nd
knitted his brows very devilishly indeed.&=
nbsp;
“She may yet be left without a single pair of stockings.”=
;
“The
world’s a thief,” declared Mills, with the utmost composure.
“He is so
subtle.” Blunt remember=
ed my
existence for the purpose of that remark and as usual it made me very
uncomfortable. “Perfect=
ly
true. A lonely traveller. They are all in the scramble from =
the
lowest to the highest.
Heavens! What a gang!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There was even an Archbishop in it=
.”
“Vous plaisantez,” said Mills, but without any marked show of incredulity.<= o:p>
“I joke very
seldom,” Blunt protested earnestly.&=
nbsp;
“That’s why I haven’t mentioned His Majesty—=
whom
God preserve. That would have=
been
an exaggeration. . . However, the end is not yet. We were talking about the beginnin=
g. I have heard that some dealers in =
fine
objects, quite mercenary people of course (my mother has an experience in t=
hat
world), show sometimes an astonishing reluctance to part with some specimen=
s, even
at a good price. It must be v=
ery
funny. It’s just possib=
le
that the uncle and the aunt have been rolling in tears on the floor, amongs=
t their
oranges, or beating their heads against the walls from rage and despair.
“Her sister
here!” I exclaimed.
“Her sister!”
Blunt turned to me
politely, but only for a long mute gaze.&n=
bsp;
His eyes were in deep shadow and it struck me for the first time then
that there was something fatal in that man’s aspect as soon as he fell
silent. I think the effect was
purely physical, but in consequence whatever he said seemed inadequate and =
as
if produced by a commonplace, if uneasy, soul.
“Doña
Rita brought her down from her mountains on purpose. She is asleep somewhere in this ho=
use,
in one of the vacant rooms. S=
he
lets them, you know, at extortionate prices, that is, if people will pay th=
em,
for she is easily intimidated. You
see, she has never seen such an enormous town before in her life, nor yet so
many strange people. She has =
been
keeping house for the uncle-priest in some mountain gorge for years and yea=
rs. It’s
extraordinary he should have let her go.&n=
bsp;
There is something mysterious there, some reason or other. It’s either theology or Fami=
ly. The
saintly uncle in his wild parish would know nothing of any other reasons. She wears a rosary at her waist. Directly she had seen some real mo=
ney
she developed a love of it. I=
f you
stay with me long enough, and I hope you will (I really can’t sleep),=
you
will see her going out to mass at half-past six; but there is nothing
remarkable in her; just a peasant woman of thirty-four or so. A rustic nun. . . .”
I may as well say=
at
once that we didn’t stay as long as that. It was not that morning that I saw=
for
the first time Therese of the whispering lips and downcast eyes slipping ou=
t to
an early mass from the house of iniquity into the early winter murk of the =
city
of perdition, in a world steeped in sin.&n=
bsp;
No. It was not on that
morning that I saw Doña Rita’s incredible sister with her brow=
n,
dry face, her gliding motion, and her really nun-like dress, with a black
handkerchief enfolding her head tightly, with the two pointed ends hanging =
down
her back. Yes, nun-like enoug=
h. And yet not altogether. People would have turned round aft=
er her
if those dartings out to the half-past six mass hadn’t been the only =
occasion
on which she ventured into the impious streets. She was frightened of the streets,=
but
in a particular way, not as if of a danger but as if of a contamination.
No, we didn’=
;t
remain long enough with Mr. Blunt to see even as much as her back glide out=
of
the house on her prayerful errand.
She was prayerful. She=
was
terrible. Her one-idead peasa=
nt
mind was as inaccessible as a closed iron safe. She was fatal. . . It’s perf=
ectly ridiculous
to confess that they all seem fatal to me now; but writing to you like this=
in
all sincerity I don’t mind appearing ridiculous. I suppose fatality must be express=
ed,
embodied, like other forces of this earth; and if so why not in such people=
as
well as in other more glorious or more frightful figures?
We remained, howe=
ver,
long enough to let Mr. Blunt’s half-hidden acrimony develop itself or=
prey
on itself in further talk about the man Allègre and the girl Rita. Mr. Blunt, still addressing Mills =
with
that story, passed on to what he called the second act, the disclosure, wit=
h,
what he called, the characteristic Allègre impudence—which sur=
passed
the impudence of kings, millionaires, or tramps, by many degrees—the =
revelation
of Rita’s existence to the world at large. It wasn’t a very large world=
, but
then it was most choicely composed.
How is one to describe it shortly?&=
nbsp;
In a sentence it was the world that rides in the morning in the Bois=
.
In something less
than a year and a half from the time he found her sitting on a broken fragm=
ent
of stone work buried in the grass of his wild garden, full of thrushes,
starlings, and other innocent creatures of the air, he had given her amongst
other accomplishments the art of sitting admirably on a horse, and directly
they returned to Paris he took her out with him for their first morning rid=
e.
“I leave yo=
u to
judge of the sensation,” continued Mr. Blunt, with a faint grimace, as
though the words had an acrid taste in his mouth. “And the consternation,̶=
1; he
added venomously. “Many=
of
those men on that great morning had some one of their womankind with them.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But their hats had to go off all t=
he
same, especially the hats of the fellows who were under some sort of obliga=
tion
to Allègre. You would =
be
astonished to hear the names of people, of real personalities in the world,
who, not to mince matters, owed money to Allègre. And I don’t mean in the worl=
d of art
only. In the first rout of the
surprise some story of an adopted daughter was set abroad hastily, I
believe. You know
‘adopted’ with a peculiar accent on the word—and it was
plausible enough. I have been=
told
that at that time she looked extremely youthful by his side, I mean extreme=
ly
youthful in expression, in the eyes, in the smile. She must have been . . .”
Blunt pulled hims=
elf
up short, but not so short as not to let the confused murmur of the word
“adorable” reach our attentive ears.
The heavy Mills m=
ade
a slight movement in his chair. The
effect on me was more inward, a strange emotion which left me perfectly sti=
ll;
and for the moment of silence Blunt looked more fatal than ever.
“I understa=
nd
it didn’t last very long,” he addressed us politely again. R=
20;And
no wonder! The sort of talk s=
he
would have heard during that first springtime in Paris would have put an
impress on a much less receptive personality; for of course Allègre
didn’t close his doors to his friends and this new apparition was not=
of
the sort to make them keep away. After that first morning she always had
somebody to ride at her bridle hand.
Old Doyen, the sculptor, was the first to approach them. At that age a man may venture on
anything. He rides a strange =
animal
like a circus horse. Rita had
spotted him out of the corner of her eye as he passed them, putting up his
enormous paw in a still more enormous glove, airily, you know, like this=
221;
(Blunt waved his hand above his head), “to Allègre. He passes on. All at once he wheels his fantastic
animal round and comes trotting after them. With the merest casual ‘Bonj=
our, Allègre’
he ranges close to her on the other side and addresses her, hat in hand, in
that booming voice of his like a deferential roar of the sea very far away.=
His articulation is not good, and =
the
first words she really made out were ‘I am an old sculptor. . . Of co=
urse
there is that habit. . . But I can see you through all that. . . ’
He put his hat on
very much on one side. ‘=
;I am
a great sculptor of women,’ he declared. ‘I gave up my life to them, =
poor
unfortunate creatures, the most beautiful, the wealthiest, the most loved. =
. .
Two generations of them. . . Just look at me full in the eyes, mon
enfant.’
“They stare=
d at
each other. Doña Rita
confessed to me that the old fellow made her heart beat with such force that
she couldn’t manage to smile at him.=
And she saw his eyes run full of tears. He wiped them simply with the back=
of
his hand and went on booming faintly.
‘Thought so. You=
are
enough to make one cry. I tho=
ught
my artist’s life was finished, and here you come along from devil kno=
ws
where with this young friend of mine, who isn’t a bad smearer of
canvases—but it’s marble and bronze that you want. . . I shall
finish my artist’s life with your face; but I shall want a bit of tho=
se
shoulders, too. . . You hear, Allègre, I must have a bit of her
shoulders, too. I can see thr=
ough
the cloth that they are divine. If
they aren’t divine I will eat my hat. Yes, I will do your head and
then—nunc dimittis.’
“These were=
the
first words with which the world greeted her, or should I say civilization =
did;
already both her native mountains and the cavern of oranges belonged to a
prehistoric age. ‘Why
don’t you ask him to come this afternoon?’ Allègre’=
;s
voice suggested gently. ̵=
6;He
knows the way to the house.’
“The old man
said with extraordinary fervour, ‘Oh, yes I will,’ pulled up his
horse and they went on. She t=
old me
that she could feel her heart-beats for a long time. The remote power of that voice, th=
ose
old eyes full of tears, that noble and ruined face, had affected her extrao=
rdinarily
she said. But perhaps what af=
fected
her was the shadow, the still living shadow of a great passion in the
man’s heart.
“Allè=
;gre
remarked to her calmly: ‘He has been a little mad all his life.’=
;”
Mills lowered the hands holding the
extinct and even cold pipe before his big face.
“H’m,
shoot an arrow into that old man’s heart like this? But was there anything done?”=
;
“A terra-co=
tta
bust, I believe. Good? I don’t know. I rather think it’s in this
house. A lot of things have b=
een
sent down from Paris here, when she gave up the Pavilion. When she goes up now she stays in
hotels, you know. I imagine i=
t is
locked up in one of these things,” went on Blunt, pointing towards the
end of the studio where amongst the monumental presses of dark oak lurked t=
he
shy dummy which had worn the stiff robes of the Byzantine Empress and the
amazing hat of the “Girl,” rakishly. I wondered whether that dummy had =
travelled
from Paris, too, and whether with or without its head. Perhaps that head had been left be=
hind,
having rolled into a corner of some empty room in the dismantled Pavilion.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I represented it to myself very lo=
nely,
without features, like a turnip, with a mere peg sticking out where the neck
should have been. And Mr. Blunt was talking on.
“There are
treasures behind these locked doors, brocades, old jewels, unframed picture=
s,
bronzes, chinoiseries, Japoneries.”
He growled as muc=
h as
a man of his accomplished manner and voice could growl. “I don’t suppose she g=
ave
away all that to her sister, but I shouldn’t be surprised if that tim=
id
rustic didn’t lay a claim to the lot for the love of God and the good=
of
the Church. . .
“And held on
with her teeth, too,” he added graphically.
Mills’ face
remained grave. Very grave. I was amused at those little venom=
ous
outbreaks of the fatal Mr. Blunt.
Again I knew myself utterly forgotten. But I didn’t feel dull and I
didn’t even feel sleepy. That
last strikes me as strange at this distance of time, in regard of my tender
years and of the depressing hour which precedes the dawn. We had been drinking that straw-co=
loured
wine, too, I won’t say like water (nobody would have drunk water like
that) but, well . . . and the haze of tobacco smoke was like the blue mist =
of
great distances seen in dreams.
Yes, that old
sculptor was the first who joined them in the sight of all Paris. It was that old glory that opened =
the
series of companions of those morning rides; a series which extended through
three successive Parisian spring-times and comprised a famous physiologist,=
a
fellow who seemed to hint that mankind could be made immortal or at least e=
verlastingly
old; a fashionable philosopher and psychologist who used to lecture to enor=
mous
audiences of women with his tongue in his cheek (but never permitted himself
anything of the kind when talking to Rita); that surly dandy Cabanel (but he
only once, from mere vanity), and everybody else at all distinguished inclu=
ding
also a celebrated person who turned out later to be a swindler. But he was really a genius. . . Al=
l this
according to Mr. Blunt, who gave us all those details with a sort of languid
zest covering a secret irritation.
“Apart from
that, you know,” went on Mr. Blunt, “all she knew of the world =
of
men and women (I mean till Allègre’s death) was what she had s=
een
of it from the saddle two hours every morning during four months of the yea=
r or
so. Absolutely all, with
Allègre self-denyingly on her right hand, with that impenetrable air=
of
guardianship. Don’t
touch! He didn’t like h=
is
treasures to be touched unless he actually put some unique object into your
hands with a sort of triumphant murmur, ‘Look close at that.’ Of course I only have heard all
this. I am much too small a p=
erson,
you understand, to even . . .”
He flashed his wh=
ite
teeth at us most agreeably, but the upper part of his face, the shadowed
setting of his eyes, and the slight drawing in of his eyebrows gave a fatal
suggestion. I thought suddenl=
y of
the definition he applied to himself: “Américain, catholique e=
t gentil-homme”
completed by that startling “I live by my sword” uttered in a l=
ight
drawing-room tone tinged by a flavour of mockery lighter even than air.
He insisted to us
that the first and only time he had seen Allègre a little close was =
that
morning in the Bois with his mother.
His Majesty (whom God preserve), then not even an active Pretender,
flanked the girl, still a girl, on the other side, the usual companion for a
month past or so. Allè=
gre
had suddenly taken it into his head to paint his portrait. A sort of intima=
cy
had sprung up. Mrs. BluntR=
17;s
remark was that of the two striking horsemen Allègre looked the more
kingly.
“The son of=
a
confounded millionaire soap-boiler,” commented Mr. Blunt through his
clenched teeth. “A man
absolutely without parentage. Without a single relation in the world. Just a freak.”
“That expla=
ins
why he could leave all his fortune to her,” said Mills.
“The will, I
believe,” said Mr. Blunt moodily, “was written on a half sheet =
of
paper, with his device of an Assyrian bull at the head. What the devil did he mean by it?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Anyway it was the last time that s=
he surveyed
the world of men and women from the saddle. Less than three months later. . .&=
#8221;
“Allè=
;gre
died and. . . ” murmured Mills in an interested manner.
“And she ha=
d to
dismount,” broke in Mr. Blunt grimly. “Dismount right into the mid=
dle of
it. Down to the very ground, =
you
understand. I suppose you can=
guess
what that would mean. She
didn’t know what to do with herself.=
She had never been on the ground.&n=
bsp;
She . . . ”
“Aha!”
said Mills.
“Even eh! e=
h!
if you like,” retorted Mr. Blunt, in an unrefined tone, that made me =
open
my eyes, which were well opened before, still wider.
He turned to me w=
ith
that horrible trick of his of commenting upon Mills as though that quiet man
whom I admired, whom I trusted, and for whom I had already something resemb=
ling
affection had been as much of a dummy as that other one lurking in the shad=
ows,
pitiful and headless in its attitude of alarmed chastity.
“Nothing
escapes his penetration. He c=
an
perceive a haystack at an enormous distance when he is interested.”
I thought this was
going rather too far, even to the borders of vulgarity; but Mills remained
untroubled and only reached for his tobacco pouch.
“But
that’s nothing to my mother’s interest. She can never see a haystack, ther=
efore
she is always so surprised and excited.&nb=
sp;
Of course Doña Rita was not a woman about whom the newspapers
insert little paragraphs. But
Allègre was the sort of man.
A lot came out in print about him and a lot was talked in the world
about her; and at once my dear mother perceived a haystack and naturally be=
came
unreasonably absorbed in it. I
thought her interest would wear out.
But it didn’t. She had received a shock and had received an
impression by means of that girl.
My mother has never been treated with impertinence before, and the a=
esthetic
impression must have been of extraordinary strength. I must suppose that it amounted to=
a
sort of moral revolution, I can’t account for her proceedings in any
other way. When Rita turned u=
p in
Paris a year and a half after Allègre’s death some shabby
journalist (smart creature) hit upon the notion of alluding to her as the
heiress of Mr. Allègre.
‘The heiress of Mr. Allègre has taken up her residence
again amongst the treasures of art in that Pavilion so well known to the
élite of the artistic, scientific, and political world, not to speak=
of
the members of aristocratic and even royal families. . . ’ You know the sort of thing. It appeared first in the Figaro, I
believe. And then at the end a
little phrase: ‘She is alone.’=
She was in a fair way of becoming a celebrity of a sort. Daily little allusions and that so=
rt of
thing. Heaven only knows who stopped it.&n=
bsp;
There was a rush of ‘old friends’ into that garden, enou=
gh
to scare all the little birds away.
I suppose one or several of them, having influence with the press, d=
id
it. But the gossip didn’=
;t
stop, and the name stuck, too, since it conveyed a very certain and very
significant sort of fact, and of course the Venetian episode was talked abo=
ut
in the houses frequented by my mother.&nbs=
p;
It was talked about from a royalist point of view with a kind of
respect. It was even said tha=
t the
inspiration and the resolution of the war going on now over the Pyrenees had
come out from that head. . . Some of them talked as if she were the guardian
angel of Legitimacy. You know=
what
royalist gush is like.”
Mr. Blunt’s
face expressed sarcastic disgust.
Mills moved his head the least little bit. Apparently he knew.
“Well, spea=
king
with all possible respect, it seems to have affected my mother’s
brain. I was already with the=
royal
army and of course there could be no question of regular postal communicati=
ons
with France. My mother hears =
or
overhears somewhere that the heiress of Mr. Allègre is contemplating=
a
secret journey. All the noble
Salons were full of chatter about that secret naturally. So she sits down and pens an autog=
raph:
‘Madame, Informed that you are proceeding to the place on which the h=
opes
of all the right thinking people are fixed, I trust to your womanly sympathy
with a mother’s anxious feelings, etc., etc.,’ and ending with a
request to take messages to me and bring news of me. . . The coolness of my
mother!”
Most unexpectedly
Mills was heard murmuring a question which seemed to me very odd.
“I wonder h=
ow
your mother addressed that note?”
A moment of silen=
ce
ensued.
“Hardly in =
the
newspaper style, I should think,” retorted Mr. Blunt, with one of his
grins that made me doubt the stability of his feelings and the consistency =
of
his outlook in regard to his whole tale.&n=
bsp;
“My mother’s maid took it in a fiacre very late one even=
ing
to the Pavilion and brought an answer scrawled on a scrap of paper:
‘Write your messages at once’ and signed with a big capital R.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> So my mother sat down again to her
charming writing desk and the maid made another journey in a fiacre just be=
fore
midnight; and ten days later or so I got a letter thrust into my hand at the
avanzadas just as I was about to start on a night patrol, together with a n=
ote
asking me to call on the writer so that she might allay my mother’s
anxieties by telling her how I looked.
“It was sig=
ned
R only, but I guessed at once and nearly fell off my horse with
surprise.”
“You mean to
say that Doña Rita was actually at the Royal Headquarters lately?=
221;
exclaimed Mills, with evident surprise.&nb=
sp;
“Why, we—everybody—thought that all this affair was
over and done with.”
“Absolutely=
. Nothing in the world could be more=
done
with than that episode. Of co=
urse
the rooms in the hotel at Tolosa were retained for her by an order from Roy=
al
Headquarters. Two garret-room=
s, the
place was so full of all sorts of court people; but I can assure you that f=
or
the three days she was there she never put her head outside the door. Gener=
al
Mongroviejo called on her officially from the King. A general, not anybody of the hous=
ehold,
you see. That’s a disti=
nct
shade of the present relation. He
stayed just five minutes. Some
personage from the Foreign department at Headquarters was closeted for abou=
t a
couple of hours. That was of =
course
business. Then two officers f=
rom
the staff came together with some explanations or instructions to her. Then Baron H., a fellow with a pre=
tty
wife, who had made so many sacrifices for the cause, raised a great to-do a=
bout
seeing her and she consented to receive him for a moment. They say he was very much frighten=
ed by
her arrival, but after the interview went away all smiles. Who else? Yes, the Archbishop came. Half an hour. This is more than is necessary to =
give a
blessing, and I can’t conceive what else he had to give her. But I am sure he got something out=
of
her. Two peasants from the up=
per
valley were sent for by military authorities and she saw them, too. That friar who hangs about the cou=
rt has
been in and out several times.
Well, and lastly, I myself.
I got leave from the outposts.
That was the first time I talked to her. I would have gone that evening bac=
k to
the regiment, but the friar met me in the corridor and informed me that I w=
ould
be ordered to escort that most loyal and noble lady back to the French fron=
tier
as a personal mission of the highest honour. I was inclined to laugh at him.
“Luckily the
Alphonsist shells are not much better than our own. But women are funny. I was afraid the maid would jump d=
own
and clear out amongst the rocks, in which case we should have had to dismou=
nt
and catch her. But she didn=
8217;t
do that; she sat perfectly still on her mule and shrieked. Just simply shrieked. Ultimately we came to a curiously =
shaped
rock at the end of a short wooded valley.&=
nbsp;
It was very still there and the sunshine was brilliant. I said to Doña Rita: ‘=
;We
will have to part in a few minutes.
I understand that my mission ends at this rock.’ And she said:
‘I know this rock well. This
is my country.’
“Then she
thanked me for bringing her there and presently three peasants appeared,
waiting for us, two youths and one shaven old man, with a thin nose like a
sword blade and perfectly round eyes, a character well known to the whole
Carlist army. The two youths
stopped under the trees at a distance, but the old fellow came quite close =
up
and gazed at her, screwing up his eyes as if looking at the sun. Then he raised his arm very slowly=
and
took his red boina off his bald head.
I watched her smiling at him all the time. I daresay she knew him as well as =
she
knew the old rock. Very old
rock. The rock of ages—=
and
the aged man—landmarks of her youth.=
Then the mules started walking smartly forward, with the three peasa=
nts
striding alongside of them, and vanished between the trees. These fellows were most likely sen=
t out
by her uncle the Cura.
“It was a
peaceful scene, the morning light, the bit of open country framed in steep
stony slopes, a high peak or two in the distance, the thin smoke of some
invisible caserios, rising straight up here and there. Far away behind us the guns had ce=
ased
and the echoes in the gorges had died out.=
I never knew what peace meant before. . .
“Nor
since,” muttered Mr. Blunt after a pause and then went on. “The little stone church of =
her
uncle, the holy man of the family, might have been round the corner of the =
next
spur of the nearest hill. I
dismounted to bandage the shoulder of my trooper. It was only a nasty long scratch. =
While
I was busy about it a bell began to ring in the distance. The sound fell deliciously on the =
ear,
clear like the morning light. But
it stopped all at once. You k=
now
how a distant bell stops suddenly.
I never knew before what stillness meant. While I was wondering at it the fe=
llow
holding our horses was moved to uplift his voice. He was a Spaniard, not a Basque, a=
nd he
trolled out in Castilian that song you know,
“‘Oh bells of my
native village, I=
am going
away . . . good-bye!’
He had a good
voice. When the last note had
floated away I remounted, but there was a charm in the spot, something
particular and individual because while we were looking at it before turning
our horses’ heads away the singer said: ‘I wonder what is the n=
ame
of this place,’ and the other man remarked: ‘Why, there is no
village here,’ and the first one insisted: ‘No, I mean this spo=
t,
this very place.’ The w=
ounded
trooper decided that it had no name probably. But he was wrong. It had a name. The hill, or the ro=
ck, or
the wood, or the whole had a name.
I heard of it by chance later.
It was—Lastaola.”
A cloud of tobacco
smoke from Mills’ pipe drove between my head and the head of Mr. Blun=
t,
who, strange to say, yawned slightly.
It seemed to me an obvious affectation on the part of that man of
perfect manners, and, moreover, suffering from distressing insomnia.
“This is ho=
w we
first met and how we first parted,” he said in a weary, indifferent
tone. “It’s quite
possible that she did see her uncle on the way. It’s perhaps on this occasio=
n that
she got her sister to come out of the wilderness. I have no doubt she had a pass fro=
m the
French Government giving her the completest freedom of action. She must have got it in Paris befo=
re
leaving.”
Mr. Blunt broke o=
ut
into worldly, slightly cynical smiles.
“She can get
anything she likes in Paris. =
She
could get a whole army over the frontier if she liked. She could get herself admitted int=
o the Foreign
Office at one o’clock in the morning if it so pleased her. Doors fly open before the heiress =
of Mr.
Allègre. She has inher=
ited
the old friends, the old connections . . . Of course, if she were a toothle=
ss
old woman . . . But, you see, she isn’t. The ushers in all the ministries b=
ow
down to the ground therefore, and voices from the innermost sanctums take o=
n an
eager tone when they say, ‘Faites entrer.’ My mother knows something about it=
. She has followed her career with t=
he
greatest attention. And Rita
herself is not even surprised. She
accomplishes most extraordinary things, as naturally as buying a pair of
gloves. People in the shops are very polite and people in the world are lik=
e people
in the shops. What did she kn=
ow of
the world? She had seen it on=
ly
from the saddle. Oh, she will=
get
your cargo released for you all right.&nbs=
p;
How will she do it? . . Well, when it’s done—you follow =
me, Mills?—when
it’s done she will hardly know herself.”
“It’s
hardly possible that she shouldn’t be aware,” Mills pronounced =
calmly.
“No, she
isn’t an idiot,” admitted Mr. Blunt, in the same matter-of-fact=
voice. “But she confessed to myself=
only
the other day that she suffered from a sense of unreality. I told her that at any rate she ha=
d her
own feelings surely. And she =
said
to me: Yes, there was one of them at least about which she had no doubt; and
you will never guess what it was. Don’t try. I happen to know, because we are p=
retty
good friends.”
At that moment we=
all
changed our attitude slightly.
Mills’ staring eyes moved for a glance towards Blunt, I, who w=
as
occupying the divan, raised myself on the cushions a little and Mr. Blunt, =
with
half a turn, put his elbow on the table.
“I asked her
what it was. I don’t
see,” went on Mr. Blunt, with a perfectly horrible gentleness, “=
;why
I should have shown particular consideration to the heiress of Mr.
Allègre. I don’t=
mean
to that particular mood of hers. It
was the mood of weariness. An=
d so
she told me. It’s fear.=
I will say it once again: Fear. . .
.”
He added after a
pause, “There can be not the slightest doubt of her courage. But she distinctly uttered the word
fear.”
There was under t=
he
table the noise of Mills stretching his legs.
“A person of
imagination,” he began, “a young, virgin intelligence, steeped =
for
nearly five years in the talk of Allègre’s studio, where every
hard truth had been cracked and every belief had been worried into shreds.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> They were like a lot of intellectu=
al
dogs, you know . . .”
“Yes, yes, =
of
course,” Blunt interrupted hastily, “the intellectual personali=
ty
altogether adrift, a soul without a home . . . but I, who am neither very f=
ine
nor very deep, I am convinced that the fear is material.”
“Because she
confessed to it being that?” insinuated Mills.
“No, because
she didn’t,” contradicted Blunt, with an angry frown and in an
extremely suave voice. “=
;In
fact, she bit her tongue. And
considering what good friends we are (under fire together and all that) I
conclude that there is nothing there to boast of. Neither is my friendship, as a mat=
ter of
fact.”
Mills’ face=
was
the very perfection of indifference.
But I who was looking at him, in my innocence, to discover what it a=
ll
might mean, I had a notion that it was perhaps a shade too perfect.
“My leave i=
s a
farce,” Captain Blunt burst out, with a most unexpected exasperation.=
“As an officer of Don Carlos=
, I
have no more standing than a bandit.
I ought to have been interned in those filthy old barracks in Avigno=
n a
long time ago. . . Why am I not?
Because Doña Rita exists and for no other reason on earth.
It was then for t=
he
first time I heard Mr. Mills laugh.
It was a deep, pleasant, kindly note, not very loud and altogether f=
ree
from that quality of derision that spoils so many laughs and gives away the
secret hardness of hearts. But
neither was it a very joyous laugh.
“But the tr=
uth
of the matter is that I am ‘en mission,’” continued Capta=
in
Blunt. “I have been
instructed to settle some things, to set other things going, and, by my
instructions, Doña Rita is to be the intermediary for all those
objects. And why? Because every bald head in this
Republican Government gets pink at the top whenever her dress rustles outsi=
de
the door. They bow with immen=
se deference
when the door opens, but the bow conceals a smirk because of those Venetian
days. That confounded Versoy =
shoved
his nose into that business; he says accidentally. He saw them together on the Lido a=
nd
(those writing fellows are horrible) he wrote what he calls a vignette (I
suppose accidentally, too) under that very title. There was in it a Prince and a lad=
y and
a big dog. He described how t=
he
Prince on landing from the gondola emptied his purse into the hands of a
picturesque old beggar, while the lady, a little way off, stood gazing back=
at
Venice with the dog romantically stretched at her feet. One of Versoy’s beautiful pr=
ose vignettes
in a great daily that has a literary column. But some other papers that didn=
217;t
care a cent for literature rehashed the mere fact. And that’s the sor=
t of
fact that impresses your political man, especially if the lady is, well, su=
ch
as she is . . .”
He paused. His dark eyes flashed fatally, awa=
y from
us, in the direction of the shy dummy; and then he went on with cultivated
cynicism.
“So she rus=
hes
down here. Overdone, weary, r=
est
for her nerves. Nonsense. I a=
ssure
you she has no more nerves than I have.”
I don’t know
how he meant it, but at that moment, slim and elegant, he seemed a mere bun=
dle
of nerves himself, with the flitting expressions on his thin, well-bred fac=
e,
with the restlessness of his meagre brown hands amongst the objects on the
table. With some pipe ash amo=
ngst a
little spilt wine his forefinger traced a capital R. Then he looked into an empty glass
profoundly. I have a notion t=
hat I
sat there staring and listening like a yokel at a play. Mills’ pipe was lying quite =
a foot
away in front of him, empty, cold.
Perhaps he had no more tobacco.&nbs=
p;
Mr. Blunt assumed his dandified air—nervously.
“Of course =
her
movements are commented on in the most exclusive drawing-rooms and also in
other places, also exclusive, but where the gossip takes on another tone. There they are probably saying tha=
t she has
got a ‘coup de coeur’ for some one. Whereas I think she is utterly inc=
apable
of that sort of thing. That
Venetian affair, the beginning of it and the end of it, was nothing but a c=
oup
de tête, and all those activities in which I am involved, as you see =
(by
order of Headquarters, ha, ha, ha!), are nothing but that, all this connect=
ion,
all this intimacy into which I have dropped . . . Not to speak of my mother,
who is delightful, but as irresponsible as one of those crazy princesses th=
at shock
their Royal families. . . ”
He seemed to bite=
his
tongue and I observed that Mills’ eyes seemed to have grown wider tha=
n I
had ever seen them before. In=
that
tranquil face it was a great play of feature. “An intimacy,” began M=
r.
Blunt, with an extremely refined grimness of tone, “an intimacy with =
the
heiress of Mr. Allègre on the part of . . . on my part, well, it
isn’t exactly . . . it’s open . . . well, I leave it to you, wh=
at
does it look like?”
“Is there
anybody looking on?” Mills let fall, gently, through his kindly lips.=
“Not actual=
ly,
perhaps, at this moment. But I
don’t need to tell a man of the world, like you, that such things can=
not
remain unseen. And that they =
are,
well, compromising, because of the mere fact of the fortune.”
Mills got on his
feet, looked for his jacket and after getting into it made himself heard wh=
ile
he looked for his hat.
“Whereas the
woman herself is, so to speak, priceless.”
Mr. Blunt muttered
the word “Obviously.”
By then we were a=
ll
on our feet. The iron stove g=
lowed
no longer and the lamp, surrounded by empty bottles and empty glasses, had
grown dimmer.
I know that I had=
a
great shiver on getting away from the cushions of the divan.
“We will me=
et
again in a few hours,” said Mr. Blunt.
“Don’t
forget to come,” he said, addressing me. “Oh, yes, do. Have no scruples. I am authorized to make
invitations.”
He must have noti=
ced
my shyness, my surprise, my embarrassment.=
And indeed I didn’t know what to say.
“I assure y=
ou
there isn’t anything incorrect in your coming,” he insisted, wi=
th
the greatest civility. “=
;You
will be introduced by two good friends, Mills and myself. Surely you are not afraid of a ver=
y charming
woman. . . .”
I was not afraid,=
but
my head swam a little and I only looked at him mutely.
“Lunch
precisely at midday. Mills wi=
ll
bring you along. I am sorry y=
ou two
are going. I shall throw myse=
lf on
the bed for an hour or two, but I am sure I won’t sleep.”
He accompanied us
along the passage into the black-and-white hall, where the low gas flame
glimmered forlornly. When he =
opened
the front door the cold blast of the mistral rushing down the street of the
Consuls made me shiver to the very marrow of my bones.
Mills and I excha=
nged
but a few words as we walked down towards the centre of the town. In the chill tempestuous dawn he
strolled along musingly, disregarding the discomfort of the cold, the
depressing influence of the hour, the desolation of the empty streets in wh=
ich
the dry dust rose in whirls in front of us, behind us, flew upon us from th=
e side
streets. The masks had gone h=
ome
and our footsteps echoed on the flagstones with unequal sound as of men wit=
hout
purpose, without hope.
“I suppose =
you
will come,” said Mills suddenly.
“I really
don’t know,” I said.
“Don’t
you? Well, remember I am not =
trying
to persuade you; but I am staying at the Hôtel de Louvre and I shall
leave there at a quarter to twelve for that lunch. At a quarter to twelve, not a minu=
te
later. I suppose you can
sleep?”
I laughed.
“Charming a=
ge,
yours,” said Mills, as we came out on the quays. Already dim figures of the workers=
moved
in the biting dawn and the masted forms of ships were coming out dimly, as =
far
as the eye could reach down the old harbour.
“Well,̶=
1;
Mills began again, “you may oversleep yourself.”
This suggestion w=
as
made in a cheerful tone, just as we shook hands at the lower end of the
Cannebière. He looked =
very
burly as he walked away from me. I
went on towards my lodgings. =
My
head was very full of confused images, but I was really too tired to think.=
Sometimes I wonder yet whether Mills
wished me to oversleep myself or not: that is, whether he really took
sufficient interest to care. =
His uniform
kindliness of manner made it impossible for me to tell. And I can hardly remember my own
feelings. Did I care? The whole recollection of that tim=
e of
my life has such a peculiar quality that the beginning and the end of it are
merged in one sensation of profound emotion, continuous and overpowering,
containing the extremes of exultation, full of careless joy and of an
invincible sadness—like a day-dream.=
The sense of all this having been gone through as if in one great ru=
sh
of imagination is all the stronger in the distance of time, because it had =
something
of that quality even then: of fate unprovoked, of events that didn’t =
cast
any shadow before.
Not that those ev=
ents
were in the least extraordinary.
They were, in truth, commonplace.&n=
bsp;
What to my backward glance seems startling and a little awful is the=
ir
punctualness and inevitability.
Mills was punctual. Ex=
actly
at a quarter to twelve he appeared under the lofty portal of the Hôte=
l de
Louvre, with his fresh face, his ill-fitting grey suit, and enveloped in his
own sympathetic atmosphere.
How could I have
avoided him? To this day I ha=
ve a
shadowy conviction of his inherent distinction of mind and heart, far beyond
any man I have ever met since. He
was unavoidable: and of course I never tried to avoid him. The first sight on which his eyes =
fell
was a victoria pulled up before the hotel door, in which I sat with no
sentiment I can remember now but that of some slight shyness. He got in without a moment’s=
hesitation,
his friendly glance took me in from head to foot and (such was his peculiar
gift) gave me a pleasurable sensation.
After we had gone=
a
little way I couldn’t help saying to him with a bashful laugh: “=
;You
know, it seems very extraordinary that I should be driving out with you like
this.”
He turned to look=
at
me and in his kind voice:
“You will f=
ind
everything extremely simple,” he said. “So simple that you will be =
quite
able to hold your own. I supp=
ose
you know that the world is selfish, I mean the majority of the people in it,
often unconsciously I must admit, and especially people with a mission, wit=
h a fixed
idea, with some fantastic object in view, or even with only some fantastic
illusion. That doesn’t =
mean
that they have no scruples. A=
nd I don’t
know that at this moment I myself am not one of them.”
“That, of
course, I can’t say,” I retorted.
“I
haven’t seen her for years,” he said, “and in comparison =
with
what she was then she must be very grown up by now. From what we heard from Mr. Blunt =
she
had experiences which would have matured her more than they would teach
her. There are of course peop=
le
that are not teachable. I don=
’t
know that she is one of them. But
as to maturity that’s quite another thing. Capacity for suffering is develope=
d in
every human being worthy of the name.”
“Captain Bl=
unt
doesn’t seem to be a very happy person,” I said. “He seems to have a grudge a=
gainst
everybody. People make him
wince. The things they do, the
things they say. He must be a=
wfully
mature.”
Mills gave me a
sidelong look. It met mine of=
the
same character and we both smiled without openly looking at each other. At the end of the Rue de Rome the
violent chilly breath of the mistral enveloped the victoria in a great wide=
ning
of brilliant sunshine without heat.
We turned to the right, circling at a stately pace about the rather =
mean
obelisk which stands at the entrance to the Prado.
“I don̵=
7;t
know whether you are mature or not,” said Mills humorously. “Bu=
t I
think you will do. You . . .
”
“Tell
me,” I interrupted, “what is really Captain Blunt’s posit=
ion there?”
And I nodded at t=
he
alley of the Prado opening before us between the rows of the perfectly leaf=
less
trees.
“Thoroughly
false, I should think. It
doesn’t accord either with his illusions or his pretensions, or even =
with
the real position he has in the world.&nbs=
p;
And so what between his mother and the General Headquarters and the
state of his own feelings he. . . ”
“He is in l=
ove
with her,” I interrupted again.
“That
wouldn’t make it any easier.
I’m not at all sure of that.&=
nbsp;
But if so it can’t be a very idealistic sentiment. All the warmth of his idealism is
concentrated upon a certain ‘Américain, Catholique et gentil-h=
omme.
. . ’”
The smile which f=
or a
moment dwelt on his lips was not unkind.
“At the same
time he has a very good grip of the material conditions that surround, as it
were, the situation.”
“What do you
mean? That Doña Rita=
8221;
(the name came strangely familiar to my tongue) “is rich, that she ha=
s a
fortune of her own?”
“Yes, a
fortune,” said Mills.
“But it was Allègre’s fortune before. . . And then
there is Blunt’s fortune: he lives by his sword. And there is the fortune of his mo=
ther,
I assure you a perfectly charming, clever, and most aristocratic old lady, =
with
the most distinguished connections.
I really mean it. She
doesn’t live by her sword.
She . . . she lives by her wits.&nb=
sp;
I have a notion that those two dislike each other heartily at times.=
. .
Here we are.”
The victoria stop=
ped
in the side alley, bordered by the low walls of private grounds. We got out before a wrought-iron g=
ateway
which stood half open and walked up a circular drive to the door of a large
villa of a neglected appearance.
The mistral howled in the sunshine, shaking the bare bushes quite
furiously. And everything was
bright and hard, the air was hard, the light was hard, the ground under our
feet was hard.
The door at which
Mills rang came open almost at once.
The maid who opened it was short, dark, and slightly pockmarked. For the rest, an obvious
“femme-de-chambre,” and very busy. She said quickly, “Madame ha=
s just
returned from her ride,” and went up the stairs leaving us to shut the
front door ourselves.
The staircase had=
a
crimson carpet. Mr. Blunt app=
eared
from somewhere in the hall. H=
e was
in riding breeches and a black coat with ample square skirts. This get-up suited him but it also
changed him extremely by doing away with the effect of flexible slimness he
produced in his evening clothes. He
looked to me not at all himself but rather like a brother of the man who had
been talking to us the night before.
He carried about him a delicate perfume of scented soap. He gave us a flash of his white te=
eth
and said:
“It’s=
a
perfect nuisance. We have just
dismounted. I will have to lu=
nch as
I am. A lifelong habit of beg=
inning
her day on horseback. She pre=
tends
she is unwell unless she does. I
daresay, when one thinks there has been hardly a day for five or six years =
that
she didn’t begin with a ride.
That’s the reason she is always rushing away from Paris where =
she can’t
go out in the morning alone. =
Here,
of course, it’s different.
And as I, too, am a stranger here I can go out with her. Not that I particularly care to do
it.”
These last words =
were
addressed to Mills specially, with the addition of a mumbled remark:
“It’s a confounded position.” Then calmly to me with a swift smi=
le:
“We have been talking of you this morning. You are expected with impatience.&=
#8221;
“Thank you =
very
much,” I said, “but I can’t help asking myself what I am =
doing
here.”
The upward cast in
the eyes of Mills who was facing the staircase made us both, Blunt and I, t=
urn
round. The woman of whom I had
heard so much, in a sort of way in which I had never heard a woman spoken of
before, was coming down the stairs, and my first sensation was that of prof=
ound
astonishment at this evidence that she did really exist. And even then the visual impressio=
n was
more of colour in a picture than of the forms of actual life. She was wearing a wrapper, a sort =
of
dressing-gown of pale blue silk embroidered with black and gold designs rou=
nd
the neck and down the front, lapped round her and held together by a broad =
belt
of the same material. Her sli=
ppers
were of the same colour, with black bows at the instep. The white stairs, the deep crimson=
of
the carpet, and the light blue of the dress made an effective combination of
colour to set off the delicate carnation of that face, which, after the fir=
st
glance given to the whole person, drew irresistibly your gaze to itself by =
an indefinable
quality of charm beyond all analysis and made you think of remote races, of
strange generations, of the faces of women sculptured on immemorial monumen=
ts
and of those lying unsung in their tombs.&=
nbsp;
While she moved downwards from step to step with slightly lowered ey=
es
there flashed upon me suddenly the recollection of words heard at night, of=
Allègre’s
words about her, of there being in her “something of the women of all
time.”
At the last step =
she
raised her eyelids, treated us to an exhibition of teeth as dazzling as Mr.
Blunt’s and looking even stronger; and indeed, as she approached us s=
he
brought home to our hearts (but after all I am speaking only for myself) a
vivid sense of her physical perfection in beauty of limb and balance of ner=
ves,
and not so much of grace, probably, as of absolute harmony.
She said to us,
“I am sorry I kept you waiting.” Her voice was low pitched, penetra=
ting,
and of the most seductive gentleness.
She offered her hand to Mills very frankly as to an old friend. Within the extraordinarily wide sl=
eeve,
lined with black silk, I could see the arm, very white, with a pearly gleam=
in
the shadow. But to me she ext=
ended her
hand with a slight stiffening, as it were a recoil of her person, combined =
with
an extremely straight glance. It
was a finely shaped, capable hand.
I bowed over it, and we just touched fingers. I did not look then at her face.
Next moment she
caught sight of some envelopes lying on the round marble-topped table in the
middle of the hall. She seize=
d one
of them with a wonderfully quick, almost feline, movement and tore it open,=
saying
to us, “Excuse me, I must . . . Do go into the dining-room. Captain
Blunt, show the way.”
Her widened eyes
stared at the paper. Mr. Blunt
threw one of the doors open, but before we passed through it we heard a
petulant exclamation accompanied by childlike stamping with both feet and
ending in a laugh which had in it a note of contempt.
The door closed
behind us; we had been abandoned by Mr. Blunt. He had remained on the other side,
possibly to soothe. The room =
in
which we found ourselves was long like a gallery and ended in a rotunda with
many windows. It was long eno=
ugh
for two fireplaces of red polished granite. A table laid out for four occup=
ied
very little space. The floor =
inlaid
in two kinds of wood in a bizarre pattern was highly waxed, reflecting obje=
cts
like still water.
Before very long
Doña Rita and Blunt rejoined us and we sat down around the table; but
before we could begin to talk a dramatically sudden ring at the front door
stilled our incipient animation.
Doña Rita looked at us all in turn, with surprise and, as it
were, with suspicion. “=
How
did he know I was here?” she whispered after looking at the card which
was brought to her. She
passed it to Blunt, who passed it to Mills, who made a faint grimace, dropp=
ed
it on the table-cloth, and only whispered to me, “A journalist from
Paris.”
“He has run=
me
to earth,” said Doña Rita.&nb=
sp;
“One would bargain for peace against hard cash if these fellows
weren’t always ready to snatch at one’s very soul with the other
hand. It frightens me.”=
Her voice floated
mysterious and penetrating from her lips, which moved very little. Mills was watching her with sympat=
hetic
curiosity. Mr. Blunt muttered:
“Better not make the brute angry.” For a moment Doña Rita̵=
7;s
face, with its narrow eyes, its wide brow, and high cheek bones, became very
still; then her colour was a little heightened. “Oh,” she said softly,
“let him come in. He wo=
uld be
really dangerous if he had a mind—you know,” she said to Mills.=
The person who had
provoked all those remarks and as much hesitation as though he had been some
sort of wild beast astonished me on being admitted, first by the beauty of =
his
white head of hair and then by his paternal aspect and the innocent simplic=
ity
of his manner. They laid a co=
ver
for him between Mills and Doña Rita, who quite openly removed the en=
velopes
she had brought with her, to the other side of her plate. As openly the man’s round
china-blue eyes followed them in an attempt to make out the handwriting of =
the
addresses.
He seemed to know=
, at
least slightly, both Mills and Blunt.
To me he gave a stare of stupid surprise. He addressed our hostess.
“Resting? Rest is a very good thing. Upon my word, I thought I would fi=
nd you
alone. But you have too much
sense. Neither man nor woman =
has been
created to live alone. . . .”
After this opening he had all the talk to himself. It was left to him pointedly, and I
verily believe that I was the only one who showed an appearance of
interest. I couldn’t he=
lp it. The others, including Mills, sat l=
ike a
lot of deaf and dumb people. No. It
was even something more detached. =
span>They
sat rather like a very superior lot of waxworks, with the fixed but
indetermined facial expression and with that odd air wax figures have of be=
ing
aware of their existence being but a sham.
I was the excepti=
on;
and nothing could have marked better my status of a stranger, the completest
possible stranger in the moral region in which those people lived, moved,
enjoying or suffering their incomprehensible emotions. I was as much of a stranger as the=
most
hopeless castaway stumbling in the dark upon a hut of natives and finding t=
hem
in the grip of some situation appertaining to the mentalities, prejudices, =
and problems
of an undiscovered country—of a country of which he had not even had =
one
single clear glimpse before.
It was even worse=
in
a way. It ought to have been =
more
disconcerting. For, pursuing the image of the cast-away blundering upon the=
complications
of an unknown scheme of life, it was I, the castaway, who was the savage, t=
he
simple innocent child of nature.
Those people were obviously more civilized than I was. They had more rites, more ceremoni=
es,
more complexity in their sensations, more knowledge of evil, more varied
meanings to the subtle phrases of their language. Naturally! I was still so young! And yet I assure you, that just th=
en I
lost all sense of inferiority. And
why? Of course the carelessne=
ss and
the ignorance of youth had something to do with that. But there was something else
besides. Looking at Doñ=
;a
Rita, her head leaning on her hand, with her dark lashes lowered on the
slightly flushed cheek, I felt no longer alone in my youth. That woman of whom I had heard the=
se
things I have set down with all the exactness of unfailing memory, that wom=
an was
revealed to me young, younger than anybody I had ever seen, as young as mys=
elf
(and my sensation of my youth was then very acute); revealed with something
peculiarly intimate in the conviction, as if she were young exactly in the =
same
way in which I felt myself young; and that therefore no misunderstanding
between us was possible and there could be nothing more for us to know about
each other. Of course this
sensation was momentary, but it was illuminating; it was a light which could
not last, but it left no darkness behind.&=
nbsp;
On the contrary, it seemed to have kindled magically somewhere withi=
n me
a glow of assurance, of unaccountable confidence in myself: a warm, steady,=
and
eager sensation of my individual life beginning for good there, on that spo=
t,
in that sense of solidarity, in that seduction.
For this, properly speaking wonderf=
ul,
reason I was the only one of the company who could listen without constrain=
t to
the unbidden guest with that fine head of white hair, so beautifully kept, =
so
magnificently waved, so artistically arranged that respect could not be felt
for it any more than for a very expensive wig in the window of a
hair-dresser. In fact, I had =
an
inclination to smile at it. T=
his
proves how unconstrained I felt. My
mind was perfectly at liberty; and so of all the eyes in that room mine was=
the
only pair able to look about in easy freedom. All the other listeners’ eye=
s were
cast down, including Mills’ eyes, but that I am sure was only because=
of
his perfect and delicate sympathy.
He could not have been concerned otherwise.
The intruder devo=
ured
the cutlets—if they were cutlets.&nb=
sp;
Notwithstanding my perfect liberty of mind I was not aware of what we
were eating. I have a notion =
that
the lunch was a mere show, except of course for the man with the white hair,
who was really hungry and who, besides, must have had the pleasant sense of
dominating the situation. He
stooped over his plate and worked his jaw deliberately while his blue eyes
rolled incessantly; but as a matter of fact he never looked openly at any o=
ne
of us. Whenever he laid down =
his
knife and fork he would throw himself back and start retailing in a light t=
one
some Parisian gossip about prominent people.
He talked first a=
bout
a certain politician of mark. His
“dear Rita” knew him.
His costume dated back to ’48, he was made of wood and parchme=
nt and
still swathed his neck in a white cloth; and even his wife had never been s=
een
in a low-necked dress. Not on=
ce in
her life. She was buttoned up=
to
the chin like her husband. We=
ll,
that man had confessed to him that when he was engaged in political
controversy, not on a matter of principle but on some special measure in
debate, he felt ready to kill everybody.
He interrupted
himself for a comment. “=
;I am
something like that myself. I believe it’s a purely professional
feeling. Carry one’s po=
int
whatever it is. Normally I
couldn’t kill a fly. My
sensibility is too acute for that.
My heart is too tender also.
Much too tender. I am a
Republican. I am a Red. As to=
all
our present masters and governors, all those people you are trying to turn
round your little finger, they are all horrible Royalists in disguise. They are plotting the ruin of all =
the institutions
to which I am devoted. But I =
have
never tried to spoil your little game, Rita. After all, it’s but a little
game. You know very well that=
two
or three fearless articles, something in my style, you know, would soon put=
a
stop to all that underhand backing of your king. I am calling him king beca=
use
I want to be polite to you. H=
e is
an adventurer, a blood-thirsty, murderous adventurer, for me, and nothing e=
lse. Look here, my dear child, what are=
you
knocking yourself about for? =
For
the sake of that bandit? Allo=
ns
donc! A pupil of Henry All&eg=
rave;gre
can have no illusions of that sort about any man. And such a pupil, too! Ah, the good old days in the
Pavilion! Don’t think I=
claim
any particular intimacy. It w=
as
just enough to enable me to offer my services to you, Rita, when our poor
friend died. I found myself h=
andy and
so I came. It so happened tha=
t I
was the first. You remember, =
Rita? What
made it possible for everybody to get on with our poor dear Allègre =
was
his complete, equable, and impartial contempt for all mankind. There is nothing in that against t=
he
purest democratic principles; but that you, Rita, should elect to throw so =
much
of your life away for the sake of a Royal adventurer, it really knocks me
over. For you don’t lov=
e him.
You never loved him, you know.”
He made a snatch =
at
her hand, absolutely pulled it away from under her head (it was quite
startling) and retaining it in his grasp, proceeded to a paternal patting of
the most impudent kind. She l=
et him
go on with apparent insensibility.
Meanwhile his eyes strayed round the table over our faces. It was very trying. The stupidity of that wandering st=
are had
a paralysing power. He talked=
at
large with husky familiarity.
“Here I com=
e,
expecting to find a good sensible girl who had seen at last the vanity of a=
ll
those things; half-light in the rooms; surrounded by the works of her favou=
rite
poets, and all that sort of thing.
I say to myself: I must just run in and see the dear wise child, and
encourage her in her good resolutions. . . And I fall into the middle of an
intime lunch-party. For I sup=
pose
it is intime. Eh? Very? H’m, yes . . . ”
He was really app=
alling. Again his wandering stare went rou=
nd the
table, with an expression incredibly incongruous with the words. It was as though he had borrowed t=
hose
eyes from some idiot for the purpose of that visit. He still held Doña RitaR=
17;s
hand, and, now and then, patted it.
“It’s
discouraging,” he cooed.
“And I believe not one of you here is a Frenchman. I don’t know what you are all
about. It’s beyond me.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But if we were a Republic—yo=
u know
I am an old Jacobin, sans-culotte and terrorist—if this were a real
Republic with the Convention sitting and a Committee of Public Safety atten=
ding
to national business, you would all get your heads cut off. Ha, ha . . . I am joking, ha, ha! =
. . .
and serve you right, too.
Don’t mind my little joke.”
While he was still
laughing he released her hand and she leaned her head on it again without
haste. She had never looked a=
t him
once.
During the rather
humiliating silence that ensued he got a leather cigar case like a small va=
lise
out of his pocket, opened it and looked with critical interest at the six
cigars it contained. The tire=
less femme-de-chambre
set down a tray with coffee cups on the table. We each (glad, I suppose, of somet=
hing
to do) took one, but he, to begin with, sniffed at his. Doña Rita continued leaning=
on
her elbow, her lips closed in a reposeful expression of peculiar
sweetness. There was nothing
drooping in her attitude. Her=
face
with the delicate carnation of a rose and downcast eyes was as if veiled in
firm immobility and was so appealing that I had an insane impulse to walk r=
ound
and kiss the forearm on which it was leaning; that strong, well-shaped fore=
arm,
gleaming not like marble but with a living and warm splendour. So familiar had I become already w=
ith
her in my thoughts! Of course=
I didn’t
do anything of the sort. It w=
as
nothing uncontrollable, it was but a tender longing of a most respectful and
purely sentimental kind. I pe=
rformed
the act in my thought quietly, almost solemnly, while the creature with the
silver hair leaned back in his chair, puffing at his cigar, and began to sp=
eak
again.
It was all appare=
ntly
very innocent talk. He inform=
ed his
“dear Rita” that he was really on his way to Monte Carlo. A lifelong habit of his at this ti=
me of
the year; but he was ready to run back to Paris if he could do anything for=
his
“chère enfant,” run back for a day, for two days, for th=
ree
days, for any time; miss Monte Carlo this year altogether, if he could be of
the slightest use and save her going herself. For instance he could see to it th=
at
proper watch was kept over the Pavilion stuffed with all these art
treasures. What was going to =
happen
to all those things? . . . Making herself heard for the first time Do&ntild=
e;a
Rita murmured without moving that she had made arrangements with the police=
to have
it properly watched. And I was
enchanted by the almost imperceptible play of her lips.
But the anxious
creature was not reassured. He
pointed out that things had been stolen out of the Louvre, which was, he da=
red
say, even better watched. And=
there
was that marvellous cabinet on the landing, black lacquer with silver heron=
s,
which alone would repay a couple of burglars. A wheelbarrow, some old sacki=
ng,
and they could trundle it off under people’s noses.
“Have you
thought it all out?” she asked in a cold whisper, while we three sat
smoking to give ourselves a countenance (it was certainly no enjoyment) and
wondering what we would hear next.
No, he had not. But he confessed that for years and
years he had been in love with that cabinet. And anyhow what was going to happe=
n to
the things? The world was gre=
atly
exercised by that problem. He
turned slightly his beautifully groomed white head so as to address Mr. Blu=
nt directly.
“I had the
pleasure of meeting your mother lately.”
Mr. Blunt took his
time to raise his eyebrows and flash his teeth at him before he dropped
negligently, “I can’t imagine where you could have met my
mother.”
“Why, at
Bing’s, the curio-dealer,” said the other with an air of the he=
aviest
possible stupidity. And yet t=
here
was something in these few words which seemed to imply that if Mr. Blunt was
looking for trouble he would certainly get it. “Bing was bowing her out of =
his
shop, but he was so angry about something that he was quite rude even to me
afterwards. I don’t thi=
nk
it’s very good for Madame votre mère to quarrel with Bing. He =
is a
Parisian personality. He̵=
7;s
quite a power in his sphere. =
All these
fellows’ nerves are upset from worry as to what will happen to the Al=
lègre
collection. And no wonder the=
y are
nervous. A big art event hang=
s on
your lips, my dear, great Rita. And
by the way, you too ought to remember that it isn’t wise to quarrel w=
ith
people. What have you done to=
that
poor Azzolati? Did you really=
tell
him to get out and never come near you again, or something awful like
that? I don’t doubt tha=
t he was
of use to you or to your king. A
man who gets invitations to shoot with the President at Rambouillet! I saw him only the other evening; =
I heard
he had been winning immensely at cards; but he looked perfectly wretched, t=
he
poor fellow. He complained of=
your
conduct—oh, very much! He told me you had been perfectly brutal with
him. He said to me: ‘I =
am no
good for anything, mon cher. =
The
other day at Rambouillet, whenever I had a hare at the end of my gun I would
think of her cruel words and my eyes would run full of tears. I missed every shot’ . . . Y=
ou are
not fit for diplomatic work, you know, ma chère. You are a mere child at it. When y=
ou
want a middle-aged gentleman to do anything for you, you don’t begin =
by
reducing him to tears. I shou=
ld
have thought any woman would have known that much. A nun would have known that much.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> What do you say? Shall I run back to Paris and make=
it up
for you with Azzolati?”
He waited for her
answer. The compression of hi=
s thin
lips was full of significance. I
was surprised to see our hostess shake her head negatively the least bit, f=
or
indeed by her pose, by the thoughtful immobility of her face she seemed to =
be a
thousand miles away from us all, lost in an infinite reverie.
He gave it up.
He turned to Mills
suddenly.
“Will your
cousin come south this year, to that beautiful villa of his at Cannes?̶=
1;
Mills hardly deig=
ned
to answer that he didn’t know anything about his cousin’s
movements.
“A grand
seigneur combined with a great connoisseur,” opined the other heavily=
. His mouth had gone slack and he lo=
oked a
perfect and grotesque imbecile under his wig-like crop of white hair. Positively I thought he would begi=
n to
slobber. But he attacked Blunt
next.
“Are you on
your way down, too? A little
flutter. . . It seems to me you haven’t been seen in your usual Paris
haunts of late. Where have yo=
u been
all this time?”
“Don’t
you know where I have been?” said Mr. Blunt with great precision.
“No, I only
ferret out things that may be of some use to me,” was the unexpected
reply, uttered with an air of perfect vacancy and swallowed by Mr. Blunt in
blank silence.
At last he made r=
eady
to rise from the table.
“Think over what I have said, my dear Rita.”
“It’s=
all
over and done with,” was Doña Rita’s answer, in a louder
tone than I had ever heard her use before.=
It thrilled me while she continued: “I mean, this
thinking.” She was back=
from
the remoteness of her meditation, very much so indeed. She rose and moved away from the t=
able,
inviting by a sign the other to follow her; which he did at once, yet slowly
and as it were warily.
It was a conferen=
ce
in the recess of a window. We=
three
remained seated round the table from which the dark maid was removing the c=
ups
and the plates with brusque movements.&nbs=
p;
I gazed frankly at Doña Rita’s profile, irregular,
animated, and fascinating in an undefinable way, at her well-shaped head wi=
th
the hair twisted high up and apparently held in its place by a gold arrow w=
ith
a jewelled shaft. We couldn=
8217;t
hear what she said, but the movement of her lips and the play of her featur=
es
were full of charm, full of interest, expressing both audacity and
gentleness. She spoke with fi=
re
without raising her voice. Th=
e man
listened round-shouldered, but seeming much too stupid to understand. I could see now and then that he w=
as
speaking, but he was inaudible. At
one moment Doña Rita turned her head to the room and called out to t=
he
maid, “Give me my hand-bag off the sofa.”
At this the other=
was
heard plainly, “No, no,” and then a little lower, “You ha=
ve
no tact, Rita. . . .” T=
hen
came her argument in a low, penetrating voice which I caught, “Why
not? Between such old
friends.” However, she waved away the hand-bag, he calmed down, and t=
heir
voices sank again. Presently =
I saw
him raise her hand to his lips, while with her back to the room she continu=
ed
to contemplate out of the window the bare and untidy garden. At last he went out of the room,
throwing to the table an airy “Bonjour, bonjour,” which was not
acknowledged by any of us three.
Mills got up and approached the fig=
ure at
the window. To my extreme sur=
prise,
Mr. Blunt, after a moment of obviously painful hesitation, hastened out aft=
er
the man with the white hair.
In consequence of
these movements I was left to myself and I began to be uncomfortably consci=
ous
of it when Doña Rita, near the window, addressed me in a raised voic=
e.
“We have no
confidences to exchange, Mr. Mills and I.”
I took this for an
encouragement to join them. T=
hey
were both looking at me.
Doña Rita added, “Mr. Mills and I are friends from old
times, you know.”
Bathed in the
softened reflection of the sunshine, which did not fall directly into the r=
oom,
standing very straight with her arms down, before Mills, and with a faint s=
mile
directed to me, she looked extremely young, and yet mature. There was even, for a moment, a sl=
ight
dimple in her cheek.
“How old, I
wonder?” I said, with an answering smile.
“Oh, for ag=
es,
for ages,” she exclaimed hastily, frowning a little, then she went on
addressing herself to Mills, apparently in continuation of what she was say=
ing
before.
. . . “This man’s is an extr=
eme
case, and yet perhaps it isn’t the worst. But that’s the sort of thing=
. I have no account to render to any=
body,
but I don’t want to be dragged along all the gutters where that man p=
icks
up his living.”
She had thrown her
head back a little but there was no scorn, no angry flash under the dark-la=
shed
eyelids. The words did not
ring. I was struck for the fi=
rst
time by the even, mysterious quality of her voice.
“Will you l=
et
me suggest,” said Mills, with a grave, kindly face, “that being
what you are, you have nothing to fear?”
“And perhaps
nothing to lose,” she went on without bitterness. “No. It isn’t fear. It’s a sort of dread. You must remember that no nun coul=
d have
had a more protected life. He=
nry
Allègre had his greatness.
When he faced the world he also masked it. He was big enough for that. He
filled the whole
field of vision for me.”
“You found =
that
enough?” asked Mills.
“Why ask
now?” she remonstrated.
“The truth—the truth is that I never asked myself. Enough or not there was no room for
anything else. He was the sha=
dow
and the light and the form and the voice.&=
nbsp;
He would have it so. T=
he
morning he died they came to call me at four o’clock. I ran into his room bare-footed. He recognized me and whispered,
‘You are flawless.’ I
was very frightened. He seeme=
d to
think, and then said very plainly, ‘Such is my character. I am like that.’ These were the last words he spoke=
. I hardly noticed them then. I was thinking that he was lying i=
n a
very uncomfortable position and I asked him if I should lift him up a little
higher on the pillows. You kn=
ow I
am very strong. I could have done it.
I had done it before. =
He
raised his hand off the blanket just enough to make a sign that he didnR=
17;t
want to be touched. It was th=
e last
gesture he made. I hung over =
him
and then—and then I nearly ran out of the house just as I was, in my
night-gown. I think if I had =
been
dressed I would have run out of the garden, into the street—run away =
altogether. I had never seen death. I may say I had never heard of it.=
I
wanted to run from it.”
She paused for a
long, quiet breath. The harmo=
nized
sweetness and daring of her face was made pathetic by her downcast eyes.
“Fuir la
mort,” she repeated, meditatively, in her mysterious voice.
Mills’ big =
head
had a little movement, nothing more.
Her glance glided for a moment towards me like a friendly recognitio=
n of
my right to be there, before she began again.
“My life mi=
ght
have been described as looking at mankind from a fourth-floor window for
years. When the end came it w=
as
like falling out of a balcony into the street. It was as sudden as that. Once I remember somebody was telli=
ng us
in the Pavilion a tale about a girl who jumped down from a fourth-floor win=
dow.
. . For love, I believe,” she interjected very quickly, “and ca=
me
to no harm. Her guardian ange=
l must
have slipped his wings under her just in time. He must have. But as to me, all I know is that I
didn’t break anything—not even my heart. Don’t be shocked, Mr. Mills.=
It’s very likely that you
don’t understand.”
“Very
likely,” Mills assented, unmoved.&nb=
sp;
“But don’t be too sure of that.”
“Henry
Allègre had the highest opinion of your intelligence,” she sai=
d unexpectedly
and with evident seriousness.
“But all this is only to tell you that when he was gone I found
myself down there unhurt, but dazed, bewildered, not sufficiently stunned.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It so happened that that creature =
was
somewhere in the neighbourhood. How
he found out. . . But it’s his business to find out things. And he knows, too, how to worm his=
way
in anywhere. Indeed, in the f=
irst
days he was useful and somehow he made it look as if Heaven itself had sent
him. In my distress I thought=
I
could never sufficiently repay. . . Well, I have been paying ever since.=
221;
“What do you
mean?” asked Mills softly.
“In hard cash?”
“Oh, itR=
17;s
really so little,” she said.
“I told you it wasn’t the worst case. I stayed on in that house from whi=
ch I
nearly ran away in my nightgown. I
stayed on because I didn’t know what to do next. He vanished as he had come on the =
track
of something else, I suppose. You know
he really has got to get his living some way or other. But don’t think I was
deserted. On the contrary.
“No,”
said Mills, a little abruptly, “I have never seen him.”
“No,”=
she
said, surprised, “and yet you . . . ”
“I
understand,” interrupted Mills.
“All this is purely accidental. You must know that I am a solitary=
man
of books but with a secret taste for adventure which somehow came out;
surprising even me.”
She listened with
that enigmatic, still, under the eyelids glance, and a friendly turn of the
head.
“I know you=
for
a frank and loyal gentleman. . . Adventure—and books? Ah, the books!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Haven’t I turned stacks of t=
hem
over! Haven’t I? . . .&=
#8221;
“Yes,”
murmured Mills. “That=
8217;s
what one does.”
She put out her h=
and
and laid it lightly on Mills’ sleeve.
“Listen, I
don’t need to justify myself, but if I had known a single woman in the
world, if I had only had the opportunity to observe a single one of them, I
would have been perhaps on my guard.
But you know I hadn’t.
The only woman I had anything to do with was myself, and they say th=
at
one can’t know oneself. It
never entered my head to be on my guard against his warmth and his terrible
obviousness. You and he were =
the
only two, infinitely different, people, who didn’t approach me as if I
had been a precious object in a collection, an ivory carving or a piece of
Chinese porcelain. That’=
;s why
I have kept you in my memory so well. Oh! you were not obvious! As to him—I soon learned to =
regret
I was not some object, some beautiful, carved object of bone or bronze; a r=
are piece
of porcelain, pâte dure, not pâte tendre. A pretty specimen.”
“Rare,
yes. Even unique,” said
Mills, looking at her steadily with a smile. “But don’t try to depr=
eciate
yourself. You were never pret=
ty. You
are not pretty. You are
worse.”
Her narrow eyes h=
ad a
mischievous gleam. “Do =
you
find such sayings in your books?” she asked.
“As a matte=
r of
fact I have,” said Mills, with a little laugh, “found this one =
in a
book. It was a woman who said=
that
of herself. A woman far from
common, who died some few years ago.
She was an actress. A =
great
artist.”
“A great! .=
. .
Lucky person! She had that re=
fuge,
that garment, while I stand here with nothing to protect me from evil fame;=
a
naked temperament for any wind to blow upon. Yes, greatness in art is a
protection. I wonder if there=
would
have been anything in me if I had tried?&n=
bsp;
But Henry Allègre would never let me try. He told me that whatever I could a=
chieve
would never be good enough for what I was.=
The perfection of flattery! Was it that he thought I had not talent =
of
any sort? It’s possible=
. He would know. I’ve had the idea since that=
he
was jealous. He wasn’t =
jealous
of mankind any more than he was afraid of thieves for his collection; but he
may have been jealous of what he could see in me, of some passion that coul=
d be
aroused. But if so he never
repented. I shall never forge=
t his
last words. He saw me standing
beside his bed, defenceless, symbolic and forlorn, and all he found to say =
was,
‘Well, I am like that.’”
I forgot myself in
watching her. I had never seen
anybody speak with less play of facial muscles. In the fullness of its life her fa=
ce preserved
a sort of immobility. The wor=
ds
seemed to form themselves, fiery or pathetic, in the air, outside her
lips. Their design was hardly=
disturbed;
a design of sweetness, gravity, and force as if born from the inspiration of
some artist; for I had never seen anything to come up to it in nature befor=
e or
since.
All this was part= of the enchantment she cast over me; and I seemed to notice that Mills had the aspect of a man under a spell. If he too was a captive then I had no reason to feel ashamed of my surrender.<= o:p>
“And you
know,” she began again abruptly, “that I have been accustomed t=
o all
the forms of respect.”
“That’=
;s
true,” murmured Mills, as if involuntarily.
“Well,
yes,” she reaffirmed.
“My instinct may have told me that my only protection was
obscurity, but I didn’t know how and where to find it. Oh, yes, I had
that instinct . . . But there were other instincts and . . . How am I to te=
ll
you? I didn’t know how =
to be
on guard against myself, either.
Not a soul to speak to, or to get a warning from. Some woman soul that would have kn=
own,
in which perhaps I could have seen my own reflection. I assure you the only woman that e=
ver
addressed me directly, and that was in writing, was . . . ”
She glanced aside,
saw Mr. Blunt returning from the hall and added rapidly in a lowered voice,=
“His mother=
.”
The bright,
mechanical smile of Mr. Blunt gleamed at us right down the room, but he
didn’t, as it were, follow it in his body. He swerved to the nearest of the t=
wo big
fireplaces and finding some cigarettes on the mantelpiece remained leaning =
on
his elbow in the warmth of the bright wood fire. I noticed then a bit of mute play.=
The heiress of Henry Allègr=
e, who
could secure neither obscurity nor any other alleviation to that invidious
position, looked as if she would speak to Blunt from a distance; but in a
moment the confident eagerness of her face died out as if killed by a sudden
thought. I didn’t know =
then
her shrinking from all falsehood and evasion; her dread of insincerity and
disloyalty of every kind. But=
even
then I felt that at the very last moment her being had recoiled before some
shadow of a suspicion. And it
occurred to me, too, to wonder what sort of business Mr. Blunt could have h=
ad
to transact with our odious visitor, of a nature so urgent as to make him r=
un
out after him into the hall? =
Unless
to beat him a little with one of the sticks that were to be found there?
It was past four o’clock befo=
re I
left the house, together with Mills. Mr. Blunt, still in his riding costume,
escorted us to the very door. He asked
us to send him the first fiacre we met on our way to town. “It’s impossible to wa=
lk in
this get-up through the streets,” he remarked, with his brilliant smi=
le.
At this point I
propose to transcribe some notes I made at the time in little black books w=
hich
I have hunted up in the litter of the past; very cheap, common little
note-books that by the lapse of years have acquired a touching dimness of
aspect, the frayed, worn-out dignity of documents.
Expression on pap=
er
has never been my forte. My l=
ife
had been a thing of outward manifestations. I never had been secret or even
systematically taciturn about my simple occupations which might have been
foolish but had never required either caution or mystery. But in those four hours since midd=
ay a
complete change had come over me.
For good or evil I left that house committed to an enterprise that c=
ould
not be talked about; which would have appeared to many senseless and perhaps
ridiculous, but was certainly full of risks, and, apart from that, commanded
discretion on the ground of simple loyalty. It would not only close my lips bu=
t it would
to a certain extent cut me off from my usual haunts and from the society of=
my
friends; especially of the light-hearted, young, harum-scarum kind. This was unavoidable. It was because I felt myself throw=
n back
upon my own thoughts and forbidden to seek relief amongst other lives—=
;it
was perhaps only for that reason at first I started an irregular, fragmenta=
ry
record of my days.
I made these notes
not so much to preserve the memory (one cared not for any to-morrow then) b=
ut
to help me to keep a better hold of the actuality. I scribbled them on shore and I
scribbled them on the sea; and in both cases they are concerned not only wi=
th
the nature of the facts but with the intensity of my sensations. It may be, too, that I learned to =
love
the sea for itself only at that time.
Woman and the sea revealed themselves to me together, as it were: two
mistresses of life’s values.
The illimitable greatness of the one, the unfathomable seduction of =
the
other working their immemorial spells from generation to generation fell up=
on
my heart at last: a common fortune, an unforgettable memory of the sea̵=
7;s
formless might and of the sovereign charm in that woman’s form wherein
there seemed to beat the pulse of divinity rather than blood.
I begin here with=
the
notes written at the end of that very day.
—Parted with
Mills on the quay. We had wal=
ked
side by side in absolute silence.
The fact is he is too old for me to talk to him freely. For all his sympathy and seriousne=
ss I
don’t know what note to strike and I am not at all certain what he th=
inks
of all this. As we shook hand=
s at parting,
I asked him how much longer he expected to stay. And he answered me that it depende=
d on
R. She was making arrangement=
s for
him to cross the frontier. He
wanted to see the very ground on which the Principle of Legitimacy was actu=
ally
asserting itself arms in hand. It sounded
to my positive mind the most fantastic thing in the world, this elimination=
of
personalities from what seemed but the merest political, dynastic adventure=
. So it wasn’t Doña Rit=
a, it
wasn’t Blunt, it wasn’t the Pretender with his big infectious
laugh, it wasn’t all that lot of politicians, archbishops, and genera=
ls,
of monks, guerrilleros, and smugglers by sea and land, of dubious agents and
shady speculators and undoubted swindlers, who were pushing their fortunes =
at
the risk of their precious skins.
No. It was the Legitim=
ist
Principle asserting itself! Well, I would accept the view but with one
reservation. All the others m=
ight
have been merged into the idea, but I, the latest recruit, I would not be
merged in the Legitimist Principle.
Mine was an act of independent assertion. Never before had I felt so intense=
ly
aware of my personality. But =
I said
nothing of that to Mills. I o=
nly
told him I thought we had better not be seen very often together in the
streets. He agreed. Hearty handshake. Looked affectionately after his br=
oad
back. It never occurred to him to turn his head. What was I in comparison with the
Principle of Legitimacy?
Late that night I
went in search of Dominic. Th=
at
Mediterranean sailor was just the man I wanted. He had a great experience of all
unlawful things that can be done on the seas and he brought to the practice=
of them
much wisdom and audacity. Tha=
t I
didn’t know where he lived was nothing since I knew where he loved. The proprietor of a small, quiet c=
afé
on the quay, a certain Madame Léonore, a woman of thirty-five with an
open Roman face and intelligent black eyes, had captivated his heart years
ago. In that café with=
our
heads close together over a marble table, Dominic and I held an earnest and
endless confabulation while Madame Léonore, rustling a black silk sk=
irt,
with gold earrings, with her raven hair elaborately dressed and something
nonchalant in her movements, would take occasion, in passing to and fro, to
rest her hand for a moment on Dominic’s shoulder. Later when the little café =
had
emptied itself of its habitual customers, mostly people connected with the =
work
of ships and cargoes, she came quietly to sit at our table and looking at me
very hard with her black, sparkling eyes asked Dominic familiarly what had =
happened
to his Signorino. It was her =
name
for me. I was Dominic’s=
Signorino. She knew me by no other; and our
connection has always been somewhat of a riddle to her. She said that I was somehow changed
since she saw me last. In her=
rich
voice she urged Dominic only to look at my eyes. I must have had some piece of luck=
come
to me either in love or at cards, she bantered. But Dominic answered half in scorn=
that
I was not of the sort that runs after that kind of luck. He stated generally that there wer=
e some
young gentlemen very clever in inventing new ways of getting rid of their t=
ime
and their money. However, if =
they
needed a sensible man to help them he had no objection himself to lend a ha=
nd. Dominic’s
general scorn for the beliefs, and activities, and abilities of upper-class
people covered the Principle of Legitimacy amply; but he could not resist t=
he
opportunity to exercise his special faculties in a field he knew of old.
A fortnight later=
.
. . . In the
afternoon to the Prado. Beaut=
iful
day. At the moment of ringing=
at
the door a strong emotion of an anxious kind. Why? Down the length of the dining-room=
in
the rotunda part full of afternoon light Doña R., sitting cross-legg=
ed
on the divan in the attitude of a very old idol or a very young child and
surrounded by many cushions, waves her hand from afar pleasantly surprised,
exclaiming: “What! Back
already!” I give her all the details and we talk for two hours across=
a
large brass bowl containing a little water placed between us, lighting
cigarettes and dropping them, innumerable, puffed at, yet untasted in the
overwhelming interest of the conversation.=
Found her very quick in taking the points and very intelligent in her
suggestions. All formality so=
on
vanished between us and before very long I discovered myself sitting
cross-legged, too, while I held forth on the qualities of different Mediter=
ranean
sailing craft and on the romantic qualifications of Dominic for the task. I
believe I gave her the whole history of the man, mentioning even the existe=
nce
of Madame Léonore, since the little café would have to be the=
headquarters
of the marine part of the plot.
She murmured,
“Ah! Une belle Romaine,” thoughtfully. She told me that she liked to hear
people of that sort spoken of in terms of our common humanity. She observed also that she wished =
to see
Dominic some day; to set her eyes for once on a man who could be absolutely
depended on. She wanted to kn=
ow
whether he had engaged himself in this adventure solely for my sake.
I said that no do=
ubt
it was partly that. We had be=
en
very close associates in the West Indies from where we had returned togethe=
r,
and he had a notion that I could be depended on, too. But mainly, I suppose, it was from
taste. And there was in him a=
lso a
fine carelessness as to what he did and a love of venturesome enterprise.
“And
you,” she said. “=
Is it
carelessness, too?”
“In a
measure,” I said.
“Within limits.”
“And very s=
oon
you will get tired.”
“When I do I
will tell you. But I may also=
get
frightened. I suppose you know
there are risks, I mean apart from the risk of life.”
“As for
instance,” she said.
“For instan=
ce,
being captured, tried, and sentenced to what they call ‘the
galleys,’ in Ceuta.”
“And all th=
is
from that love for . . .”
“Not for
Legitimacy,” I interrupted the inquiry lightly. “But what’s the use as=
king
such questions? It’s li=
ke
asking the veiled figure of fate. It doesn’t know its own mind nor its
own heart. It has no heart. But what if I were to start asking
you—who have a heart and are not veiled to my sight?” She dropped her charming adolescent
head, so firm in modelling, so gentle in expression. Her uncovered neck was round like =
the
shaft of a column. She wore t=
he
same wrapper of thick blue silk. At
that time she seemed to live either in her riding habit or in that wrapper
folded tightly round her and open low to a point in front. Because of the
absence of all trimming round the neck and from the deep view of her bare a=
rms
in the wide sleeve this garment seemed to be put directly on her skin and g=
ave
one the impression of one’s nearness to her body which would have been
troubling but for the perfect unconsciousness of her manner. That day she carried no barbarous =
arrow
in her hair. It was parted on=
one
side, brushed back severely, and tied with a black ribbon, without any bron=
ze
mist about her forehead or temple.
This smoothness added to the many varieties of her expression also t=
hat
of child-like innocence.
Great progress in=
our
intimacy brought about unconsciously by our enthusiastic interest in the ma=
tter
of our discourse and, in the moments of silence, by the sympathetic current=
of
our thoughts. And this rapidl=
y growing
familiarity (truly, she had a terrible gift for it) had all the varieties of
earnestness: serious, excited, ardent, and even gay. She laughed in contralto; but her =
laugh
was never very long; and when it had ceased, the silence of the room with t=
he
light dying in all its many windows seemed to lie about me warmed by its
vibration.
As I was preparin=
g to
take my leave after a longish pause into which we had fallen as into a vague
dream, she came out of it with a start and a quiet sigh. She said, “I had forgotten
myself.” I took her han=
d and
was raising it naturally, without premeditation, when I felt suddenly the a=
rm to
which it belonged become insensible, passive, like a stuffed limb, and the
whole woman go inanimate all over!
Brusquely I dropped the hand before it reached my lips; and it was so
lifeless that it fell heavily on to the divan.
I remained standi=
ng
before her. She raised to me =
not
her eyes but her whole face, inquisitively—perhaps in appeal.
“No! This isn’t good enough for
me,” I said.
The last of the l=
ight
gleamed in her long enigmatic eyes as if they were precious enamel in that
shadowy head which in its immobility suggested a creation of a distant past:
immortal art, not transient life.
Her voice had a profound quietness.=
She excused herself.
“It’s only habit—or instinct—or what you like. I have had to practise that in self-defence lest I should be tempted sometimes to cut the arm off.”<= o:p>
I remembered the =
way
she had abandoned this very arm and hand to the white-haired ruffian. It rendered me gloomy and idiotica=
lly
obstinate.
“Very
ingenious. But this sort of t=
hing
is of no use to me,” I declared.
“Make it
up,” suggested her mysterious voice, while her shadowy figure remained
unmoved, indifferent amongst the cushions.
I didn’t st=
ir
either. I refused in the same=
low
tone.
“No. Not before you give it to me yours=
elf
some day.”
“Yes—=
some
day,” she repeated in a breath in which there was no irony but rather
hesitation, reluctance what did I know?
I walked away from
the house in a curious state of gloomy satisfaction with myself.
=
&nb=
sp;
* * * * *
And this is the l= ast extract. A month afterwards.<= o:p>
—This after=
noon
going up to the Villa I was for the first time accompanied in my way by some
misgivings. To-morrow I sail.=
First trip and
therefore in the nature of a trial trip; and I can’t overcome a certa=
in
gnawing emotion, for it is a trip that mustn’t fail. In that sort of
enterprise there is no room for mistakes.&=
nbsp;
Of all the individuals engaged in it will every one be intelligent
enough, faithful enough, bold enough?
Looking upon them as a whole it seems impossible; but as each has got
only a limited part to play they may be found sufficient each for his parti=
cular
trust. And will they be all
punctual, I wonder? An enterp=
rise
that hangs on the punctuality of many people, no matter how well disposed a=
nd
even heroic, hangs on a thread.
This I have perceived to be also the greatest of Dominic’s
concerns. He, too, wonders. And when he breathes his doubts the
smile lurking under the dark curl of his moustaches is not reassuring.
But there is also
something exciting in such speculations and the road to the Villa seemed to=
me
shorter than ever before.
Let in by the sil=
ent,
ever-active, dark lady’s maid, who is always on the spot and always on
the way somewhere else, opening the door with one hand, while she passes on,
turning on one for a moment her quick, black eyes, which just miss being
lustrous, as if some one had breathed on them lightly.
On entering the l=
ong
room I perceive Mills established in an armchair which he had dragged in fr=
ont
of the divan. I do the same to
another and there we sit side by side facing R., tenderly amiable yet someh=
ow
distant among her cushions, with an immemorial seriousness in her long, sha=
ded eyes
and her fugitive smile hovering about but never settling on her lips. Mills, who is just back from over =
the
frontier, must have been asking R. whether she had been worried again by he=
r devoted
friend with the white hair. At
least I concluded so because I found them talking of the heart-broken
Azzolati. And after having an=
swered
their greetings I sit and listen to Rita addressing Mills earnestly.
“No, I assu=
re
you Azzolati had done nothing to me.
I knew him. He was a f=
requent
visitor at the Pavilion, though I, personally, never talked with him very m=
uch
in Henry Allègre’s lifetime.&=
nbsp;
Other men were more interesting, and he himself was rather reserved =
in
his manner to me. He was an i=
nternational
politician and financier—a nobody.&n=
bsp;
He, like many others, was admitted only to feed and amuse Henry
Allègre’s scorn of the world, which was insatiable—I tell
you.”
“Yes,”
said Mills. “I can
imagine.”
“But I
know. Often when we were alon=
e Henry
Allègre used to pour it into my ears. If ever anybody saw mankind stripp=
ed of
its clothes as the child sees the king in the German fairy tale, it’s
I! Into my ears! A child’s! Too young to die of fright. Certainly not old enough to unders=
tand—or
even to believe. But then his=
arm
was about me. I used to laugh,
sometimes. Laugh! At this destruction—at these
ruins!”
“Yes,”
said Mills, very steady before her fire.&n=
bsp;
“But you have at your service the everlasting charm of life; y=
ou
are a part of the indestructible.”
“Am I? . . .
But there is no arm about me now.
The laugh! Where is my=
laugh? Give me back my laugh. . . .”=
;
And she laughed a little on a low note. I don= 8217;t know about Mills, but the subdued shadowy vibration of it echoed in my brea= st which felt empty for a moment and like a large space that makes one giddy.<= o:p>
“The laugh =
is
gone out of my heart, which at any rate used to feel protected. That feeling’s gone, too.
“Certainly,=
”
said Mills in an unaltered voice.
“As to this body you . . .”
“Oh, yes! Thanks. It’s a very poor jest. Change from body to body as travel=
lers
used to change horses at post houses.
I’ve heard of this before. . . .”
“I’ve=
no
doubt you have,” Mills put on a submissive air. “But are we to hear any more=
about
Azzolati?”
“You
shall. Listen. I had heard that he was invited to=
shoot
at Rambouillet—a quiet party, not one of these great shoots. I hear a lot of things. I wanted to have a certain informa=
tion,
also certain hints conveyed to a diplomatic personage who was to be there,
too. A personage that would n=
ever
let me get in touch with him though I had tried many times.”
“Incredible=
!”
mocked Mills solemnly.
“The person=
age
mistrusts his own susceptibility.
Born cautious,” explained Doña Rita crisply with the
slightest possible quiver of her lips.&nbs=
p;
“Suddenly I had the inspiration to make use of Azzolati, who h=
ad been
reminding me by a constant stream of messages that he was an old friend.
Her eyes, her
half-parted lips, remained fixed till Mills suggested softly, “Yes, b=
ut
Azzolati.”
Her rigidity vani=
shed
like a flake of snow in the sunshine.
“Oh! Azzolati. I=
t was
a most solemn affair. It had
occurred to me to make a very elaborate toilet. It was most successful. Azzolati looked positively scared =
for a
moment as though he had got into the wrong suite of rooms. He had never before seen me en toi=
lette,
you understand. In the old da=
ys
once out of my riding habit I would never dress. I draped myself, you remember, Mon=
sieur
Mills. To go about like that =
suited
my indolence, my longing to feel free in my body, as at that time when I us=
ed
to herd goats. . . But never mind.
My aim was to impress Azzolati. I wanted to talk to him
seriously.”
There was somethi=
ng
whimsical in the quick beat of her eyelids and in the subtle quiver of her
lips. “And behold! the =
same
notion had occurred to Azzolati.
Imagine that for this tête-à-tête dinner the crea=
ture
had got himself up as if for a reception at court. He displayed a brochette of all so=
rts of
decorations on the lapel of his frac and had a broad ribbon of some order
across his shirt front. An or=
ange
ribbon. Bavarian, I should say.
Great Roman Catholic, Azzolati.&nbs=
p;
It was always his ambition to be the banker of all the Bourbons in t=
he
world. The last remnants of h=
is
hair were dyed jet black and the ends of his moustache were like knitting
needles. He was disposed to b=
e as
soft as wax in my hands.
Unfortunately I had had some irritating interviews during the day. I was keeping down sudden impulses=
to
smash a glass, throw a plate on the floor, do something violent to relieve =
my
feelings. His submissive atti=
tude
made me still more nervous. H=
e was
ready to do anything in the world for me providing that I would promise him
that he would never find my door shut against him as long as he lived. You understand the impudence of it,
don’t you? And his tone=
was
positively abject, too. I sna=
pped
back at him that I had no door, that I was a nomad. He bowed ironically till his nose =
nearly
touched his plate but begged me to remember that to his personal knowledge I
had four houses of my own about the world.=
And you know this made me feel a homeless outcast more than
ever—like a little dog lost in the street—not knowing where to
go. I was ready to cry and th=
ere
the creature sat in front of me with an imbecile smile as much as to say
‘here is a poser for you. . . .’ I gnashed my teeth at him. Quietly, you know . . . I suppose =
you
two think that I am stupid.”
She paused as if
expecting an answer but we made no sound and she continued with a remark.
“I have days
like that. Often one must lis=
ten to
false protestations, empty words, strings of lies all day long, so that in =
the
evening one is not fit for anything, not even for truth if it comes in
one’s way. That idiot t=
reated
me to a piece of brazen sincerity which I couldn’t stand. First of al=
l he
began to take me into his confidence; he boasted of his great affairs, then
started groaning about his overstrained life which left him no time for the
amenities of existence, for beauty, or sentiment, or any sort of ease of
heart. His heart! He wanted me to sympathize with his
sorrows. Of course I ought to=
have
listened. One must pay for
service. Only I was nervous a=
nd
tired. He bored me. I told him at last that I was surp=
rised
that a man of such immense wealth should still keep on going like this reac=
hing
for more and more. I suppose =
he
must have been sipping a good deal of wine while we talked and all at once =
he
let out an atrocity which was too much for me. He had been moaning and sentimenta=
lizing
but then suddenly he showed me his fangs.&=
nbsp;
‘No,’ he cries, ‘you can’t imagine what a
satisfaction it is to feel all that penniless, beggarly lot of the dear,
honest, meritorious poor wriggling and slobbering under one’s
boots.’ You may tell me=
that he
is a contemptible animal anyhow, but you should have heard the tone! I felt=
my
bare arms go cold like ice. A
moment before I had been hot and faint with sheer boredom. I jumped up from the table, rang f=
or
Rose, and told her to bring me my fur cloak. He remained in his chair leering a=
t me
curiously. When I had the fur=
on my
shoulders and the girl had gone out of the room I gave him the surprise of =
his
life. ‘Take yourself of=
f instantly,’
I said. ‘Go trample on =
the
poor if you like but never dare speak to me again.’ At this he leaned his head on his =
arm
and sat so long at the table shading his eyes with his hand that I had to a=
sk, calmly—you
know—whether he wanted me to have him turned out into the corridor. He fetched an enormous sigh. ‘I have only tried to be hon=
est with
you, Rita.’ But by the =
time
he got to the door he had regained some of his impudence. ‘You know how to trample on =
a poor
fellow, too,’ he said.
‘But I don’t mind being made to wriggle under your pretty
shoes, Rita. I forgive you. I thought you were free from all v=
ulgar sentimentalism
and that you had a more independent mind.&=
nbsp;
I was mistaken in you, that’s all.’ With that he pretends to dash a te=
ar
from his eye-crocodile!—-and goes out, leaving me in my fur by the
blazing fire, my teeth going like castanets. . . Did you ever hear of anyth=
ing
so stupid as this affair?” she concluded in a tone of extreme candour=
and
a profound unreadable stare that went far beyond us both. And the stillness of her lips was =
so
perfect directly she ceased speaking that I wondered whether all this had c=
ome
through them or only had formed itself in my mind.
Presently she
continued as if speaking for herself only.
“It’s
like taking the lids off boxes and seeing ugly toads staring at you. In every one. Every one. That’s what it is having to =
do
with men more than mere—Good-morning—Good evening. And if you try to avoid meddling w=
ith
their lids, some of them will take them off themselves. And they don’t
even know, they don’t even suspect what they are showing you. Certain confidences—they
don’t see it—are the bitterest kind of insult. I suppose Azzolati imagines himsel=
f a
noble beast of prey. Just as =
some
others imagine themselves to be most delicate, noble, and refined gentlemen=
. And as likely as not they would tr=
ade on
a woman’s troubles—and in the end make nothing of that either.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Idiots!”
The utter absence=
of
all anger in this spoken meditation gave it a character of touching
simplicity. And as if it had =
been
truly only a meditation we conducted ourselves as though we had not heard
it. Mills began to speak of h=
is
experiences during his visit to the army of the Legitimist King. And I discovered in his speeches t=
hat
this man of books could be graphic and picturesque. His admiration for the devotion an=
d bravery
of the army was combined with the greatest distaste for what he had seen of=
the
way its great qualities were misused.
In the conduct of this great enterprise he had seen a deplorable lev=
ity
of outlook, a fatal lack of decision, an absence of any reasoned plan.
He shook his head=
.
“I feel that
you of all people, Doña Rita, ought to be told the truth. I don’t know exactly what yo=
u have
at stake.”
She was rosy like
some impassive statue in a desert in the flush of the dawn.
“Not my
heart,” she said quietly.
“You must believe that.”
“I do. Perhaps it would have been better =
if
you. . . ”
“No, Monsie=
ur
le Philosophe. It would not h=
ave
been better. Don’t make=
that
serious face at me,” she went on with tenderness in a playful note, a=
s if
tenderness had been her inheritance of all time and playfulness the very fi=
bre
of her being. “I suppos=
e you
think that a woman who has acted as I did and has not staked her heart on i=
t is
. . . How do you know to what the heart responds as it beats from day to
day?”
“I wouldn’t judge you. Wha= t am I before the knowledge you were born to? You are as old as the world.”<= o:p>
She accepted this
with a smile. I who was innoc=
ently
watching them was amazed to discover how much a fleeting thing like that co=
uld
hold of seduction without the help of any other feature and with that
unchanging glance.
“With me it=
is
pun d’onor. To my first
independent friend.”
“You were s=
oon
parted,” ventured Mills, while I sat still under a sense of oppressio=
n.
“Don’t
think for a moment that I have been scared off,” she said. “It is they who were
frightened. I suppose you hea=
rd a
lot of Headquarters gossip?”
“Oh,
yes,” Mills said meaningly.
“The fair and the dark are succeeding each other like leaves b=
lown
in the wind dancing in and out. I
suppose you have noticed that leaves blown in the wind have a look of
happiness.”
“Yes,”
she said, “that sort of leaf is dead. Then why shouldn’t it look h=
appy? And so I suppose there is no uneas=
iness,
no occasion for fears amongst the ‘responsibles.’”
“Upon the w=
hole
not. Now and then a leaf seem=
s as
if it would stick. There is for instance Madame . . .”
“Oh, I
don’t want to know, I understand it all, I am as old as the world.=
221;
“Yes,”
said Mills thoughtfully, “you are not a leaf, you might have been a
tornado yourself.”
“Upon my
word,” she said, “there was a time that they thought I could ca=
rry
him off, away from them all—beyond them all. Verily, I am not very proud of the=
ir
fears. There was nothing reck=
less
there worthy of a great passion.
There was nothing sad there worthy of a great tenderness.”
“And is this
the word of the Venetian riddle?” asked Mills, fixing her with his ke=
en
eyes.
“If it plea=
ses
you to think so, Señor,” she said indifferently. The movement of her eyes, their ve=
iled
gleam became mischievous when she asked, “And Don Juan Blunt, have you
seen him over there?”
“I fancy he
avoided me. Moreover, he is a=
lways
with his regiment at the outposts.
He is a most valorous captain.
I heard some people describe him as foolhardy.”
“Oh, he
needn’t seek death,” she said in an indefinable tone. “I mean as a refuge. There will be nothing in his life =
great
enough for that.”
“You are
angry. You miss him, I believ=
e,
Doña Rita.”
“Angry? No!
Weary. But of course
it’s very inconvenient. I
can’t very well ride out alone.
A solitary amazon swallowing the dust and the salt spray of the Corn=
iche
promenade would attract too much attention. And then I don’t mind you two
knowing that I am afraid of going out alone.”
“Afraid?=
221;
we both exclaimed together.
“You men are
extraordinary. Why do you wan=
t me
to be courageous? Why shouldn=
’t
I be afraid? Is it because th=
ere is
no one in the world to care what would happen to me?”
There was a deep-=
down
vibration in her tone for the first time.&=
nbsp;
We had not a word to say.
And she added after a long silence:
“There is a
very good reason. There is a
danger.”
With wonderful
insight Mills affirmed at once:
“Something
ugly.”
She nodded slight=
ly
several times. Then Mills sai=
d with
conviction:
“Ah! Then it can’t be anything in
yourself. And if so . . . =
221;
I was moved to
extravagant advice.
“You should
come out with me to sea then. There
may be some danger there but there’s nothing ugly to fear.”
She gave me a
startled glance quite unusual with her, more than wonderful to me; and sudd=
enly
as though she had seen me for the first time she exclaimed in a tone of
compunction:
“Oh! And there is this one, too! Why! Oh, why should he run his head into
danger for those things that will all crumble into dust before long?”=
I said: “You
won’t crumble into dust.”
And Mills chimed in:
“That young
enthusiast will always have his sea.”
We were all stand=
ing
up now. She kept her eyes on =
me,
and repeated with a sort of whimsical enviousness:
“The sea! The violet sea—and he is lon=
ging
to rejoin it! . . . At night! Under the stars! . . . A lovers’
meeting,” she went on, thrilling me from head to foot with those two
words, accompanied by a wistful smile pointed by a suspicion of mockery.
“And you,
Monsieur Mills?” she asked.
“I am going
back to my books,” he declared with a very serious face. “My adventure is over.”=
;
“Each one to
his love,” she bantered us gently.&n=
bsp;
“Didn’t I love books, too, at one time! They seemed to contain all wisdom =
and
hold a magic power, too. Tell=
me,
Monsieur Mills, have you found amongst them in some black-letter volume the
power of foretelling a poor mortal’s destiny, the power to look into =
the
future? Anybody’s futur=
e . .
.” Mills shook his head=
. . .
“What, not even mine?” she coaxed as if she really believed in a
magic power to be found in books.
Mills shook his h=
ead
again. “No, I have not =
the
power,” he said. “=
;I am no
more a great magician, than you are a poor mortal. You have your ancient spells. You are as old as the world. Of us two it’s you that are =
more
fit to foretell the future of the poor mortals on whom you happen to cast y=
our
eyes.”
At these words she
cast her eyes down and in the moment of deep silence I watched the slight
rising and falling of her breast.
Then Mills pronounced distinctly: “Good-bye, old
Enchantress.”
They shook hands
cordially. “Good-bye, p=
oor
Magician,” she said.
Mills made as if =
to
speak but seemed to think better of it.&nb=
sp;
Doña Rita returned my distant bow with a slight, charmingly
ceremonious inclination of her body.
“Bon voyage=
and
a happy return,” she said formally.
I was following M=
ills
through the door when I heard her voice behind us raised in recall:
“Oh, a mome=
nt .
. . I forgot . . .”
I turned round. The call was for me, and I walked =
slowly
back wondering what she could have forgotten. She waited in the middle of the ro=
om
with lowered head, with a mute gleam in her deep blue eyes. When I was near enough she extende=
d to
me without a word her bare white arm and suddenly pressed the back of her h=
and
against my lips. I was too st=
artled
to seize it with rapture. It
detached itself from my lips and fell slowly by her side. We had made it up and there was no=
thing
to say. She turned away to the
window and I hurried out of the room.
It was on our return from that firs=
t trip
that I took Dominic up to the Villa to be presented to Doña Rita.
Dominic was, I
won’t say awed by this interview.&nb=
sp;
No woman could awe Dominic.
But he was, as it were, rendered thoughtful by it, like a man who had
not so much an experience as a sort of revelation vouchsafed to him. Later, at sea, he used to refer to=
La
Señora in a particular tone and I knew that henceforth his devotion =
was
not for me alone. And I under=
stood
the inevitability of it extremely well.&nb=
sp;
As to Doña Rita she, after Dominic left the room, had turned =
to
me with animation and said: “But he is perfect, this man.” Afterwards she often asked after h=
im and
used to refer to him in conversation.
More than once she said to me: “One would like to put the care=
of
one’s personal safety into the hands of that man. He looks as if he simply couldn=
217;t
fail one.” I admitted t=
hat
this was very true, especially at sea.&nbs=
p;
Dominic couldn’t fail.
But at the same time I rather chaffed Rita on her preoccupation as t=
o personal
safety that so often cropped up in her talk.
“One would
think you were a crowned head in a revolutionary world,” I used to te=
ll
her.
“That would=
be
different. One would be stand=
ing
then for something, either worth or not worth dying for. One could even run away then and b=
e done
with it. But I can’t ru=
n away
unless I got out of my skin and left that behind. Don’t you understand? You are very stupid . . .” But she had the grace to add, R=
20;On
purpose.”
I don’t know
about the on purpose. I am not
certain about the stupidity. Her words bewildered one often and bewildermen=
t is
a sort of stupidity. I remedied it by simply disregarding the sense of what=
she
said. The sound was there and=
also
her poignant heart-gripping presence giving occupation enough to one’s
faculties. In the power of th=
ose
things over one there was mystery enough.&=
nbsp;
It was more absorbing than the mere obscurity of her speeches. But I daresay she couldn’t
understand that.
Hence, at times, =
the
amusing outbreaks of temper in word and gesture that only strengthened the
natural, the invincible force of the spell. Sometimes the brass bowl would =
get
upset or the cigarette box would fly up, dropping a shower of cigarettes on=
the
floor. We would pick them up,=
re-establish
everything, and fall into a long silence, so close that the sound of the fi=
rst
word would come with all the pain of a separation.
It was at that ti=
me,
too, that she suggested I should take up my quarters in her house in the st=
reet
of the Consuls. There were ce=
rtain
advantages in that move. In my
present abode my sudden absences might have been in the long run subject to
comment. On the other hand, t=
he
house in the street of Consuls was a known out-post of Legitimacy. But then it was covered by the occ=
ult
influence of her who was referred to in confidential talks, secret
communications, and discreet whispers of Royalist salons as: “Madame =
de
Lastaola.”
That was the name
which the heiress of Henry Allègre had decided to adopt when, accord=
ing
to her own expression, she had found herself precipitated at a moment’=
;s
notice into the crowd of mankind.
It is strange how the death of Henry Allègre, which certainly=
the
poor man had not planned, acquired in my view the character of a heartless
desertion. It gave one a glim=
pse of
amazing egoism in a sentiment to which one could hardly give a name, a
mysterious appropriation of one human being by another as if in defiance of
unexpressed things and for an unheard-of satisfaction of an inconceivable
pride. If he had hated her he=
could
not have flung that enormous fortune more brutally at her head. And his unrepentant death seemed t=
o lift
for a moment the curtain on something lofty and sinister like an
Olympian’s caprice.
Doña Rita =
said
to me once with humorous resignation: “You know, it appears that one =
must
have a name. That’s what
Henry Allègre’s man of business told me. He was quite impatient with me abo=
ut
it. But my name, amigo, Henry
Allègre had taken from me like all the rest of what I had been
once. All that is buried with=
him
in his grave. It wouldn’=
;t
have been true. That is how I=
felt
about it. So I took that
one.” She whispered to
herself: “Lastaola,” not as if to test the sound but as if in a
dream.
To this day I am =
not
quite certain whether it was the name of any human habitation, a lonely cas=
erio
with a half-effaced carving of a coat of arms over its door, or of some ham=
let
at the dead end of a ravine with a stony slope at the back. It might have been a hill for all =
I know
or perhaps a stream. A wood, =
or
perhaps a combination of all these: just a bit of the earth’s
surface. Once I asked her whe=
re
exactly it was situated and she answered, waving her hand cavalierly at the
dead wall of the room: “Oh, over there.” I thought that this was all that I=
was
going to hear but she added moodily, “I used to take my goats there, a
dozen or so of them, for the day.
From after my uncle had said his Mass till the ringing of the evening
bell.”
I saw suddenly the
lonely spot, sketched for me some time ago by a few words from Mr. Blunt,
populated by the agile, bearded beasts with cynical heads, and a little mis=
ty
figure dark in the sunlight with a halo of dishevelled rust-coloured hair a=
bout
its head.
The epithet of
rust-coloured comes from her. It
was really tawny. Once or twi=
ce in
my hearing she had referred to “my rust-coloured hair” with lau=
ghing
vexation. Even then it was un=
ruly,
abhorring the restraints of civilization, and often in the heat of a dispute
getting into the eyes of Madame de Lastaola, the possessor of coveted art
treasures, the heiress of Henry Allègre. She proceeded in a reminiscent moo=
d,
with a faint flash of gaiety all over her face, except her dark blue eyes t=
hat
moved so seldom out of their fixed scrutiny of things invisible to other hu=
man beings.
“The goats =
were
very good. We clambered among=
st the
stones together. They beat me at that game. I used to catch my hair in the bus=
hes.”
“Your
rust-coloured hair,” I whispered.
“Yes, it was
always this colour. And I use=
d to
leave bits of my frock on thorns here and there. It was pretty thin, I can tell you=
. There wasn’t much at that ti=
me
between my skin and the blue of the sky.&n=
bsp;
My legs were as sunburnt as my face; but really I didn’t tan v=
ery
much. I had plenty of freckles
though. There were no
looking-glasses in the Presbytery but uncle had a piece not bigger than my =
two
hands for his shaving. One Su=
nday I
crept into his room and had a peep at myself. And wasn’t I startled to see=
my
own eyes looking at me! But i=
t was
fascinating, too. I was about eleven years old then, and I was very friendly
with the goats, and I was as shrill as a cicada and as slender as a match. =
Heavens! When I overhear myself speaking
sometimes, or look at my limbs, it doesn’t seem to be possible. And yet it is the same one. I do remember every single goat. They were very clever. Goats are no trouble really; they
don’t scatter much. Mine
never did even if I had to hide myself out of their sight for ever so
long.”
It was but natura=
l to
ask her why she wanted to hide, and she uttered vaguely what was rather a
comment on my question:
“It was like
fate.” But I chose to t=
ake it
otherwise, teasingly, because we were often like a pair of children.
“Oh,
really,” I said, “you talk like a pagan. What could you know of fate at that
time? What was it like? Did it come down from Heaven?̶=
1;
“Don’=
t be
stupid. It used to come along=
a
cart-track that was there and it looked like a boy. Wasn’t he a little devil
though. You understand, I
couldn’t know that. He =
was a
wealthy cousin of mine. Round=
there
we are all related, all cousins—as in Brittany. He wasn’t much bigger than m=
yself
but he was older, just a boy in blue breeches and with good shoes on his fe=
et,
which of course interested and impressed me. He yelled to me from below, I scre=
amed
to him from above, he came up and sat down near me on a stone, never said a
word, let me look at him for half an hour before he condescended to ask me =
who
I was. And the airs he gave h=
imself! He quite intimidated me sitting th=
ere
perfectly dumb. I remember tr=
ying
to hide my bare feet under the edge of my skirt as I sat below him on the
ground.
“C’est
comique, eh!” she interrupted herself to comment in a melancholy
tone. I looked at her
sympathetically and she went on:
“He was the
only son from a rich farmhouse two miles down the slope. In winter they used to send him to
school at Tolosa. He had an
enormous opinion of himself; he was going to keep a shop in a town by and by
and he was about the most dissatisfied creature I have ever seen. He had an unhappy mouth and unhapp=
y eyes
and he was always wretched about something: about the treatment he received,
about being kept in the country and chained to work. He was moaning and complaining and=
threatening
all the world, including his father and mother. He used to curse God, yes, that bo=
y,
sitting there on a piece of rock like a wretched little Prometheus with a
sparrow pecking at his miserable little liver. And the grand scenery of mountains=
all
round, ha, ha, ha!”
She laughed in
contralto: a penetrating sound with something generous in it; not infectiou=
s,
but in others provoking a smile.
“Of course =
I,
poor little animal, I didn’t know what to make of it, and I was even a
little frightened. But at fir=
st
because of his miserable eyes I was sorry for him, almost as much as if he =
had
been a sick goat. But, fright=
ened
or sorry, I don’t know how it is, I always wanted to laugh at him, to=
o, I
mean from the very first day when he let me admire him for half an hour.
“One day he
came up and sat down very dignified a little bit away from me and told me he
had been thrashed for wandering in the hills.
“‘To =
be
with me?’ I asked. And =
he
said: ‘To be with you!
No. My people don̵=
7;t
know what I do.’ I
can’t tell why, but I was annoyed.&n=
bsp;
So instead of raising a clamour of pity over him, which I suppose he
expected me to do, I asked him if the thrashing hurt very much. He got up, he had a switch in his =
hand,
and walked up to me, saying, ‘I will soon show you.’ I went sti=
ff
with fright; but instead of slashing at me he dropped down by my side and
kissed me on the cheek. Then =
he did
it again, and by that time I was gone dead all over and he could have done =
what
he liked with the corpse but he left off suddenly and then I came to life a=
gain
and I bolted away. Not very
far. I couldn’t leave t=
he
goats altogether. He chased me
round and about the rocks, but of course I was too quick for him in his nice
town boots. When he got tired=
of
that game he started throwing stones.
After that he made my life very lively for me. Sometimes he used to =
come
on me unawares and then I had to sit still and listen to his miserable ravi=
ngs,
because he would catch me round the waist and hold me very tight. And yet, I often felt inclined to =
laugh.
But if I caught sight of him at a distance and tried to dodge out of the wa=
y he
would start stoning me into a shelter I knew of and then sit outside with a
heap of stones at hand so that I daren’t show the end of my nose for
hours. He would sit there and=
rave
and abuse me till I would burst into a crazy laugh in my hole; and then I c=
ould
see him through the leaves rolling on the ground and biting his fists with
rage. Didn’t he hate me=
! At the same time I was often
terrified. I am convinced now=
that
if I had started crying he would have rushed in and perhaps strangled me
there. Then as the sun was ab=
out to
set he would make me swear that I would marry him when I was grown up. ‘Swear, you little wretched
beggar,’ he would yell to me.
And I would swear. I w=
as
hungry, and I didn’t want to be made black and blue all over with
stones. Oh, I swore ever so m=
any
times to be his wife. Thirty =
times
a month for two months. I
couldn’t help myself. I=
t was
no use complaining to my sister Therese.&n=
bsp;
When I showed her my bruises and tried to tell her a little about my
trouble she was quite scandalized.
She called me a sinful girl, a shameless creature. I assure you it puzzled my head so=
that,
between Therese my sister and José the boy, I lived in a state of id=
iocy
almost. But luckily at the end of the two months they sent him away from ho=
me
for good. Curious story to ha=
ppen
to a goatherd living all her days out under God’s eye, as my uncle the
Cura might have said. My sist=
er
Therese was keeping house in the Presbytery. She’s a terrible person.R=
21;
“I have hea=
rd
of your sister Therese,” I said.
“Oh, you
have! Of my big sister Theres=
e,
six, ten years older than myself perhaps?&=
nbsp;
She just comes a little above my shoulder, but then I was always a l=
ong
thing. I never knew my mother=
. I don’t even know how she
looked. There are no painting=
s or
photographs in our farmhouses amongst the hills. I haven’t even heard her des=
cribed
to me. I believe I was never =
good
enough to be told these things.
Therese decided that I was a lump of wickedness, and now she believes
that I will lose my soul altogether unless I take some steps to save it.
“Would you
guess what was the next thing I did?
Directly I got over the frontier I wrote from Bayonne asking the old=
man
to send me out my sister here. I
said it was for the service of the King.&n=
bsp;
You see, I had thought suddenly of that house of mine in which you o=
nce
spent the night talking with Mr. Mills and Don Juan Blunt. I thought it would do extremely we=
ll for
Carlist officers coming this way on leave or on a mission. In hotels they might have been mol=
ested,
but I knew that I could get protection for my house. Just a word from the ministry in P=
aris
to the Prefect. But I wanted a
woman to manage it for me. And
where was I to find a trustworthy woman?&n=
bsp;
How was I to know one when I saw her? I don’t know how to talk to
women. Of course my Rose woul=
d have
done for me that or anything else; but what could I have done myself without
her? She has looked after me =
from
the first. It was Henry
Allègre who got her for me eight years ago. I don’t know whether he mean=
t it
for a kindness but she’s the only human being on whom I can lean. She knows . . . What doesn’t=
she
know about me! She has never =
failed
to do the right thing for me unasked.
I couldn’t part with her.&nbs=
p;
And I couldn’t think of anybody else but my sister.
“After all =
it was
somebody belonging to me. But=
it
seemed the wildest idea. Yet =
she
came at once. Of course I too=
k care
to send her some money. She l=
ikes
money. As to my uncle there is
nothing that he wouldn’t have given up for the service of the King. Rose went to meet her at the railw=
ay
station. She told me afterwar=
ds
that there had been no need for me to be anxious about her recognizing
Mademoiselle Therese. There was nobody else in the train that could be mist=
aken
for her. I should think not!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She had made for herself a dress o=
f some
brown stuff like a nun’s habit and had a crooked stick and carried all
her belongings tied up in a handkerchief.&=
nbsp;
She looked like a pilgrim to a saint’s shrine. Rose took her to the house. She asked when she saw it: ‘=
And does
this big place really belong to our Rita?’ My maid of course said that it was
mine. ‘And how long did=
our
Rita live here?’—‘Madame has never seen it unless perhaps=
the
outside, as far as I know. I
believe Mr. Allègre lived here for some time when he was a young
man.’—‘The sinner that’s dead?’—‘=
Just
so,’ says Rose. You know
nothing ever startles Rose.
‘Well, his sins are gone with him,’ said my sister, and =
began
to make herself at home.
“Rose was g=
oing
to stop with her for a week but on the third day she was back with me with =
the
remark that Mlle. Therese knew her way about very well already and preferre=
d to
be left to herself. Some litt=
le
time afterwards I went to see that sister of mine. The first thing she said to me, =
8216;I
wouldn’t have recognized you, Rita,’ and I said, ‘What a
funny dress you have, Therese, more fit for the portress of a convent than =
for this
house.’—‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and unless you give
this house to me, Rita, I will go back to our country. I will have nothing to do with you=
r life,
Rita. Your life is no secret =
for
me.’
“I was going
from room to room and Therese was following me. ‘I don’t know that my =
life
is a secret to anybody,’ I said to her, ‘but how do you know
anything about it?’ And=
then
she told me that it was through a cousin of ours, that horrid wretch of a b=
oy,
you know. He had finished his
schooling and was a clerk in a Spanish commercial house of some kind, in Pa=
ris,
and apparently had made it his business to write home whatever he could hear
about me or ferret out from those relations of mine with whom I lived as a
girl. I got suddenly very
furious. I raged up and down =
the
room (we were alone upstairs), and Therese scuttled away from me as far as =
the
door. I heard her say to hers=
elf,
‘It’s the evil spirit in her that makes her like this.’ She was absolutely convinced of th=
at. She
made the sign of the cross in the air to protect herself. I was quite astounded. And then I really couldn’t h=
elp
myself. I burst into a laugh.=
I laughed and laughed; I really
couldn’t stop till Therese ran away.=
I went downstairs still laughing and found her in the hall with her =
face
to the wall and her fingers in her ears kneeling in a corner. I had to pull her out by the shoul=
ders
from there. I don’t thi=
nk she
was frightened; she was only shocked.
But I don’t suppose her heart is desperately bad, because when=
I
dropped into a chair feeling very tired she came and knelt in front of me a=
nd
put her arms round my waist and entreated me to cast off from me my evil wa=
ys
with the help of saints and priests.
Quite a little programme for a reformed sinner. I got away at last. I left her sunk on her heels befor=
e the
empty chair looking after me.
‘I pray for you every night and morning, Rita,’ she
said.—‘Oh, yes. I know you are a good sister,’ I said to
her. I was letting myself out=
when
she called after me, ‘And what about this house, Rita?’ I said to her, ‘Oh, you may =
keep
it till the day I reform and enter a convent.’ The last I saw of her =
she
was still on her knees looking after me with her mouth open. I have seen her since several time=
s, but
our intercourse is, at any rate on her side, as of a frozen nun with some g=
reat
lady. But I believe she really knows how to make men comfortable. Upon my word I think she likes to =
look
after men. They don’t s=
eem to
be such great sinners as women are.
I think you could do worse than take up your quarters at number 10.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She will no doubt develop a saintl=
y sort
of affection for you, too.”
I don’t know
that the prospect of becoming a favourite of Doña Rita’s peasa=
nt
sister was very fascinating to me.
If I went to live very willingly at No. 10 it was because everything
connected with Doña Rita had for me a peculiar fascination. She had only passed through the ho=
use once
as far as I knew; but it was enough.
She was one of those beings that leave a trace. I am not unreasonable—I mean=
for
those that knew her. That is,=
I
suppose, because she was so unforgettable.=
Let us remember the tragedy of Azzolati the ruthless, the ridiculous
financier with a criminal soul (or shall we say heart) and facile tears.
“You will be
very comfortable here, Señor.
It is so peaceful here in the street. Sometimes one may think oneself in=
a
village. It’s only a hu=
ndred
and twenty-five francs for the friends of the King. And I shall take such good care of=
you
that your very heart will be able to rest.”
Doña Rita was curious to kno=
w how
I got on with her peasant sister and all I could say in return for that inq=
uiry
was that the peasant sister was in her own way amiable. At this she clicked her tongue amu=
singly
and repeated a remark she had made before: “She likes young men. The younger the better.” The mere thought of those two women
being sisters aroused one’s wonder.&=
nbsp;
Physically they were altogether of different design. It was also the difference between
living tissue of glowing loveliness with a divine breath, and a hard hollow
figure of baked clay.
Indeed Therese did
somehow resemble an achievement, wonderful enough in its way, in unglazed
earthenware. The only gleam p=
erhaps
that one could find on her was that of her teeth, which one used to get bet=
ween
her dull lips unexpectedly, startlingly, and a little inexplicably, because=
it
was never associated with a smile.
She smiled with compressed mouth.&n=
bsp;
It was indeed difficult to conceive of those two birds coming from t=
he
same nest. And yet . . . Cont=
rary
to what generally happens, it was when one saw those two women together that
one lost all belief in the possibility of their relationship near or far. It extended even to their common h=
umanity. One, as it were, doubted it. If one of the two was representati=
ve,
then the other was either something more or less than human. One wondered whether these two wom=
en
belonged to the same scheme of creation.&n=
bsp;
One was secretly amazed to see them standing together, speaking to e=
ach
other, having words in common, understanding each other. And yet! . . . Our
psychological sense is the crudest of all; we don’t know, we don̵=
7;t
perceive how superficial we are.
The simplest shades escape us, the secret of changes, of relations.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> No, upon the whole, the only featu=
re
(and yet with enormous differences) which Therese had in common with her
sister, as I told Doña Rita, was amiability.
“For, you k=
now,
you are a most amiable person yourself,” I went on. “It’s=
one
of your characteristics, of course much more precious than in other
people. You transmute the com=
monest
traits into gold of your own; but after all there are no new names. You are amiable. You were most amiable to me when I=
first
saw you.”
“Really.
“I had never
the presumption to think that it was special. Moreover, my head was in a whirl.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I was lost in astonishment first o=
f all
at what I had been listening to all night.=
Your history, you know, a wonderful tale with a flavour of wine in it
and wreathed in clouds, with that amazing decapitated, mutilated dummy of a
woman lurking in a corner, and with Blunt’s smile gleaming through a =
fog,
the fog in my eyes, from Mills’ pipe, you know. I was feeling quite inanimate as t=
o body
and frightfully stimulated as to mind all the time. I had never heard anything like th=
at
talk about you before. Of cou=
rse I
wasn’t sleepy, but still I am not used to do altogether without sleep
like Blunt . . .”
“Kept awake=
all
night listening to my story!”
She marvelled.
“Yes. You don’t think I am complai=
ning,
do you? I wouldn’t have
missed it for the world. Blun=
t in a
ragged old jacket and a white tie and that incisive polite voice of his see=
med
strange and weird. It seemed =
as though
he were inventing it all rather angrily.&n=
bsp;
I had doubts as to your existence.”
“Mr. Blunt =
is
very much interested in my story.”
“Anybody wo=
uld
be,” I said. “I
was. I didn’t sleep a
wink. I was expecting to see =
you
soon—and even then I had my doubts.”
“As to my
existence?”
“It
wasn’t exactly that, though of course I couldn’t tell that you =
weren’t
a product of Captain Blunt’s sleeplessness. He seemed to dread exceedingly to =
be
left alone and your story might have been a device to detain us . . .”=
;
“He
hasn’t enough imagination for that,” she said.
“It
didn’t occur to me. But=
there
was Mills, who apparently believed in your existence. I could trust Mills. My doubts were about the propriety=
. I couldn’t see any good reas=
on for
being taken to see you. Strange that it should be my connection with the sea
which brought me here to the Villa.”
“Unexpected
perhaps.”
“No. I mean particularly strange and
significant.”
“Why?”=
;
“Because my
friends are in the habit of telling me (and each other) that the sea is my =
only
love. They were always chaffi=
ng me
because they couldn’t see or guess in my life at any woman, open or
secret. . .”
“And is that
really so?” she inquired negligently.
“Why, yes.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I don’t mean to say that I a=
m like
an innocent shepherd in one of those interminable stories of the eighteenth
century. But I don’t th=
row
the word love about indiscriminately.
It may be all true about the sea; but some people would say that they
love sausages.”
“You are
horrible.”
“I am
surprised.”
“I mean your
choice of words.”
“And you ha=
ve
never uttered a word yet that didn’t change into a pearl as it dropped
from your lips. At least not =
before
me.”
She glanced down
deliberately and said, “This is better. But I don’t see any of them =
on the
floor.”
“It’s=
you
who are horrible in the implications of your language. Don’t see any on the floor!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Haven’t I caught up and trea=
sured
them all in my heart? I am no=
t the
animal from which sausages are made.”
She looked at me
suavely and then with the sweetest possible smile breathed out the word:
“No.”
And we both laugh=
ed
very loud. O! days of
innocence! On this occasion we
parted from each other on a light-hearted note. But already I had acquired the
conviction that there was nothing more lovable in the world than that woman;
nothing more life-giving, inspiring, and illuminating than the emanation of=
her
charm. I meant it
absolutely—not excepting the light of the sun.
From this there w=
as
only one step further to take. The
step into a conscious surrender; the open perception that this charm, warmi=
ng
like a flame, was also all-revealing like a great light; giving new depth t=
o shades,
new brilliance to colours, an amazing vividness to all sensations and vital=
ity
to all thoughts: so that all that had been lived before seemed to have been
lived in a drab world and with a languid pulse.
A great revelation
this. I don’t mean to s=
ay it
was soul-shaking. The soul was
already a captive before doubt, anguish, or dismay could touch its surrender
and its exaltation. But all t=
he
same the revelation turned many things into dust; and, amongst others, the
sense of the careless freedom of my life.&=
nbsp;
If that life ever had any purpose or any aim outside itself I would =
have
said that it threw a shadow across its path. But it hadn’t. There had been no path. But there was a shadow, the insepa=
rable companion
of all light. No illumination=
can
sweep all mystery out of the world.
After the departed darkness the shadows remain, more mysterious beca=
use
as if more enduring; and one feels a dread of them from which one was free
before. What if they were to =
be
victorious at the last? They,=
or
what perhaps lurks in them: fear, deception, desire, disillusion—all =
silent
at first before the song of triumphant love vibrating in the light. Yes. Silent. Even desire itself! All silent. But not for long!
This was, I think,
before the third expedition. =
Yes,
it must have been the third, for I remember that it was boldly planned and =
that
it was carried out without a hitch.
The tentative period was over; all our arrangements had been
perfected. There was, so to s=
peak,
always an unfailing smoke on the hill and an unfailing lantern on the
shore. Our friends, mostly bo=
ught
for hard cash and therefore valuable, had acquired confidence in us. This, they seemed to say, is no
unfathomable roguery of penniless adventurers. This is but the reckless enterpris=
e of
men of wealth and sense and needn’t be inquired into. The young caballero has got real g=
old
pieces in the belt he wears next his skin; and the man with the heavy
moustaches and unbelieving eyes is indeed very much of a man. They gave to
Dominic all their respect and to me a great show of deference; for I had all
the money, while they thought that Dominic had all the sense. That judgment was not exactly
correct. I had my share of ju=
dgment
and audacity which surprises me now that the years have chilled the blood
without dimming the memory. I
remember going about the business with light-hearted, clear-headed reckless=
ness
which, according as its decisions were sudden or considered, made Dominic d=
raw
his breath through his clenched teeth, or look hard at me before he gave me
either a slight nod of assent or a sarcastic “Oh,
certainly”—just as the humour of the moment prompted him.
One night as we w=
ere
lying on a bit of dry sand under the lee of a rock, side by side, watching =
the
light of our little vessel dancing away at sea in the windy distance, Domin=
ic
spoke suddenly to me.
“I suppose
Alphonso and Carlos, Carlos and Alphonso, they are nothing to you, together=
or
separately?”
I said:
“Dominic, if they were both to vanish from the earth together or sepa=
rately
it would make no difference to my feelings.”
He remarked:
“Just so. A man mourns =
only
for his friends. I suppose th=
ey are
no more friends to you than they are to me. Those Carlists make a great consum=
ption
of cartridges. That is well.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But why should we do all those mad
things that you will insist on us doing till my hair,” he pursued with
grave, mocking exaggeration, “till my hair tries to stand up on my he=
ad?
and all for that Carlos, let God and the devil each guard his own, for that
Majesty as they call him, but after all a man like another and—no
friend.”
“Yes,
why?” I murmured, feeling my body nestled at ease in the sand.
It was very dark
under the overhanging rock on that night of clouds and of wind that died and
rose and died again.
Dominic’s voice was heard speaking low between the short gusts=
.
“Friend of =
the
Señora, eh?”
“That’=
;s
what the world says, Dominic.”
“Half of wh=
at
the world says are lies,” he pronounced dogmatically. “For all his majesty he may =
be a
good enough man. Yet he is on=
ly a
king in the mountains and to-morrow he may be no more than you. Still a woman like that—one,
somehow, would grudge her to a better king. She ought to be set up on a high p=
illar
for people that walk on the ground to raise their eyes up to. But you are otherwise, you
gentlemen. You, for instance,
Monsieur, you wouldn’t want to see her set up on a pillar.”
“That sort =
of
thing, Dominic,” I said, “that sort of thing, you understand me,
ought to be done early.”
He was silent for=
a
time. And then his manly voic=
e was
heard in the shadow of the rock.
“I see well
enough what you mean. I spoke=
of
the multitude, that only raise their eyes.=
But for kings and suchlike that is not enough. Well, no heart need despair; for t=
here
is not a woman that wouldn’t at some time or other get down from her
pillar for no bigger bribe perhaps than just a flower which is fresh to-day=
and
withered to-morrow. And then,=
what’s
the good of asking how long any woman has been up there? There is a true saying that lips t=
hat
have been kissed do not lose their freshness.”
I don’t know
what answer I could have made. I
imagine Dominic thought himself unanswerable. As a matter of fact, before I could
speak, a voice came to us down the face of the rock crying secretly,
“Olà, down there! All is safe ashore.”
It was the boy who
used to hang about the stable of a muleteer’s inn in a little shallow
valley with a shallow little stream in it, and where we had been hiding mos=
t of
the day before coming down to the shore.&n=
bsp;
We both started to our feet and Dominic said, “A good boy
that. You didn’t hear h=
im
either come or go above our heads.
Don’t reward him with more than one peseta, Señor, what=
ever
he does. If you were to give =
him two
he would go mad at the sight of so much wealth and throw up his job at the =
Fonda,
where he is so useful to run errands, in that way he has of skimming along =
the
paths without displacing a stone.”
Meantime he was
busying himself with striking a fire to set alight a small heap of dry stic=
ks
he had made ready beforehand on that spot which in all the circuit of the B=
ay
was perfectly screened from observation from the land side.
The clear flame
shooting up revealed him in the black cloak with a hood of a Mediterranean
sailor. His eyes watched the
dancing dim light to seaward. And
he talked the while.
“The only f=
ault
you have, Señor, is being too generous with your money. In this world
you must give sparingly. The =
only
things you may deal out without counting, in this life of ours which is but=
a
little fight and a little love, is blows to your enemy and kisses to a woma=
n. .
. . Ah! here they are coming in.”
I noticed the dan=
cing
light in the dark west much closer to the shore now. Its motion had altered. It swayed slowly as it ran towards =
us, and,
suddenly, the darker shadow as of a great pointed wing appeared gliding in =
the
night. Under it a human voice
shouted something confidently.
“Bueno,R=
21;
muttered Dominic. From some
receptacle I didn’t see he poured a lot of water on the blaze, like a
magician at the end of a successful incantation that had called out a shadow
and a voice from the immense space of the sea. And his hooded figure vanished fro=
m my
sight in a great hiss and the warm feel of ascending steam.
“That’=
;s
all over,” he said, “and now we go back for more work, more toi=
l, more
trouble, more exertion with hands and feet, for hours and hours. And all the
time the head turned over the shoulder, too.”
We were climbing a
precipitous path sufficiently dangerous in the dark, Dominic, more familiar
with it, going first and I scrambling close behind in order that I might gr=
ab
at his cloak if I chanced to slip or miss my footing. I remonstrated against this arrang=
ement
as we stopped to rest. I had no doubt I would grab at his cloak if I felt
myself falling. I couldn̵=
7;t
help doing that. But I would
probably only drag him down with me.
With one hand
grasping a shadowy bush above his head he growled that all this was possibl=
e,
but that it was all in the bargain, and urged me onwards.
When we got on to=
the
level that man whose even breathing no exertion, no danger, no fear or anger
could disturb, remarked as we strode side by side:
“I will say
this for us, that we are carrying out all this deadly foolishness as
conscientiously as though the eyes of the Señora were on us all the
time. And as to risk, I suppo=
se we
take more than she would approve of, I fancy, if she ever gave a momentR=
17;s
thought to us out here. Now, for instance, in the next half hour, we may co=
me
any moment on three carabineers who would let off their pieces without aski=
ng
questions. Even your way of flinging money about cannot make safety for men=
set
on defying a whole big country for the sake of—what is it
exactly?—the blue eyes, or the white arms of the Señora.”=
;
He kept his voice
equably low. It was a lonely =
spot
and but for a vague shape of a dwarf tree here and there we had only the fl=
ying
clouds for company. Very far =
off a
tiny light twinkled a little way up the seaward shoulder of an invisible
mountain. Dominic moved on.
“Fancy your=
self
lying here, on this wild spot, with a leg smashed by a shot or perhaps with=
a
bullet in your side. It might
happen. A star might fall.
He remembered
her—whose image could not be dismissed.
I laid my hand on=
his
shoulder.
“That light=
on
the mountain side flickers exceedingly, Dominic. Are we in the path?”
He addressed me t=
hen
in French, which was between us the language of more formal moments.
“Prenez mon
bras, monsieur. Take a firm h=
old,
or I will have you stumbling again and falling into one of those beastly ho=
les,
with a good chance to crack your head.&nbs=
p;
And there is no need to take offence. For, speaking with all respect, why
should you, and I with you, be here on this lonely spot, barking our shins =
in
the dark on the way to a confounded flickering light where there will be no
other supper but a piece of a stale sausage and a draught of leathery wine =
out
of a stinking skin. Pah!̶=
1;
I had good hold of
his arm. Suddenly he dropped =
the
formal French and pronounced in his inflexible voice:
“For a pair=
of
white arms, Señor. Bueno.”
He could understa=
nd.
On our return from that expedition =
we
came gliding into the old harbour so late that Dominic and I, making for the
café kept by Madame Léonore, found it empty of customers, exc=
ept
for two rather sinister fellows playing cards together at a corner table ne=
ar
the door. The first thing don=
e by
Madame Léonore was to put her hands on Dominic’s shoulders and=
look
at arm’s length into the eyes of that man of audacious deeds and wild
stratagems who smiled straight at her from under his heavy and, at that tim=
e,
uncurled moustaches.
Indeed we
didn’t present a neat appearance, our faces unshaven, with the traces=
of
dried salt sprays on our smarting skins and the sleeplessness of full forty
hours filming our eyes. At le=
ast it
was so with me who saw as through a mist Madame Léonore moving with =
her
mature nonchalant grace, setting before us wine and glasses with a faint sw=
ish
of her ample black skirt. Und=
er the
elaborate structure of black hair her jet-black eyes sparkled like
good-humoured stars and even I could see that she was tremendously excited =
at
having this lawless wanderer Dominic within her reach and as it were in her
power. Presently she sat down=
by
us, touched lightly Dominic’s curly head silvered on the temples (she
couldn’t really help it), gazed at me for a while with a quizzical sm=
ile,
observed that I looked very tired, and asked Dominic whether for all that I=
was
likely to sleep soundly to-night.
“I don̵=
7;t
know,” said Dominic, “He’s young. And there is always the chance of
dreams.”
“What do you
men dream of in those little barques of yours tossing for months on the
water?”
“Mostly of nothing,” said Dominic. “But it has happened to me to dream of furious fights.”<= o:p>
“And of fur=
ious
loves, too, no doubt,” she caught him up in a mocking voice.
“No,
that’s for the waking hours,” Dominic drawled, basking sleepily
with his head between his hands in her ardent gaze. “The waking hours are longer=
.”
“They must =
be,
at sea,” she said, never taking her eyes off him. “But I suppose you do talk of=
your
loves sometimes.”
“You may be
sure, Madame Léonore,” I interjected, noticing the hoarseness =
of
my voice, “that you at any rate are talked about a lot at sea.”=
“I am not so
sure of that now. There is th=
at
strange lady from the Prado that you took him to see, Signorino. She went to his head like a glass =
of
wine into a tender youngster’s.
He is such a child, and I suppose that I am another. Shame to confess it, the other mor=
ning I
got a friend to look after the café for a couple of hours, wrapped u=
p my
head, and walked out there to the other end of the town. . . . Look at these
two sitting up! And I thought=
they
were so sleepy and tired, the poor fellows!”
She kept our
curiosity in suspense for a moment.
“Well, I ha=
ve
seen your marvel, Dominic,” she continued in a calm voice. “She
came flying out of the gate on horseback and it would have been all I would
have seen of her if—and this is for you, Signorino—if she
hadn’t pulled up in the main alley to wait for a very good-looking
cavalier. He had his moustach=
es so,
and his teeth were very white when he smiled at her. But his eyes are too deep in his h=
ead
for my taste. I didn’t =
like it. It reminded me of a certain very s=
evere
priest who used to come to our village when I was young; younger even than =
your
marvel, Dominic.”
“It was no
priest in disguise, Madame Léonore,” I said, amused by her exp=
ression
of disgust. “That’=
;s an
American.”
“Ah! Un Americano! Well, never mind him. It was her that I went to see.R=
21;
“What! Walked to the other end of the tow=
n to
see Doña Rita!”
Dominic addressed her in a low bantering tone. “Why, you were always tellin=
g me you
couldn’t walk further than the end of the quay to save your life̵=
2;or
even mine, you said.”
“Well, I di=
d;
and I walked back again and between the two walks I had a good look. And you may be sure—that will
surprise you both—that on the way back—oh, Santa Madre,
wasn’t it a long way, too—I wasn’t thinking of any man at=
sea
or on shore in that connection.”
“No. And you were not thinking of yours=
elf,
either, I suppose,” I said. Speaking was a matter of great effort for=
me,
whether I was too tired or too sleepy, I can’t tell. “No, you were not thinking of
yourself. You were thinking o=
f a
woman, though.”
“Si. As much a woman as any of us that =
ever
breathed in the world. Yes, of her!
Of that very one! You =
see,
we women are not like you men, indifferent to each other unless by some
exception. Men say we are alw=
ays
against one another but that’s only men’s conceit. What can she be to me? I am not afraid of the big child
here,” and she tapped Dominic’s forearm on which he rested his =
head
with a fascinated stare. “With us two it is for life and death, and I=
am
rather pleased that there is something yet in him that can catch fire on
occasion. I would have though=
t less
of him if he hadn’t been able to get out of hand a little, for someth=
ing
really fine. As for you,
Signorino,” she turned on me with an unexpected and sarcastic sally,
“I am not in love with you yet.” She changed her tone from sarcasm =
to a
soft and even dreamy note. =
8220;A
head like a gem,” went on that woman born in some by-street of Rome, =
and
a plaything for years of God knows what obscure fates. “Yes, Dominic! Antica. I haven’t been haunted by a =
face
since—since I was sixteen years old.=
It was the face of a young cavalier in the street. He was on horseback, too. He never looked at me, I never saw=
him
again, and I loved him for—for days and days and days. That was the sort of face he had.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And her face is of the same sort.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She had a man’s hat, too, on=
her head. So high!”
“A man̵=
7;s
hat on her head,” remarked with profound displeasure Dominic, to whom
this wonder, at least, of all the wonders of the earth, was apparently unkn=
own.
“Si. And her face has haunted me. Not so long as that other but more=
touchingly
because I am no longer sixteen and this is a woman. Yes, I did think of her, I myself =
was
once that age and I, too, had a face of my own to show to the world, though=
not
so superb. And I, too, didn=
8217;t
know why I had come into the world any more than she does.”
“And now you
know,” Dominic growled softly, with his head still between his hands.=
She looked at him=
for
a long time, opened her lips but in the end only sighed lightly.
“And what do
you know of her, you who have seen her so well as to be haunted by her
face?” I asked.
I wouldn’t =
have
been surprised if she had answered me with another sigh. For she seemed onl=
y to
be thinking of herself and looked not in my direction. But suddenly she roused up.
“Of her?=
221;
she repeated in a louder voice.
“Why should I talk of another woman? And then she is a great lady.̶=
1;
At this I could n=
ot
repress a smile which she detected at once.
“Isn’t
she? Well, no, perhaps she
isn’t; but you may be sure of one thing, that she is both flesh and
shadow more than any one that I have seen.=
Keep that well in your mind: She is for no man! She would be vanishing out of their
hands like water that cannot be held.”
I caught my
breath. “Inconstant,=
221; I
whispered.
“I don̵=
7;t
say that. Maybe too proud, too
wilful, too full of pity. Signorino, you don’t know much about
women. And you may learn some=
thing yet
or you may not; but what you learn from her you will never forget.”
“Not to be
held,” I murmured; and she whom the quayside called Madame Léo=
nore
closed her outstretched hand before my face and opened it at once to show i=
ts
emptiness in illustration of her expressed opinion. Dominic never moved.
I wished good-nig=
ht
to these two and left the café for the fresh air and the dark
spaciousness of the quays augmented by all the width of the old Port where
between the trails of light the shadows of heavy hulls appeared very black,
merging their outlines in a great confusion. I left behind me the end of the
Cannebière, a wide vista of tall houses and much-lighted pavements
losing itself in the distance with an extinction of both shapes and
lights. I slunk past it with =
only a
side glance and sought the dimness of quiet streets away from the centre of=
the
usual night gaieties of the town.
The dress I wore was just that of a sailor come ashore from some
coaster, a thick blue woollen shirt or rather a sort of jumper with a knitt=
ed
cap like a tam-o’-shanter worn very much on one side and with a red t=
uft
of wool in the centre. This w=
as
even the reason why I had lingered so long in the café. I didn’t want to be recogniz=
ed in
the streets in that costume and still less to be seen entering the house in=
the
street of the Consuls. At tha=
t hour
when the performances were over and all the sensible citizens in their beds=
I didn’t
hesitate to cross the Place of the Opera.&=
nbsp;
It was dark, the audience had already dispersed. The rare passers-by I met hurrying=
on their
last affairs of the day paid no attention to me at all. The street of the Consuls I expect=
ed to
find empty, as usual at that time of the night. But as I turned a corner into it I
overtook three people who must have belonged to the locality. To me, somehow, they appeared stra=
nge. Two
girls in dark cloaks walked ahead of a tall man in a top hat. I slowed down, not wishing to pass=
them
by, the more so that the door of the house was only a few yards distant.
In the stupid way
people have I stood and meditated on the sight, before it occurred to me th=
at
this was the most useless thing to do.&nbs=
p;
After waiting a little longer to let the others get away from the ha=
ll I
entered in my turn. The small
gas-jet seemed not to have been touched ever since that distant night when
Mills and I trod the black-and-white marble hall for the first time on the
heels of Captain Blunt—who lived by his sword. And in the dimness and solitude wh=
ich
kept no more trace of the three strangers than if they had been the merest
ghosts I seemed to hear the ghostly murmur, “Américain, Cathol=
ique
et gentilhomme. Amér. . . ”&n=
bsp;
Unseen by human eye I ran up the flight of steps swiftly and on the
first floor stepped into my sitting-room of which the door was open . . .
“et gentilhomme.” I
tugged at the bell pull and somewhere down below a bell rang as unexpected =
for
Therese as a call from a ghost.
I had no notion
whether Therese could hear me. I
seemed to remember that she slept in any bed that happened to be vacant.
She had on her
peasant brown skirt. The rest=
of
her was concealed in a black shawl which covered her head, her shoulders, a=
rms,
and elbows completely, down to her waist.&=
nbsp;
The hand holding the candle protruded from that envelope which the o=
ther
invisible hand clasped together under her very chin. And her face looked like a face in=
a
painting. She said at once:
“You startl=
ed
me, my young Monsieur.”
She addressed me =
most
frequently in that way as though she liked the very word
“young.” Her mann=
er was
certainly peasant-like with a sort of plaint in the voice, while the face w=
as
that of a serving Sister in some small and rustic convent.
“I meant to=
do
it,” I said. “I a=
m a
very bad person.”
“The young =
are
always full of fun,” she said as if she were gloating over the idea.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “It is very pleasant.”=
“But you are
very brave,” I chaffed her, “for you didn’t expect a ring=
, and
after all it might have been the devil who pulled the bell.”
“It might h=
ave
been. But a poor girl like me=
is
not afraid of the devil. I have a pure heart. I have been to confession last
evening. No. But it might have been an assassin=
that
pulled the bell ready to kill a poor harmless woman. This is a very lonely street. What could prevent you to kill me =
now
and then walk out again free as air?”
While she was tal=
king
like this she had lighted the gas and with the last words she glided through
the bedroom door leaving me thunderstruck at the unexpected character of her
thoughts.
I couldn’t =
know
that there had been during my absence a case of atrocious murder which had
affected the imagination of the whole town; and though Therese did not read=
the
papers (which she imagined to be full of impieties and immoralities invente=
d by
godless men) yet if she spoke at all with her kind, which she must have don=
e at
least in shops, she could not have helped hearing of it. It seems that for some days people=
could
talk of nothing else. She ret=
urned
gliding from the bedroom hermetically sealed in her black shawl just as she=
had
gone in, with the protruding hand holding the lighted candle and relieved my
perplexity as to her morbid turn of mind by telling me something of the mur=
der
story in a strange tone of indifference even while referring to its most
horrible features.
“That’s what carnal sin (pêché de chair) le=
ads
to,” she commented severely and passed her tongue over her thin lips.=
“And then the devil furnishe=
s the
occasion.”
“I can̵=
7;t
imagine the devil inciting me to murder you, Therese,” I said, “=
;and
I didn’t like that ready way you took me for an example, as it were. I
suppose pretty near every lodger might be a potential murderer, but I expec=
ted
to be made an exception.”
With the candle h= eld a little below her face, with that face of one tone and without relief she looked more than ever as though she had come out of an old, cracked, smoky painting, the subject of which was altogether beyond human conception. And she only compressed her lips.<= o:p>
“All
right,” I said, making myself comfortable on a sofa after pulling off=
my
boots. “I suppose any o=
ne is
liable to commit murder all of a sudden.&n=
bsp;
Well, have you got many murderers in the house?”
“Yes,”
she said, “it’s pretty good.&n=
bsp;
Upstairs and downstairs,” she sighed. “God sees to it.”
“And by the=
by,
who is that grey-headed murderer in a tall hat whom I saw shepherding two g=
irls
into this house?”
She put on a cand=
id
air in which one could detect a little of her peasant cunning.
“Oh, yes. They are two dancing girls at the =
Opera,
sisters, as different from each other as I and our poor Rita. But they are both virtuous and that
gentleman, their father, is very severe with them. Very severe indeed, poor motherless
things. And it seems to be su=
ch a
sinful occupation.”
“I bet you =
make
them pay a big rent, Therese. With
an occupation like that . . .”
She looked at me =
with
eyes of invincible innocence and began to glide towards the door, so smooth=
ly
that the flame of the candle hardly swayed. “Good-night,” she
murmured.
“Good-night,
Mademoiselle.”
Then in the very
doorway she turned right round as a marionette would turn.
“Oh, you ou=
ght
to know, my dear young Monsieur, that Mr. Blunt, the dear handsome man, has
arrived from Navarre three days ago or more. Oh,” she added with a pricel=
ess
air of compunction, “he is such a charming gentleman.”
And the door shut
after her.
That night I passed in a state, mos=
tly
open-eyed, I believe, but always on the border between dreams and waking. The only thing absolutely absent f=
rom it
was the feeling of rest. The =
usual
sufferings of a youth in love had nothing to do with it. I could leave her, go away from he=
r, remain
away from her, without an added pang or any augmented consciousness of that
torturing sentiment of distance so acute that often it ends by wearing itse=
lf
out in a few days. Far or nea=
r was
all one to me, as if one could never get any further but also never any nea=
rer
to her secret: the state like that of some strange wild faiths that get hol=
d of
mankind with the cruel mystic grip of unattainable perfection, robbing them=
of
both liberty and felicity on earth.
A faith presents one with some hope, though. But I had no hope, and not even de=
sire
as a thing outside myself, that would come and go, exhaust or excite. It was in me just like life was in=
me;
that life of which a popular saying affirms that “it is
sweet.” For the general
wisdom of mankind will always stop short on the limit of the formidable.
What is best in a
state of brimful, equable suffering is that it does away with the gnawings =
of
petty sensations. Too far gon=
e to
be sensible to hope and desire I was spared the inferior pangs of elation a=
nd impatience. Hours with her or hours without he=
r were
all alike, all in her possession!
But still there are shades and I will admit that the hours of that
morning were perhaps a little more difficult to get through than the
others. I had sent word of my
arrival of course. I had writ=
ten a
note. I had rung the bell.
“Have this =
sent
off at once.”
She had gazed at =
the
addressed envelope, smiled (I was looking up at her from my desk), and at l=
ast
took it up with an effort of sanctimonious repugnance. But she remained with it in her ha=
nd
looking at me as though she were piously gloating over something she could =
read
in my face.
“Oh, that R=
ita,
that Rita,” she murmured.
“And you, too! W=
hy are
you trying, you, too, like the others, to stand between her and the mercy o=
f God? What’s the good of all this =
to
you? And you such a nice, dea=
r, young
gentleman. For no earthly goo=
d only
making all the kind saints in heaven angry, and our mother ashamed in her p=
lace
amongst the blessed.”
“Mademoisel=
le
Therese,” I said, “vous êtes folle.”
I believed she was
crazy. She was cunning, too.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I added an imperious: “Allez=
,”
and with a strange docility she glided out without another word. All I had to do then was to get dre=
ssed
and wait till eleven o’clock.
The hour struck at
last. If I could have plunged=
into
a light wave and been transported instantaneously to Doña Rita’=
;s
door it would no doubt have saved me an infinity of pangs too complex for
analysis; but as this was impossible I elected to walk from end to end of t=
hat
long way. My emotions and
sensations were childlike and chaotic inasmuch that they were very intense =
and
primitive, and that I lay very helpless in their unrelaxing grasp. If one could have kept a record of
one’s physical sensations it would have been a fine collection of
absurdities and contradictions.
Hardly touching the ground and yet leaden-footed; with a sinking hea=
rt
and an excited brain; hot and trembling with a secret faintness, and yet as
firm as a rock and with a sort of indifference to it all, I did reach the d=
oor
which was frightfully like any other commonplace door, but at the same time=
had
a fateful character: a few planks put together—and an awful symbol; n=
ot
to be approached without awe—and yet coming open in the ordinary way =
to
the ring of the bell.
It came open. Oh, yes, very much as usual. But in the ordinary course of even=
ts the
first sight in the hall should have been the back of the ubiquitous, busy,
silent maid hurrying off and already distant. But not at all! She actually waited for me to
enter. I was extremely taken =
aback
and I believe spoke to her for the first time in my life.
“Bonjour,
Rose.”
She dropped her d=
ark
eyelids over those eyes that ought to have been lustrous but were not, as if
somebody had breathed on them the first thing in the morning. She was a girl without smiles. She shut the door after me, and no=
t only
did that but in the incredible idleness of that morning she, who had never a
moment to spare, started helping me off with my overcoat. It was positively embarrassing fro=
m its
novelty. While busying hersel=
f with
those trifles she murmured without any marked intention:
“Captain Bl=
unt
is with Madame.”
This didn’t
exactly surprise me. I knew h=
e had
come up to town; I only happened to have forgotten his existence for the
moment. I looked at the girl =
also
without any particular intention.
But she arrested my movement towards the dining-room door by a low,
hurried, if perfectly unemotional appeal:
“Monsieur
George!”
That of course was
not my name. It served me the=
n as
it will serve for this story. In
all sorts of strange places I was alluded to as “that young gentleman
they call Monsieur George.”
Orders came from “Monsieur George” to men who nodded
knowingly. Events pivoted abo=
ut
“Monsieur George.” I
haven’t the slightest doubt that in the dark and tortuous streets of =
the
old Town there were fingers pointed at my back: there goes “Monsieur
George.” I had been int=
roduced
discreetly to several considerable persons as “Monsieur
George.” I had learned =
to
answer to the name quite naturally; and to simplify matters I was also
“Monsieur George” in the street of the Consuls and in the Villa=
on
the Prado. I verily believe t=
hat at
that time I had the feeling that the name of George really belonged to me.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I waited for what the girl had to
say. I had to wait some time,
though during that silence she gave no sign of distress or agitation. It was for her obviously a moment =
of
reflection. Her lips were compressed a little in a characteristic, capable
manner. I looked at her with a
friendliness I really felt towards her slight, unattractive, and dependable
person.
“Well,̶=
1; I
said at last, rather amused by this mental hesitation. I never took it for anything else.=
I was sure it was not distrust. And as to that I believed myself a=
bove
suspicion. At last she spoke.
“Madame is =
not
happy.” This informatio=
n was
given to me not emotionally but as it were officially. It hadn’t even a tone of
warning. A mere statement.
Then I heard
something: Doña Rita’s voice raised a little on an impatient n=
ote
(a very, very rare thing) finishing some phrase of protest with the words
“ . . . Of no consequence.”
I heard them as I
would have heard any other words, for she had that kind of voice which carr=
ies
a long distance. But the
maid’s statement occupied all my mind. “Madame n’est pas
heureuse.” It had a dre=
adful precision
. . . “Not happy . . .”
This unhappiness had almost a concrete form—something resembli=
ng a
horrid bat. I was tired, exci=
ted,
and generally overwrought. My=
head
felt empty. What were the
appearances of unhappiness? I=
was
still naïve enough to associate them with tears, lamentations,
extraordinary attitudes of the body and some sort of facial distortion, all
very dreadful to behold. I
didn’t know what I should see; but in what I did see there was nothing
startling, at any rate from that nursery point of view which apparently I h=
ad
not yet outgrown.
With immense reli=
ef
the apprehensive child within me beheld Captain Blunt warming his back at t=
he
more distant of the two fireplaces; and as to Doña Rita there was
nothing extraordinary in her attitude either, except perhaps that her hair =
was
all loose about her shoulders. I
hadn’t the slightest doubt they had been riding together that morning,
but she, with her impatience of all costume (and yet she could dress herself
admirably and wore her dresses triumphantly), had divested herself of her
riding habit and sat cross-legged enfolded in that ample blue robe like a y=
oung
savage chieftain in a blanket. It
covered her very feet. And be=
fore
the normal fixity of her enigmatical eyes the smoke of the cigarette ascend=
ed ceremonially,
straight up, in a slender spiral.
“How are
you,” was the greeting of Captain Blunt with the usual smile which wo=
uld
have been more amiable if his teeth hadn’t been, just then, clenched
quite so tight. How he manage=
d to
force his voice through that shining barrier I could never understand. Doña Rita tapped the couch =
engagingly
by her side but I sat down instead in the armchair nearly opposite her, whi=
ch,
I imagine, must have been just vacated by Blunt. She inquired with that
particular gleam of the eyes in which there was something immemorial and ga=
y:
“Well?̶=
1;
“Perfect
success.”
“I could hug
you.”
At any time her l=
ips
moved very little but in this instance the intense whisper of these words
seemed to form itself right in my very heart; not as a conveyed sound but a=
s an
imparted emotion vibrating there with an awful intimacy of delight. And yet it left my heart heavy.
“Oh, yes, f=
or
joy,” I said bitterly but very low; “for your Royalist, Legitim=
ist,
joy.” Then with that tr=
ick of
very precise politeness which I must have caught from Mr. Blunt I added:
“I don̵=
7;t
want to be embraced—for the King.”
And I might have
stopped there. But I didnR=
17;t. With a perversity which should be
forgiven to those who suffer night and day and are as if drunk with an exal=
ted
unhappiness, I went on: “For the sake of an old cast-off glove; for I
suppose a disdained love is not much more than a soiled, flabby thing that
finds itself on a private rubbish heap because it has missed the fire.̶=
1;
She listened to me
unreadable, unmoved, narrowed eyes, closed lips, slightly flushed face, as =
if
carved six thousand years ago in order to fix for ever that something secre=
t and
obscure which is in all women. Not the gross immobility of a Sphinx proposi=
ng
roadside riddles but the finer immobility, almost sacred, of a fateful figu=
re
seated at the very source of the passions that have moved men from the dawn=
of
ages.
Captain Blunt, wi=
th
his elbow on the high mantelpiece, had turned away a little from us and his
attitude expressed excellently the detachment of a man who does not want to
hear. As a matter of fact, I
don’t suppose he could have heard.&n=
bsp;
He was too far away, our voices were too contained. Moreover, he
didn’t want to hear. Th=
ere
could be no doubt about it; but she addressed him unexpectedly.
“As I was
saying to you, Don Juan, I have the greatest difficulty in getting myself, I
won’t say understood, but simply believed.”
No pose of detach=
ment
could avail against the warm waves of that voice. He had to hear. After a moment he altered his posi=
tion
as it were reluctantly, to answer her.
“That’=
;s a
difficulty that women generally have.”
“Yet I have
always spoken the truth.”
“All women
speak the truth,” said Blunt imperturbably. And this annoyed her.
“Where are =
the
men I have deceived?” she cried.
“Yes,
where?” said Blunt in a tone of alacrity as though he had been ready =
to
go out and look for them outside.
“No! But show me one. I say—where is he?”
He threw his
affectation of detachment to the winds, moved his shoulders slightly, very
slightly, made a step nearer to the couch, and looked down on her with an
expression of amused courtesy.
“Oh, I
don’t know. Probably
nowhere. But if such a man co=
uld be
found I am certain he would turn out a very stupid person. You can’t be expected to fur=
nish
every one who approaches you with a mind.&=
nbsp;
To expect that would be too much, even from you who know how to work
wonders at such little cost to yourself.”
“To
myself,” she repeated in a loud tone.
“Why this
indignation? I am simply taki=
ng
your word for it.”
“Such little
cost!” she exclaimed under her breath.
“I mean to =
your
person.”
“Oh,
yes,” she murmured, glanced down, as it were upon herself, then added
very low: “This body.”
“Well, it is
you,” said Blunt with visibly contained irritation. “You don’t pretend
it’s somebody else’s.
It can’t be. You
haven’t borrowed it. . . . It fits you too well,” he ended betw=
een
his teeth.
“You take
pleasure in tormenting yourself,” she remonstrated, suddenly placated;
“and I would be sorry for you if I didn’t think it’s the =
mere
revolt of your pride. And you=
know
you are indulging your pride at my expense. As to the rest of it, as to my liv=
ing,
acting, working wonders at a little cost. . . . it has all but killed me
morally. Do you hear? Killed.=
”
“Oh, you are
not dead yet,” he muttered,
“No,”=
she
said with gentle patience.
“There is still some feeling left in me; and if it is any
satisfaction to you to know it, you may be certain that I shall be consciou=
s of
the last stab.”
He remained silent
for a while and then with a polite smile and a movement of the head in my
direction he warned her.
“Our audien=
ce
will get bored.”
“I am perfe=
ctly
aware that Monsieur George is here, and that he has been breathing a very
different atmosphere from what he gets in this room. Don’t you find t=
his
room extremely confined?” she asked me.
The room was very
large but it is a fact that I felt oppressed at that moment. This mysterious quarrel between th=
ose
two people, revealing something more close in their intercourse than I had =
ever
before suspected, made me so profoundly unhappy that I didn’t even
attempt to answer. And she
continued:
“More space=
. More air. Give me air, air.” She seized the embroidered edges o=
f her
blue robe under her white throat and made as if to tear them apart, to flin=
g it
open on her breast, recklessly, before our eyes. We both remained perfectly still.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Her hands dropped nervelessly by h=
er side. “I envy you, Monsieur George=
. If I am to go under I should prefe=
r to
be drowned in the sea with the wind on my face. What luck, to feel nothing less th=
an all
the world closing over one’s head!”
A short silence
ensued before Mr. Blunt’s drawing-room voice was heard with playful
familiarity.
“I have oft=
en
asked myself whether you weren’t really a very ambitious person,
Doña Rita.”
“And I ask
myself whether you have any heart.”&=
nbsp;
She was looking straight at him and he gratified her with the usual =
cold
white flash of his even teeth before he answered.
“Asking
yourself? That means that you=
are
really asking me. But why do =
it so
publicly? I mean it. One single, detached presence is e=
nough
to make a public. One alone.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Why not wait till he returns to th=
ose
regions of space and air—from which he came.”
His particular tr=
ick
of speaking of any third person as of a lay figure was exasperating. Yet at the moment I did not know h=
ow to
resent it, but, in any case, Doña Rita would not have given me
time. Without a moment’s
hesitation she cried out:
“I only wis=
h he
could take me out there with him.”
For a moment Mr.
Blunt’s face became as still as a mask and then instead of an angry it
assumed an indulgent expression. As
to me I had a rapid vision of Dominic’s astonishment, awe, and sarcasm
which was always as tolerant as it is possible for sarcasm to be. But what a charming, gentle, gay, =
and
fearless companion she would have made!&nb=
sp;
I believed in her fearlessness in any adventure that would interest
her. It would be a new occasi=
on for
me, a new viewpoint for that faculty of admiration she had awakened in me at
sight—at first sight—before she opened her lips—before she
ever turned her eyes on me. S=
he
would have to wear some sort of sailor costume, a blue woollen shirt open at
the throat. . . . Dominic’s hooded cloak would envelop her amply, and=
her
face under the black hood would have a luminous quality, adolescent charm, =
and
an enigmatic expression. The
confined space of the little vessel’s quarterdeck would lend itself to
her cross-legged attitudes, and the blue sea would balance gently her
characteristic immobility that seemed to hide thoughts as old and profound =
as
itself. As restless,
too—perhaps.
But the picture I=
had
in my eye, coloured and simple like an illustration to a nursery-book tale =
of
two venturesome children’s escapade, was what fascinated me most. Indeed I felt that we two were like
children under the gaze of a man of the world—who lived by his
sword. And I said recklessly:=
“Yes, you o=
ught
to come along with us for a trip.
You would see a lot of things for yourself.”
Mr. Blunt’s
expression had grown even more indulgent if that were possible. Yet there was something ineradicab=
ly
ambiguous about that man. I did not like the indefinable tone in which he
observed:
“You are
perfectly reckless in what you say, Doña Rita. It has become a habit with you of
late.”
“While with=
you
reserve is a second nature, Don Juan.”
This was uttered =
with
the gentlest, almost tender, irony.
Mr. Blunt waited a while before he said:
“Certainly.=
. .
. Would you have liked me to be otherwise?”
She extended her =
hand
to him on a sudden impulse.
“Forgive
me! I may have been unjust, a=
nd you
may only have been loyal. The falseness is not in us. The fault is in life itself, I
suppose. I have been always f=
rank
with you.”
“And I
obedient,” he said, bowing low over her hand. He turned away, paused to look at =
me for
some time and finally gave me the correct sort of nod. But he said nothing and went out, =
or
rather lounged out with his worldly manner of perfect ease under all
conceivable circumstances. Wi=
th her
head lowered Doña Rita watched him till he actually shut the door be=
hind
him. I was facing her and only
heard the door close.
“Don’t
stare at me,” were the first words she said.
It was difficult =
to
obey that request. I didnR=
17;t
know exactly where to look, while I sat facing her. So I got up, vaguely full of goodw=
ill, prepared
even to move off as far as the window, when she commanded:
“Don’t
turn your back on me.”
I chose to unders=
tand
it symbolically.
“You know v=
ery
well I could never do that. I
couldn’t. Not even if I=
wanted
to.” And I added:
“It’s too late now.”
“Well, then,
sit down. Sit down on this
couch.”
I sat down on the
couch. Unwillingly? Yes. I was at that stage when all her w=
ords,
all her gestures, all her silences were a heavy trial to me, put a stress o=
n my
resolution, on that fidelity to myself and to her which lay like a leaden
weight on my untried heart. B=
ut I
didn’t sit down very far away from her, though that soft and billowy
couch was big enough, God knows!
No, not very far from her.
Self-control, dignity, hopelessness itself, have their limits. The halo of her tawny hair stirred=
as I
let myself drop by her side.
Whereupon she flung one arm round my neck, leaned her temple against=
my
shoulder and began to sob; but that I could only guess from her slight,
convulsive movements because in our relative positions I could only see the
mass of her tawny hair brushed back, yet with a halo of escaped hair which =
as I
bent my head over her tickled my lips, my cheek, in a maddening manner.
We sat like two
venturesome children in an illustration to a tale, scared by their
adventure. But not for long.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> As I instinctively, yet timidly, s=
ought
for her other hand I felt a tear strike the back of mine, big and heavy as =
if
fallen from a great height. I=
t was
too much for me. I must have =
given
a nervous start. At once I he=
ard a
murmur: “You had better go away now.”
I withdrew myself
gently from under the light weight of her head, from this unspeakable bliss=
and
inconceivable misery, and had the absurd impression of leaving her suspende=
d in
the air. And I moved away on =
tiptoe.
Like an inspired
blind man led by Providence I found my way out of the room but really I saw
nothing, till in the hall the maid appeared by enchantment before me holdin=
g up
my overcoat. I let her help m=
e into
it. And then (again as if by enchantment) she had my hat in her hand.
“No. Madame isn’t happy,” I
whispered to her distractedly.
She let me take my
hat out of her hand and while I was putting it on my head I heard an austere
whisper:
“Madame sho=
uld
listen to her heart.”
Austere is not the
word; it was almost freezing, this unexpected, dispassionate rustle of
words. I had to repress a shu=
dder,
and as coldly as herself I murmured:
“She has do=
ne
that once too often.”
Rose was standing
very close to me and I caught distinctly the note of scorn in her indulgent
compassion.
“Oh, that! =
. .
. Madame is like a child.” It
was impossible to get the bearing of that utterance from that girl who, as
Doña Rita herself had told me, was the most taciturn of human beings;
and yet of all human beings the one nearest to herself. I seized her head in my hands and =
turning
up her face I looked straight down into her black eyes which should have be=
en
lustrous. Like a piece of gla=
ss
breathed upon they reflected no light, revealed no depths, and under my ard=
ent
gaze remained tarnished, misty, unconscious.
“Will Monsi=
eur
kindly let me go. Monsieur
shouldn’t play the child, either.” (I let her go.) “Madame could have the world=
at
her feet. Indeed she has it there only she doesn’t care for it.”=
;
How talkative she
was, this maid with unsealed lips!
For some reason or other this last statement of hers brought me imme=
nse
comfort.
“Yes?”=
; I
whispered breathlessly.
“Yes! But in that case what’s the =
use of
living in fear and torment?” she went on, revealing a little more of
herself to my astonishment. S=
he opened
the door for me and added:
“Those that
don’t care to stoop ought at least make themselves happy.”
I turned in the v=
ery
doorway: “There is something which prevents that?” I suggested.=
“To be sure
there is. Bonjour, Monsieur.&=
#8221;
“Such a charming lady in a gr=
ey
silk dress and a hand as white as snow. She looked at me through such funny
glasses on the end of a long handle. A very great lady but her voice was as
kind as the voice of a saint. I have
never seen anything like that. She
made me feel so timid.”
The voice uttering
these words was the voice of Therese and I looked at her from a bed draped
heavily in brown silk curtains fantastically looped up from ceiling to
floor. The glow of a sunshiny=
day
was toned down by closed jalousies to a mere transparency of darkness. In this thin medium Therese’=
s form
appeared flat, without detail, as if cut out of black paper. It glided towards the window and w=
ith a
click and a scrape let in the full flood of light which smote my aching
eyeballs painfully.
In truth all that
night had been the abomination of desolation to me. After wrestling with my
thoughts, if the acute consciousness of a woman’s existence may be ca=
lled
a thought, I had apparently dropped off to sleep only to go on wrestling wi=
th a
nightmare, a senseless and terrifying dream of being in bonds which, even a=
fter
waking, made me feel powerless in all my limbs. I lay still, suffering acutely fro=
m a
renewed sense of existence, unable to lift an arm, and wondering why I was =
not
at sea, how long I had slept, how long Therese had been talking before her
voice had reached me in that purgatory of hopeless longing and unanswerable=
questions
to which I was condemned.
It was
Therese’s habit to begin talking directly she entered the room with t=
he
tray of morning coffee. This =
was
her method for waking me up. I generally regained the consciousness of the
external world on some pious phrase asserting the spiritual comfort of early
mass, or on angry lamentations about the unconscionable rapacity of the dea=
lers
in fish and vegetables; for after mass it was Therese’s practice to do
the marketing for the house. =
As a
matter of fact the necessity of having to pay, to actually give money to
people, infuriated the pious Therese.
But the matter of this morning’s speech was so extraordinary t=
hat
it might have been the prolongation of a nightmare: a man in bonds having to
listen to weird and unaccountable speeches against which, he doesn’t =
know
why, his very soul revolts.
In sober truth my=
soul
remained in revolt though I was convinced that I was no longer dreaming.
“If I had b=
een
her daughter she couldn’t have spoken more softly to me,” she s=
aid
sentimentally.
I made a great ef=
fort
to speak.
“Mademoisel=
le
Therese, you are raving.”
“She addres=
sed
me as Mademoiselle, too, so nicely.
I was struck with veneration for her white hair but her face, believe
me, my dear young Monsieur, has not so many wrinkles as mine.”
She compressed her
lips with an angry glance at me as if I could help her wrinkles, then she
sighed.
“God sends
wrinkles, but what is our face?” she digressed in a tone of great
humility. “We shall have
glorious faces in Paradise. B=
ut
meantime God has permitted me to preserve a smooth heart.”
“Are you go=
ing
to keep on like this much longer?” I fairly shouted at her. “What are you talking
about?”
“I am talki=
ng
about the sweet old lady who came in a carriage. Not a fiacre. I can tell a fiacre. In a little carriage shut in with =
glass all
in front. I suppose she is ve=
ry
rich. The carriage was very s=
hiny outside
and all beautiful grey stuff inside.
I opened the door to her myself.&nb=
sp;
She got out slowly like a queen.&nb=
sp;
I was struck all of a heap. Such a shiny beautiful little carriage.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There were blue silk tassels insid=
e,
beautiful silk tassels.”
Obviously Therese=
had
been very much impressed by a brougham, though she didn’t know the na=
me
for it. Of all the town she k=
new
nothing but the streets which led to a neighbouring church frequented only =
by
the poorer classes and the humble quarter around, where she did her marketi=
ng. Besides,
she was accustomed to glide along the walls with her eyes cast down; for her
natural boldness would never show itself through that nun-like mien except =
when
bargaining, if only on a matter of threepence. Such a turn-out had never be=
en
presented to her notice before. The
traffic in the street of the Consuls was mostly pedestrian and far from fas=
hionable. And anyhow Therese never looked ou=
t of
the window. She lurked in the
depths of the house like some kind of spider that shuns attention. She used to dart at one from some =
dark
recesses which I never explored.
Yet it seemed to =
me
that she exaggerated her raptures for some reason or other. With her it was very difficult to
distinguish between craft and innocence.
“Do you mea=
n to
say,” I asked suspiciously, “that an old lady wants to hire an
apartment here? I hope you to=
ld her
there was no room, because, you know, this house is not exactly the thing f=
or
venerable old ladies.”
“Don’t
make me angry, my dear young Monsieur.&nbs=
p;
I have been to confession this morning. Aren’t you comfortable? Isn’t the house appointed ri=
chly enough
for anybody?”
That girl with a
peasant-nun’s face had never seen the inside of a house other than so=
me
half-ruined caserio in her native hills.
I pointed out to =
her
that this was not a matter of splendour or comfort but of
“convenances.” She
pricked up her ears at that word which probably she had never heard before;=
but
with woman’s uncanny intuition I believe she understood perfectly wha=
t I
meant. Her air of saintly pat=
ience
became so pronounced that with my own poor intuition I perceived that she w=
as
raging at me inwardly. Her
weather-tanned complexion, already affected by her confined life, took on an
extraordinary clayey aspect which reminded me of a strange head painted by =
El
Greco which my friend Prax had hung on one of his walls and used to rail at;
yet not without a certain respect.
Therese, with her
hands still meekly folded about her waist, had mastered the feelings of ang=
er
so unbecoming to a person whose sins had been absolved only about three hou=
rs
before, and asked me with an insinuating softness whether she wasn’t =
an
honest girl enough to look after any old lady belonging to a world which af=
ter
all was sinful. She reminded =
me that
she had kept house ever since she was “so high” for her uncle t=
he priest:
a man well-known for his saintliness in a large district extending even bey=
ond
Pampeluna. The character of a=
house
depended upon the person who ruled it.&nbs=
p;
She didn’t know what impenitent wretches had been breathing wi=
thin
these walls in the time of that godless and wicked man who had planted every
seed of perdition in “our Rita’s” ill-disposed heart. But he was dead and she, Therese, =
knew
for certain that wickedness perished utterly, because of God’s anger =
(la
colère du bon Dieu). S=
he
would have no hesitation in receiving a bishop, if need be, since “ou=
r,
Rita,” with her poor, wretched, unbelieving heart, had nothing more t=
o do
with the house.
All this came out=
of
her like an unctuous trickle of some acrid oil. The low, voluble delivery was enou=
gh by
itself to compel my attention.
“You think =
you
know your sister’s heart,” I asked.
She made small ey=
es
at me to discover if I was angry.
She seemed to have an invincible faith in the virtuous dispositions =
of
young men. And as I had spoke=
n in
measured tones and hadn’t got red in the face she let herself go.
“Black, my =
dear
young Monsieur. Black. I always knew it. Uncle, poor saintly man, was too h=
oly to
take notice of anything. He w=
as too
busy with his thoughts to listen to anything I had to say to him. For instance as to her
shamelessness. She was always=
ready
to run half naked about the hills. . . ”
“Yes. After your goats. All day long. Why didn’t you mend her
frocks?”
“Oh, you kn=
ow
about the goats. My dear young
Monsieur, I could never tell when she would fling over her pretended sweetn=
ess
and put her tongue out at me. Did
she tell you about a boy, the son of pious and rich parents, whom she tried=
to
lead astray into the wildness of thoughts like her own, till the poor dear
child drove her off because she outraged his modesty? I saw him often with his parents at
Sunday mass. The grace of God
preserved him and made him quite a gentleman in Paris. Perhaps it will touch Rita’s
heart, too, some day. But she=
was
awful then. When I wouldnR=
17;t
listen to her complaints she would say: ‘All right, sister, I would j=
ust
as soon go clothed in rain and wind.’ And such a bag of bones, too, like=
the
picture of a devil’s imp. Ah,
my dear young Monsieur, you don’t know how wicked her heart is. You aren’t bad enough for th=
at
yourself. I don’t belie=
ve you
are evil at all in your innocent little heart. I never heard you jeer at holy
things. You are only thoughtl=
ess. For instance, I have never seen yo=
u make
the sign of the cross in the morning.
Why don’t you make a practice of crossing yourself directly you
open your eyes. It’s a =
very
good thing. It keeps Satan of=
f for
the day.”
She proffered that
advice in a most matter-of-fact tone as if it were a precaution against a c=
old,
compressed her lips, then returning to her fixed idea, “But the house=
is
mine,” she insisted very quietly with an accent which made me feel th=
at
Satan himself would never manage to tear it out of her hands.
“And so I t=
old
the great lady in grey. I tol=
d her
that my sister had given it to me and that surely God would not let her tak=
e it
away again.”
“You told t=
hat
grey-headed lady, an utter stranger!
You are getting more crazy every day. You have neither good sense nor go=
od
feeling, Mademoiselle Therese, let me tell you. Do you talk about your sister to t=
he
butcher and the greengrocer, too? =
span>A
downright savage would have more restraint. What’s your object? What do you expect from it? What pleasure do you get from it?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Do you think you please God by abu=
sing
your sister? What do you thin=
k you
are?”
“A poor lone
girl amongst a lot of wicked people.
Do you think I wanted to go forth amongst those abominations? itR=
17;s
that poor sinful Rita that wouldn’t let me be where I was, serving a =
holy
man, next door to a church, and sure of my share of Paradise. I simply obeyed my uncle. It’=
;s he
who told me to go forth and attempt to save her soul, bring her back to us,=
to
a virtuous life. But what wou=
ld be
the good of that? She is give=
n over
to worldly, carnal thoughts. =
Of
course we are a good family and my uncle is a great man in the country, but
where is the reputable farmer or God-fearing man of that kind that would da=
re
to bring such a girl into his house to his mother and sisters. No, let her give her ill-gotten we=
alth
up to the deserving and devote the rest of her life to repentance.”
She uttered these
righteous reflections and presented this programme for the salvation of her
sister’s soul in a reasonable convinced tone which was enough to give
goose flesh to one all over.
“Mademoisel= le Therese,” I said, “you are nothing less than a monster.”<= o:p>
She received that
true expression of my opinion as though I had given her a sweet of a
particularly delicious kind. =
She
liked to be abused. It please=
d her
to be called names. I did let=
her
have that satisfaction to her heart’s content. At last I stopped because I could =
do no
more, unless I got out of bed to beat her.=
I have a vague notion that she would have liked that, too, but I
didn’t try. After I had
stopped she waited a little before she raised her downcast eyes.
“You are a
dear, ignorant, flighty young gentleman,” she said. “Nobody can tell what a cros=
s my
sister is to me except the good priest in the church where I go every
day.”
“And the
mysterious lady in grey,” I suggested sarcastically.
“Such a per=
son
might have guessed it,” answered Therese, seriously, “but I told
her nothing except that this house had been given me in full property by our
Rita. And I wouldn’t ha=
ve
done that if she hadn’t spoken to me of my sister first. I can’t tell too many people=
about
that. One can’t trust
Rita. I know she doesn’=
t fear
God but perhaps human respect may keep her from taking this house back from
me. If she doesn’t want=
me to
talk about her to people why doesn’t she give me a properly stamped p=
iece
of paper for it?”
She said all this
rapidly in one breath and at the end had a sort of anxious gasp which gave =
me
the opportunity to voice my surprise.
It was immense.
“That lady,=
the
strange lady, spoke to you of your sister first!” I cried.
“The lady a=
sked
me, after she had been in a little time, whether really this house belonged=
to
Madame de Lastaola. She had b=
een so
sweet and kind and condescending that I did not mind humiliating my spirit
before such a good Christian. I
told her that I didn’t know how the poor sinner in her mad blindness
called herself, but that this house had been given to me truly enough by my
sister. She raised her eyebro=
ws at
that but she looked at me at the same time so kindly, as much as to say,
‘Don’t trust much to that, my dear girl,’ that I
couldn’t help taking up her hand, soft as down, and kissing it. She took it away pretty quick but =
she
was not offended. But she only
said, ‘That’s very generous on your sister’s part,’=
in
a way that made me run cold all over.
I suppose all the world knows our Rita for a shameless girl. It was then that the lady took up =
those
glasses on a long gold handle and looked at me through them till I felt very
much abashed. She said to me,
‘There is nothing to be unhappy about. Madame de Lastaola is a very remar=
kable
person who has done many surprising things. She is not to be judged like other=
people
and as far as I know she has never wronged a single human being. . .
.’ That put heart into =
me, I
can tell you; and the lady told me then not to disturb her son. She would wait till he woke up.
“Why on ear=
th
didn’t you tell me at first that the lady was Mrs. Blunt?”
“Didn’=
;t
I? I thought I did,” sh=
e said
innocently. I felt a sudden d=
esire
to get out of that house, to fly from the reinforced Blunt element which wa=
s to
me so oppressive.
“I want to =
get
up and dress, Mademoiselle Therese,” I said.
She gave a slight
start and without looking at me again glided out of the room, the many fold=
s of
her brown skirt remaining undisturbed as she moved.
I looked at my wa=
tch;
it was ten o’clock. The=
rese
had been late with my coffee. The
delay was clearly caused by the unexpected arrival of Mr. Blunt’s mot=
her,
which might or might not have been expected by her son. The existence of th=
ose
Blunts made me feel uncomfortable in a peculiar way as though they had been=
the
denizens of another planet with a subtly different point of view and someth=
ing
in the intelligence which was bound to remain unknown to me. It caused in me a feeling of infer=
iority
which I intensely disliked. T=
his
did not arise from the actual fact that those people originated in another
continent. I had met Americans
before. And the Blunts were
Americans. But so little! That was the trouble. Captain Blunt
might have been a Frenchman as far as languages, tones, and manners went. But you could not have mistaken hi=
m for
one. . . . Why? You couldn’t tell.&n=
bsp;
It was something indefinite.
It occurred to me while I was towelling hard my hair, face, and the =
back
of my neck, that I could not meet J. K. Blunt on equal terms in any relatio=
n of
life except perhaps arms in hand, and in preference with pistols, which are
less intimate, acting at a distance—but arms of some sort. For physically his life, which cou=
ld be
taken away from him, was exactly like mine, held on the same terms and of t=
he
same vanishing quality.
I would have smil=
ed
at my absurdity if all, even the most intimate, vestige of gaiety had not b=
een
crushed out of my heart by the intolerable weight of my love for Rita. It crushed, it overshadowed, too, =
it was
immense. If there were any sm=
iles
in the world (which I didn’t believe) I could not have seen them. Love for Rita . . . if it was love=
, I
asked myself despairingly, while I brushed my hair before a glass. It did not seem to have any sort of
beginning as far as I could remember.
A thing the origin of which you cannot trace cannot be seriously
considered. It is an illusion=
. Or perhaps mine was a physical sta=
te,
some sort of disease akin to melancholia which is a form of insanity? The only moments of relief I could
remember were when she and I would start squabbling like two passionate inf=
ants
in a nursery, over anything under heaven, over a phrase, a word sometimes, =
in
the great light of the glass rotunda, disregarding the quiet entrances and
exits of the ever-active Rose, in great bursts of voices and peals of laugh=
ter.
. . .
I felt tears come
into my eyes at the memory of her laughter, the true memory of the senses
almost more penetrating than the reality itself. It haunted me. All that appertained to her haunte=
d me
with the same awful intimacy, her whole form in the familiar pose, her very
substance in its colour and texture, her eyes, her lips, the gleam of her
teeth, the tawny mist of her hair, the smoothness of her forehead, the faint
scent that she used, the very shape, feel, and warmth of her high-heeled
slipper that would sometimes in the heat of the discussion drop on the floor
with a crash, and which I would (always in the heat of the discussion) pick=
up and
toss back on the couch without ceasing to argue. And besides being haunted by what =
was
Rita on earth I was haunted also by her waywardness, her gentleness and her
flame, by that which the high gods called Rita when speaking of her amongst
themselves. Oh, yes, certainl=
y I
was haunted by her but so was her sister Therese—who was crazy. It proved nothing. As to her tears, since I had not c=
aused
them, they only aroused my indignation.&nb=
sp;
To put her head on my shoulder, to weep these strange tears, was not=
hing
short of an outrageous liberty. It
was a mere emotional trick. S=
he
would have just as soon leaned her head against the over-mantel of one of t=
hose
tall, red granite chimney-pieces in order to weep comfortably. And then when she had no longer an=
y need
of support she dispensed with it by simply telling me to go away. How convenient! The request had so=
unded
pathetic, almost sacredly so, but then it might have been the exhibition of=
the
coolest possible impudence. W=
ith
her one could not tell. Sorro=
w,
indifference, tears, smiles, all with her seemed to have a hidden meaning.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Nothing could be trusted. . .
Heavens! Am I as crazy as The=
rese I
asked myself with a passing chill of fear, while occupied in equalizing the
ends of my neck-tie.
I felt suddenly t=
hat
“this sort of thing” would kill me. The definition of the cause was va=
gue,
but the thought itself was no mere morbid artificiality of sentiment but a
genuine conviction. “Th=
at
sort of thing” was what I would have to die from. It wouldn’t be from the innu=
merable
doubts. Any sort of certitude=
would
be also deadly. It wouldnR=
17;t
be from a stab—a kiss would kill me as surely. It would not be from a frown or fr=
om any
particular word or any particular act—but from having to bear them al=
l,
together and in succession—from having to live with “that sort =
of
thing.” About the time I
finished with my neck-tie I had done with life too. I absolutely did not care because I
couldn’t tell whether, mentally and physically, from the roots of my =
hair
to the soles of my feet—whether I was more weary or unhappy.
And now my toilet=
was
finished, my occupation was gone.
An immense distress descended upon me. It has been observed that the rout=
ine of
daily life, that arbitrary system of trifles, is a great moral support. But=
my
toilet was finished, I had nothing more to do of those things consecrated by
usage and which leave you no option.
The exercise of any kind of volition by a man whose consciousness is
reduced to the sensation that he is being killed by “that sort of
thing” cannot be anything but mere trifling with death, an insincere =
pose
before himself. I wasn’=
t capable
of it. It was then that I
discovered that being killed by “that sort of thing,” I mean the
absolute conviction of it, was, so to speak, nothing in itself. The horrible part was the waiting.=
That was the cruelty, the tragedy,=
the
bitterness of it. “Why =
the
devil don’t I drop dead now?” I asked myself peevishly, taking a
clean handkerchief out of the drawer and stuffing it in my pocket.
This was absolute=
ly
the last thing, the last ceremony of an imperative rite. I was abandoned to myself now and =
it was
terrible. Generally I used to=
go
out, walk down to the port, take a look at the craft I loved with a sentime=
nt
that was extremely complex, being mixed up with the image of a woman; perha=
ps
go on board, not because there was anything for me to do there but just for
nothing, for happiness, simply as a man will sit contented in the companion=
ship
of the beloved object. For lu=
nch I had
the choice of two places, one Bohemian, the other select, even aristocratic,
where I had still my reserved table in the petit salon, up the white
staircase. In both places I h=
ad
friends who treated my erratic appearances with discretion, in one case tin=
ged
with respect, in the other with a certain amused tolerance. I owed this tolerance to the most
careless, the most confirmed of those Bohemians (his beard had streaks of g=
rey
amongst its many other tints) who, once bringing his heavy hand down on my
shoulder, took my defence against the charge of being disloyal and even for=
eign
to that milieu of earnest visions taking beautiful and revolutionary shapes=
in
the smoke of pipes, in the jingle of glasses.
“That fellow
(ce garçon) is a primitive nature, but he may be an artist in a
sense. He has broken away fro=
m his
conventions. He is trying to =
put a
special vibration and his own notion of colour into his life; and perhaps e=
ven
to give it a modelling according to his own ideas. And for all you know he may be on =
the
track of a masterpiece; but observe: if it happens to be one nobody will see
it. It can be only for
himself. And even he won̵=
7;t be
able to see it in its completeness except on his death-bed. There is something fine in that.=
8221;
I had blushed with
pleasure; such fine ideas had never entered my head. But there was something
fine. . . . How far all this seemed!
How mute and how still! What
a phantom he was, that man with a beard of at least seven tones of brown. And those shades of the other kind=
such
as Baptiste with the shaven diplomatic face, the maître
d’hôtel in charge of the petit salon, taking my hat and stick f=
rom
me with a deferential remark: “Monsieur is not very often seen
nowadays.” And those ot=
her well-groomed
heads raised and nodding at my passage—“Bonjour.” “=
Bonjour”—following
me with interested eyes; these young X.s and Z.s, low-toned, markedly discr=
eet,
lounging up to my table on their way out with murmurs: “Are you
well?”—“Will one see you anywhere this evening?”=
212;not
from curiosity, God forbid, but just from friendliness; and passing on almo=
st
without waiting for an answer. What
had I to do with them, this elegant dust, these moulds of provincial fashio=
n?
I also often lunc=
hed
with Doña Rita without invitation.&=
nbsp;
But that was now unthinkable.
What had I to do with a woman who allowed somebody else to make her =
cry
and then with an amazing lack of good feeling did her offensive weeping on =
my
shoulder? Obviously I could h=
ave
nothing to do with her. My fi=
ve
minutes’ meditation in the middle of the bedroom came to an end witho=
ut
even a sigh. The dead donR=
17;t
sigh, and for all practical purposes I was that, except for the final
consummation, the growing cold, the rigor mortis—that blessed state!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> With measured steps I crossed the
landing to my sitting-room.
The windows of that room gave out o=
n the
street of the Consuls which as usual was silent. And the house itself below me and =
above
me was soundless, perfectly still.
In general the house was quiet, dumbly quiet, without resonances of =
any
sort, something like what one would imagine the interior of a convent would
be. I suppose it was very sol=
idly
built. Yet that morning I mis=
sed in
the stillness that feeling of security and peace which ought to have been
associated with it. It is, I
believe, generally admitted that the dead are glad to be at rest. But I
wasn’t at rest. What was
wrong with that silence? Ther=
e was something
incongruous in that peace. Wh=
at was
it that had got into that stillness?
Suddenly I remembered: the mother of Captain Blunt.
Why had she come =
all
the way from Paris? And why s=
hould
I bother my head about it?
H’m—the Blunt atmosphere, the reinforced Blunt vibration=
stealing
through the walls, through the thick walls and the almost more solid
stillness. Nothing to me, of
course—the movements of Mme. Blunt, mère. It was maternal affection which had
brought her south by either the evening or morning Rapide, to take anxious
stock of the ravages of that insomnia.&nbs=
p;
Very good thing, insomnia, for a cavalry officer perpetually on outp=
ost
duty, a real godsend, so to speak; but on leave a truly devilish condition =
to
be in.
The above sequenc=
e of
thoughts was entirely unsympathetic and it was followed by a feeling of
satisfaction that I, at any rate, was not suffering from insomnia. I could always sleep in the end. In the end. Escape into a
nightmare. Wouldn’t he =
revel
in that if he could! But that
wasn’t for him. He had =
to
toss about open-eyed all night and get up weary, weary. But oh, wasn’t I weary, too,
waiting for a sleep without dreams.
I heard the door
behind me open. I had been st=
anding
with my face to the window and, I declare, not knowing what I was looking at
across the road—the Desert of Sahara or a wall of bricks, a landscape=
of
rivers and forests or only the Consulate of Paraguay. But I had been thinking, apparentl=
y, of
Mr. Blunt with such intensity that when I saw him enter the room it
didn’t really make much difference.&=
nbsp;
When I turned about the door behind him was already shut. He advanced towards me, correct, s=
upple,
hollow-eyed, and smiling; and as to his costume ready to go out except for =
the
old shooting jacket which he must have affectioned particularly, for he nev=
er
lost any time in getting into it at every opportunity. Its material was some tweed mixtur=
e; it
had gone inconceivably shabby, it was shrunk from old age, it was ragged at=
the
elbows; but any one could see at a glance that it had been made in London b=
y a
celebrated tailor, by a distinguished specialist. Blunt came towards me in all the
elegance of his slimness and affirming in every line of his face and body, =
in
the correct set of his shoulders and the careless freedom of his movements,=
the
superiority, the inexpressible superiority, the unconscious, the unmarked, =
the
not-to-be-described, and even not-to-be-caught, superiority of the naturally
born and the perfectly finished man of the world, over the simple young
man. He was smiling, easy, co=
rrect,
perfectly delightful, fit to kill.
He had come to ask
me, if I had no other engagement, to lunch with him and his mother in about=
an
hour’s time. He did it =
in a
most dégagé tone. His
mother had given him a surprise.
The completest . . . The foundation of his mother’s psychology=
was
her delightful unexpectedness. She could never let things be (this in a
peculiar tone which he checked at once) and he really would take it very ki=
ndly
of me if I came to break the tête-à-tête for a while (th=
at
is if I had no other engagement.
Flash of teeth). His m=
other
was exquisitely and tenderly absurd.
She had taken it into her head that his health was endangered in some
way. And when she took anythi=
ng
into her head . . . Perhaps I might find something to say which would reass=
ure
her. His mother had two long
conversations with Mills on his passage through Paris and had heard of me (I
knew how that thick man could speak of people, he interjected ambiguously) =
and
his mother, with an insatiable curiosity for anything that was rare (filial=
ly humorous
accent here and a softer flash of teeth), was very anxious to have me prese=
nted
to her (courteous intonation, but no teeth). He hoped I wouldn’t mind if =
she
treated me a little as an “interesting young man.” His mother h=
ad
never got over her seventeenth year, and the manner of the spoilt beauty of=
at
least three counties at the back of the Carolinas. That again got overlaid =
by
the sans-façon of a grande dame of the Second Empire.
I accepted the
invitation with a worldly grin and a perfectly just intonation, because I
really didn’t care what I did.
I only wondered vaguely why that fellow required all the air in the =
room
for himself. There did not seem enough left to go down my throat. I didn’t say that I would co=
me
with pleasure or that I would be delighted, but I said that I would come. He seemed to forget his tongue in =
his
head, put his hands in his pockets and moved about vaguely. “I am a little nervous this =
morning,”
he said in French, stopping short and looking me straight in the eyes. His own were deep sunk, dark,
fatal. I asked with some mali=
ce,
that no one could have detected in my intonation, “How’s that s=
leeplessness?”
He muttered throu=
gh
his teeth, “Mal. Je ne =
dors
plus.” He moved off to =
stand
at the window with his back to the room.&n=
bsp;
I sat down on a sofa that was there and put my feet up, and silence =
took
possession of the room.
“Isn’t
this street ridiculous?” said Blunt suddenly, and crossing the room
rapidly waved his hand to me, “A bientôt donc,” and was
gone. He had seared himself i=
nto my
mind. I did not understand hi=
m nor
his mother then; which made them more impressive; but I have discovered sin=
ce
that those two figures required no mystery to make them memorable. Of course it isn’t every day=
that
one meets a mother that lives by her wits and a son that lives by his sword,
but there was a perfect finish about their ambiguous personalities which is=
not
to be met twice in a life-time. I shall
never forget that grey dress with ample skirts and long corsage yet with
infinite style, the ancient as if ghostly beauty of outlines, the black lac=
e,
the silver hair, the harmonious, restrained movements of those white, soft
hands like the hands of a queen—or an abbess; and in the general fresh
effect of her person the brilliant eyes like two stars with the calm repose=
ful
way they had of moving on and off one, as if nothing in the world had the r=
ight
to veil itself before their once sovereign beauty. Captain Blunt with smiling formali=
ty
introduced me by name, adding with a certain relaxation of the formal tone =
the
comment: “The Monsieur George! whose fame you tell me has reached even
Paris.” Mrs. Blunt’s reception of me, glance, tones, even to the
attitude of the admirably corseted figure, was most friendly, approaching t=
he
limit of half-familiarity. I =
had
the feeling that I was beholding in her a captured ideal. No common experience! But I didn’t care. It was very lucky perhaps for me t=
hat in
a way I was like a very sick man who has yet preserved all his lucidity.
“I have hea=
rd
this name murmured by pretty lips in more than one royalist salon.”
I didn’t say
anything to that ingratiating speech.
I had only an odd thought that she could not have had such a figure,
nothing like it, when she was seventeen and wore snowy muslin dresses on the
family plantation in South Carolina, in pre-abolition days.
“You
won’t mind, I am sure, if an old woman whose heart is still young ele=
cts
to call you by it,” she declared.
“Certainly,
Madame. It will be more
romantic,” I assented with a respectful bow.
She dropped a cal=
m:
“Yes—there is nothing like romance while one is young. So I will call you Monsieur
George,” she paused and then added, “I could never get old,R=
21;
in a matter-of-fact final tone as one would remark, “I could never le=
arn
to swim,” and I had the presence of mind to say in a tone to match,
“C’est évident, Madame.” It was evident. She couldn’t get old; and ac=
ross
the table her thirty-year-old son who couldn’t get sleep sat listening
with courteous detachment and the narrowest possible line of white underlin=
ing
his silky black moustache.
“Your servi=
ces
are immensely appreciated,” she said with an amusing touch of importa=
nce
as of a great official lady.
“Immensely appreciated by people in a position to understand t=
he
great significance of the Carlist movement in the South. There it has to combat anarchism,
too. I who have lived through=
the
Commune . . .”
Therese came in w=
ith
a dish, and for the rest of the lunch the conversation so well begun drifted
amongst the most appalling inanities of the religious-royalist-legitimist
order. The ears of all the Bo=
urbons
in the world must have been burning.
Mrs. Blunt seemed to have come into personal contact with a good man=
y of
them and the marvellous insipidity of her recollections was astonishing to =
my
inexperience. I looked at her=
from
time to time thinking: She has seen slavery, she has seen the Commune, she
knows two continents, she has seen a civil war, the glory of the Second Emp=
ire,
the horrors of two sieges; she has been in contact with marked personalitie=
s,
with great events, she has lived on her wealth, on her personality, and the=
re
she is with her plumage unruffled, as glossy as ever, unable to get
old:—a sort of Phoenix free from the slightest signs of ashes and dus=
t,
all complacent amongst those inanities as if there had been nothing else in=
the
world. In my youthful haste I=
asked
myself what sort of airy soul she had.
At last Therese p=
ut a
dish of fruit on the table, a small collection of oranges, raisins, and
nuts. No doubt she had bought=
that
lot very cheap and it did not look at all inviting. Captain Blunt jumped up. “My mother can’t stand
tobacco smoke. Will you keep =
her
company, mon cher, while I take a turn with a cigar in that ridiculous
garden. The brougham from the=
hotel
will be here very soon.”
He left us in the
white flash of an apologetic grin.
Almost directly he reappeared, visible from head to foot through the
glass side of the studio, pacing up and down the central path of that
“ridiculous” garden: for its elegance and its air of good breed=
ing
the most remarkable figure that I have ever seen before or since. He had changed his coat. Madame Blunt mère lowered t=
he
long-handled glasses through which she had been contemplating him with an
appraising, absorbed expression which had nothing maternal in it. But what she said to me was:
“You unders=
tand
my anxieties while he is campaigning with the King.”
She had spoken in
French and she had used the expression “mes transes” but for all
the rest, intonation, bearing, solemnity, she might have been referring to =
one
of the Bourbons. I am sure th=
at not
a single one of them looked half as aristocratic as her son.
“I understa=
nd
perfectly, Madame. But then t=
hat life
is so romantic.”
“Hundreds of
young men belonging to a certain sphere are doing that,” she said very
distinctly, “only their case is different. They have their positions, their
families to go back to; but we are different. We are exiles, except of course fo=
r the
ideals, the kindred spirit, the friendships of old standing we have in
France. Should my son come ou=
t unscathed
he has no one but me and I have no one but him. I have to think of his life. Mr. Mills (what a distinguished mi=
nd
that is!) has reassured me as to my son’s health. But he sleeps very badly, doesn=
217;t he?”
I murmured someth=
ing
affirmative in a doubtful tone and she remarked quaintly, with a certain
curtness, “It’s so unnecessary, this worry! The unfortunate position of an exi=
le has
its advantages. At a certain =
height
of social position (wealth has got nothing to do with it, we have been ruin=
ed
in a most righteous cause), at a certain established height one can disrega=
rd
narrow prejudices. You see ex=
amples
in the aristocracies of all the countries.=
A chivalrous young American may offer his life for a remote ideal wh=
ich
yet may belong to his familial tradition.&=
nbsp;
We, in our great country, have every sort of tradition. But a young man of good connection=
s and
distinguished relations must settle down some day, dispose of his life.R=
21;
“No doubt,
Madame,” I said, raising my eyes to the figure outside—“A=
méricain,
Catholique et gentilhomme”—walking up and down the path with a
cigar which he was not smoking.
“For myself, I don’t know anything about those
necessities. I have broken aw=
ay for
ever from those things.”
“Yes, Mr. M=
ills
talked to me about you. What a
golden heart that is. His sympathies are infinite.”
I thought suddenl=
y of
Mills pronouncing on Mme. Blunt, whatever his text on me might have been:
“She lives by her wits.”
Was she exercising her wits on me for some purpose of her own? And I observed coldly:
“I really k=
now
your son so very little.”
“Oh,
voyons,” she protested.
“I am aware that you are very much younger, but the similitude=
s of
opinions, origins and perhaps at bottom, faintly, of character, of chivalro=
us
devotion—no, you must be able to understand him in a measure. He is infinitely scrupulous and
recklessly brave.”
I listened
deferentially to the end yet with every nerve in my body tingling in hostile
response to the Blunt vibration, which seemed to have got into my very hair=
.
“I am convi=
nced
of it, Madame. I have even he=
ard of
your son’s bravery. It’s extremely natural in a man who, in his=
own
words, ‘lives by his sword.’”
She suddenly depa=
rted
from her almost inhuman perfection, betrayed “nerves” like a co=
mmon
mortal, of course very slightly, but in her it meant more than a blaze of f=
ury
from a vessel of inferior clay. Her
admirable little foot, marvellously shod in a black shoe, tapped the floor
irritably. But even in that d=
isplay
there was something exquisitely delicate.&=
nbsp;
The very anger in her voice was silvery, as it were, and more like t=
he
petulance of a seventeen-year-old beauty.
“What
nonsense! A Blunt doesn’=
;t
hire himself.”
“Some princ=
ely
families,” I said, “were founded by men who have done that very
thing. The great Condottieri,=
you
know.”
It was in an almo=
st
tempestuous tone that she made me observe that we were not living in the
fifteenth century. She gave m=
e also
to understand with some spirit that there was no question here of founding a
family. Her son was very far from being the first of the name. His importance lay rather in being=
the
last of a race which had totally perished, she added in a completely
drawing-room tone, “in our Civil War.”
She had mastered =
her
irritation and through the glass side of the room sent a wistful smile to h=
is
address, but I noticed the yet unextinguished anger in her eyes full of fire
under her beautiful white eyebrows.
For she was growing old! Oh,
yes, she was growing old, and secretly weary, and perhaps desperate.
Without caring much about it I was
conscious of sudden illumination. =
span>I
said to myself confidently that these two people had been quarrelling all t=
he
morning. I had discovered the
secret of my invitation to that lunch. They did not care to face the strain=
of
some obstinate, inconclusive discussion for fear, maybe, of it ending in a
serious quarrel. And so they =
had
agreed that I should be fetched downstairs to create a diversion. I cannot say I felt annoyed. I didn’t care. My perspicacity did not please me
either. I wished they had lef=
t me
alone—but nothing mattered.
They must have been in their superiority accustomed to make use of
people, without compunction. =
From
necessity, too. She especiall=
y. She lived by her wits. The silence had grown so marked th=
at I
had at last to raise my eyes; and the first thing I observed was that Capta=
in
Blunt was no longer to be seen in the garden. Must have gone indoors. Would rejoin us in a moment. Then I would leave mother and son =
to
themselves.
The next thing I
noticed was that a great mellowness had descended upon the mother of the la=
st
of his race. But these terms,
irritation, mellowness, appeared gross when applied to her. It is impossible to give an idea o=
f the
refinement and subtlety of all her transformations. She smiled faintly at me.
“But all th=
is
is beside the point. The real=
point
is that my son, like all fine natures, is a being of strange contradictions
which the trials of life have not yet reconciled in him. With me it is a little different.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The trials fell mainly to my
share—and of course I have lived longer. And then men are much more complex=
than
women, much more difficult, too.
And you, Monsieur George?
Are you complex, with unexpected resistances and difficulties in your
être intime—your inner self?&n=
bsp;
I wonder now . . .”
The Blunt atmosph=
ere
seemed to vibrate all over my skin.
I disregarded the symptom.
“Madame,” I said, “I have never tried to find out =
what
sort of being I am.”
“Ah,
that’s very wrong. We o=
ught
to reflect on what manner of beings we are. Of course we are all sinners. My John is a sinner like the other=
s,”
she declared further, with a sort of proud tenderness as though our common =
lot
must have felt honoured and to a certain extent purified by this condescend=
ing
recognition.
“You are too
young perhaps as yet . . . But as to my John,” she broke off, leaning=
her
elbow on the table and supporting her head on her old, impeccably shaped, w=
hite
fore-arm emerging from a lot of precious, still older, lace trimming the sh=
ort
sleeve. “The trouble is=
that
he suffers from a profound discord between the necessary reactions to life =
and
even the impulses of nature and the lofty idealism of his feelings; I may s=
ay, of
his principles. I assure you =
that
he won’t even let his heart speak uncontradicted.”
I am sure I
don’t know what particular devil looks after the associations of memo=
ry,
and I can’t even imagine the shock which it would have been for Mrs.
Blunt to learn that the words issuing from her lips had awakened in me the
visual perception of a dark-skinned, hard-driven lady’s maid with
tarnished eyes; even of the tireless Rose handing me my hat while breathing=
out
the enigmatic words: “Madame should listen to her heart.” A wave
from the atmosphere of another house rolled in, overwhelming and fiery,
seductive and cruel, through the Blunt vibration, bursting through it as
through tissue paper and filling my heart with sweet murmurs and distracting
images, till it seemed to break, leaving an empty stillness in my breast.
After that for a =
long
time I heard Mme. Blunt mère talking with extreme fluency and I even
caught the individual words, but I could not in the revulsion of my feelings
get hold of the sense. She ta=
lked
apparently of life in general, of its difficulties, moral and physical, of =
its surprising
turns, of its unexpected contacts, of the choice and rare personalities that
drift on it as if on the sea; of the distinction that letters and art gave =
to
it, the nobility and consolations there are in aesthetics, of the privileges
they confer on individuals and (this was the first connected statement I
caught) that Mills agreed with her in the general point of view as to the i=
nner
worth of individualities and in the particular instance of it on which she =
had
opened to him her innermost heart.
Mills had a universal mind.
His sympathy was universal, too.&nb=
sp;
He had that large comprehension—oh, not cynical, not at all
cynical, in fact rather tender—which was found in its perfection only=
in
some rare, very rare Englishmen.
The dear creature was romantic, too. Of course he was reserved in his s=
peech
but she understood Mills perfectly.
Mills apparently liked me very much.
It was time for m=
e to
say something. There was a
challenge in the reposeful black eyes resting upon my face. I murmured that I was very glad to=
hear
it. She waited a little, then
uttered meaningly, “Mr. Mills is a little bit uneasy about you.”=
;
“It’s
very good of him,” I said.
And indeed I thought that it was very good of him, though I did ask
myself vaguely in my dulled brain why he should be uneasy.
Somehow it
didn’t occur to me to ask Mrs. Blunt. Whether she had expected me to do =
so or
not I don’t know but after a while she changed the pose she had kept =
so
long and folded her wonderfully preserved white arms. She looked a perfect picture in si=
lver
and grey, with touches of black here and there. Still I said nothing more in my du=
ll misery. She waited a little longer, then s=
he
woke me up with a crash. It w=
as as
if the house had fallen, and yet she had only asked me:
“I believe =
you
are received on very friendly terms by Madame de Lastaola on account of your
common exertions for the cause.
Very good friends, are you not?”
“You mean
Rita,” I said stupidly, but I felt stupid, like a man who wakes up on=
ly
to be hit on the head.
“Oh,
Rita,” she repeated with unexpected acidity, which somehow made me fe=
el
guilty of an incredible breach of good manners. “H’m, Rita. . . . Oh, =
well,
let it be Rita—for the present.
Though why she should be deprived of her name in conversation about =
her,
really I don’t understand.
Unless a very special intimacy . . .”
She was distinctly
annoyed. I said sulkily, R=
20;It
isn’t her name.”
“It is her
choice, I understand, which seems almost a better title to recognition on t=
he
part of the world. It didn=
217;t
strike you so before? Well, it seems to me that choice has got more right t=
o be
respected than heredity or law.
Moreover, Mme. de Lastaola,” she continued in an insinuating
voice, “that most rare and fascinating young woman is, as a friend li=
ke
you cannot deny, outside legality altogether. Even in that she is an exceptional
creature. For she is
exceptional—you agree?”
I had gone dumb, I
could only stare at her.
“Oh, I see,=
you
agree. No friend of hers could
deny.”
“Madame,=
221;
I burst out, “I don’t know where a question of friendship comes=
in
here with a person whom you yourself call so exceptional. I really don’t know how she =
looks
upon me. Our intercourse is of
course very close and confidential.
Is that also talked about in Paris?”
“Not at all,
not in the least,” said Mrs. Blunt, easy, equable, but with her calm,
sparkling eyes holding me in angry subjection. “Nothing of the sort is being
talked about. The references =
to
Mme. de Lastaola are in a very different tone, I can assure you, thanks to =
her
discretion in remaining here. And,
I must say, thanks to the discreet efforts of her friends. I am also a friend of Mme. de Last=
aola,
you must know. Oh, no, I have=
never
spoken to her in my life and have seen her only twice, I believe. I wrote to her though, that I
admit. She or rather the imag=
e of
her has come into my life, into that part of it where art and letters reign
undisputed like a sort of religion of beauty to which I have been faithful
through all the vicissitudes of my existence. Yes, I did write to her and I have=
been
preoccupied with her for a long time.
It arose from a picture, from two pictures and also from a phrase
pronounced by a man, who in the science of life and in the perception of
aesthetic truth had no equal in the world of culture. He said that there was something i=
n her
of the women of all time. I s=
uppose
he meant the inheritance of all the gifts that make up an irresistible
fascination—a great personality.&nbs=
p;
Such women are not born often.
Most of them lack opportunities.&nb=
sp;
They never develop. Th=
ey end
obscurely. Here and there one
survives to make her mark even in history. . . . And even that is not a very
enviable fate. They are at an=
other
pole from the so-called dangerous women who are merely coquettes. A coquette has got to work for
her success. The others have nothing to do but =
simply
exist. You perceive the view =
I take
of the difference?”
I perceived the
view. I said to myself that n=
othing
in the world could be more aristocratic.&n=
bsp;
This was the slave-owning woman who had never worked, even if she had
been reduced to live by her wits.
She was a wonderful old woman.
She made me dumb. She =
held
me fascinated by the well-bred attitude, something sublimely aloof in her a=
ir
of wisdom.
I just simply let
myself go admiring her as though I had been a mere slave of aesthetics: the
perfect grace, the amazing poise of that venerable head, the assured as if
royal—yes, royal even flow of the voice. . . . But what was it she was
talking about now? These were=
no longer
considerations about fatal women.
She was talking about her son again. My interest turned into mere bitte=
rness
of contemptuous attention. Fo=
r I
couldn’t withhold it though I tried to let the stuff go by. Educated in the most aristocratic
college in Paris . . . at eighteen . . . call of duty . . . with General Le=
e to
the very last cruel minute . . . after that catastrophe end of the
world—return to France—to old friendships, infinite
kindness—but a life hollow, without occupation. . . Then 1870—a=
nd
chivalrous response to adopted country’s call and again emptiness, the
chafing of a proud spirit without aim and handicapped not exactly by poverty
but by lack of fortune. And s=
he,
the mother, having to look on at this wasting of a most accomplished man, o=
f a
most chivalrous nature that practically had no future before it.
“You unders=
tand
me well, Monsieur George. A n=
ature
like this! It is the most ref=
ined
cruelty of fate to look at. I
don’t know whether I suffered more in times of war or in times of
peace. You understand?”=
I bowed my head in
silence. What I couldn’t
understand was why he delayed so long in joining us again. Unless he had had enough of his mo=
ther? I thought without any great resent=
ment
that I was being victimized; but then it occurred to me that the cause of h=
is
absence was quite simple. I w=
as
familiar enough with his habits by this time to know that he often managed =
to
snatch an hour’s sleep or so during the day. He had gone and thrown himself on =
his
bed.
“I admire h=
im
exceedingly,” Mrs. Blunt was saying in a tone which was not at all
maternal. “His distinct=
ion,
his fastidiousness, the earnest warmth of his heart. I know him well. I assure you that I would never ha=
ve
dared to suggest,” she continued with an extraordinary haughtiness of
attitude and tone that aroused my attention, “I would never have dare=
d to
put before him my views of the extraordinary merits and the uncertain fate =
of
the exquisite woman of whom we speak, if I had not been certain that, partl=
y by
my fault, I admit, his attention has been attracted to her and
his—his—his heart engaged.”
It was as if some=
one
had poured a bucket of cold water over my head. I woke up with a great shudder to =
the
acute perception of my own feelings and of that aristocrat’s incredib=
le
purpose. How it could have ge=
rminated,
grown and matured in that exclusive soil was inconceivable. She had been in=
citing
her son all the time to undertake wonderful salvage work by annexing the
heiress of Henry Allègre—the woman and the fortune.
There must have b=
een
an amazed incredulity in my eyes, to which her own responded by an unflinch=
ing
black brilliance which suddenly seemed to develop a scorching quality even =
to
the point of making me feel extremely thirsty all of a sudden. For a time my tongue literally clo=
ve to
the roof of my mouth. I don=
8217;t
know whether it was an illusion but it seemed to me that Mrs. Blunt had nod=
ded
at me twice as if to say: “You are right, that’s so.” I made an effort to speak but it w=
as
very poor. If she did hear me=
it
was because she must have been on the watch for the faintest sound.
“His heart
engaged. Like two hundred oth=
ers,
or two thousand, all around,” I mumbled.
“Altogether
different. And it’s no
disparagement to a woman surely. Of
course her great fortune protects her in a certain measure.”
“Does
it?” I faltered out and that time I really doubt whether she heard me=
. Her aspect in my eyes had changed.=
Her purpose being disclosed, her w=
ell-bred
ease appeared sinister, her aristocratic repose a treacherous device, her
venerable graciousness a mask of unbounded contempt for all human beings
whatever. She was a terrible =
old woman
with those straight, white wolfish eye-brows. How blind I had been! Those eyebrows alone ought to have=
been
enough to give her away. Yet =
they
were as beautifully smooth as her voice when she admitted: “That
protection naturally is only partial.
There is the danger of her own self, poor girl. She requires guidance.”
I marvelled at the
villainy of my tone as I spoke, but it was only assumed.
“I don̵=
7;t
think she has done badly for herself, so far,” I forced myself to
say. “I suppose you kno=
w that
she began life by herding the village goats.”
In the course of =
that
phrase I noticed her wince just the least bit. Oh, yes, she winced; but at the en=
d of
it she smiled easily.
“No, I
didn’t know. So she tol=
d you
her story! Oh, well, I suppos=
e you are
very good friends. A
goatherd—really? In the=
fairy
tale I believe the girl that marries the prince is-—what is it?—=
;-a
gardeuse d’oies. And wh=
at a
thing to drag out against a woman.
One might just as soon reproach any of them for coming unclothed int=
o the
world. They all do, you know.=
And then they become—what yo=
u will
discover when you have lived longer, Monsieur George—for the most part
futile creatures, without any sense of truth and beauty, drudges of all sor=
ts,
or else dolls to dress. In a
word—ordinary.”
The implication of
scorn in her tranquil manner was immense.&=
nbsp;
It seemed to condemn all those that were not born in the Blunt
connection. It was the perfect
pride of Republican aristocracy, which has no gradations and knows no limit,
and, as if created by the grace of God, thinks it ennobles everything it
touches: people, ideas, even passing tastes!
“How many of
them,” pursued Mrs. Blunt, “have had the good fortune, the leis=
ure
to develop their intelligence and their beauty in aesthetic conditions as t=
his
charming woman had? Not one i=
n a
million. Perhaps not one in an
age.”
“The heires=
s of
Henry Allègre,” I murmured.
“Precisely.=
But John wouldn’t be marryin=
g the
heiress of Henry Allègre.”
It was the first =
time
that the frank word, the clear idea, came into the conversation and it made=
me
feel ill with a sort of enraged faintness.
“No,”=
I
said. “It would be Mme.=
de
Lastaola then.”
“Mme. la
Comtesse de Lastaola as soon as she likes after the success of this war.=
221;
“And you
believe in its success?”
“Do you?=
221;
“Not for a
moment,” I declared, and was surprised to see her look pleased.
She was an aristo=
crat
to the tips of her fingers; she really didn’t care for anybody. She had passed through the Empire,=
she
had lived through a siege, had rubbed shoulders with the Commune, had seen
everything, no doubt, of what men are capable in the pursuit of their desir=
es
or in the extremity of their distress, for love, for money, and even for
honour; and in her precarious connection with the very highest spheres she =
had kept
her own honourability unscathed while she had lost all her prejudices. She was above all that. Perhaps “the world” wa=
s the
only thing that could have the slightest checking influence; but when I ven=
tured
to say something about the view it might take of such an alliance she looke=
d at
me for a moment with visible surprise.
“My dear
Monsieur George, I have lived in the great world all my life. It’s the
best that there is, but that’s only because there is nothing merely
decent anywhere. It will acce=
pt
anything, forgive anything, forget anything in a few days. And after all who will he be
marrying? A charming, clever,=
rich
and altogether uncommon woman. What
did the world hear of her?
Nothing. The little it=
saw
of her was in the Bois for a few hours every year, riding by the side of a =
man
of unique distinction and of exclusive tastes, devoted to the cult of aesth=
etic
impressions; a man of whom, as far as aspect, manner, and behaviour goes, s=
he
might have been the daughter. I
have seen her myself. I went =
on
purpose. I was immensely
struck. I was even moved. Yes. She might have been—except f=
or
that something radiant in her that marked her apart from all the other
daughters of men. The few
remarkable personalities that count in society and who were admitted into H=
enry
Allègre’s Pavilion treated her with punctilious reserve. I know that, I have made enquiries=
. I know she sat there amongst them =
like a
marvellous child, and for the rest what can they say about her? That when abandoned to herself by =
the
death of Allègre she has made a mistake? I think that any woman ought to be=
allowed
one mistake in her life. The =
worst
they can say of her is that she discovered it, that she had sent away a man=
in
love directly she found out that his love was not worth having; that she had
told him to go and look for his crown, and that, after dismissing him she h=
ad
remained generously faithful to his cause, in her person and fortune. And this, you will allow, is rather
uncommon upon the whole.”
“You make h=
er
out very magnificent,” I
murmured, looking down upon the floor.
“Isn’t
she?” exclaimed the aristocratic Mrs. Blunt, with an almost youthful
ingenuousness, and in those black eyes which looked at me so calmly there w=
as a
flash of the Southern beauty, still naïve and romantic, as if altogeth=
er
untouched by experience. R=
20;I
don’t think there is a single grain of vulgarity in all her enchanting
person. Neither is there in my
son. I suppose you won’=
t deny
that he is uncommon.” S=
he paused.
“Absolutely=
,”
I said in a perfectly conventional tone, I was now on my mettle that she sh=
ould
not discover what there was humanly common in my nature. She took my answer at her own valu=
ation
and was satisfied.
“They
can’t fail to understand each other on the very highest level of idea=
listic
perceptions. Can you imagine =
my
John thrown away on some enamoured white goose out of a stuffy old salon? Why, she couldn’t even begin=
to
understand what he feels or what he needs.”
“Yes,”=
; I
said impenetrably, “he is not easy to understand.”
“I have rea=
son
to think,” she said with a suppressed smile, “that he has a cer=
tain
power over women. Of course I
don’t know anything about his intimate life but a whisper or two have
reached me, like that, floating in the air, and I could hardly suppose that=
he
would find an exceptional resistance in that quarter of all others. But I should like to know the exact
degree.”
I disregarded an
annoying tendency to feel dizzy that came over me and was very careful in
managing my voice.
“May I ask,
Madame, why you are telling me all this?”
“For two
reasons,” she condescended graciously. “First of all because Mr. Mi=
lls
told me that you were much more mature than one would expect. In fact you l=
ook
much younger than I was prepared for.”
“Madame,=
221;
I interrupted her, “I may have a certain capacity for action and for
responsibility, but as to the regions into which this very unexpected
conversation has taken me I am a great novice. They are outside my interest. I have had no experience.”
“Don’t
make yourself out so hopeless,” she said in a spoilt-beauty tone. =
220;You
have your intuitions. At any =
rate
you have a pair of eyes. You =
are everlastingly
over there, so I understand. =
Surely
you have seen how far they are . . .”
I interrupted aga=
in
and this time bitterly, but always in a tone of polite enquiry:
“You think =
her
facile, Madame?”
She looked
offended. “I think her =
most
fastidious. It is my son who =
is in
question here.”
And I understood =
then
that she looked on her son as irresistible. For my part I was just beginning to
think that it would be impossible for me to wait for his return. I figured him to myself lying dres=
sed on
his bed sleeping like a stone. But
there was no denying that the mother was holding me with an awful, tortured=
interest. Twice Therese had opened the door,=
had
put her small head in and drawn it back like a tortoise. But for some time I
had lost the sense of us two being quite alone in the studio. I had perceived the familiar dummy=
in
its corner but it lay now on the floor as if Therese had knocked it down
angrily with a broom for a heathen idol.&n=
bsp;
It lay there prostrate, handless, without its head, pathetic, like t=
he
mangled victim of a crime.
“John is
fastidious, too,” began Mrs. Blunt again. “Of course you wouldn’t
suppose anything vulgar in his resistances to a very real sentiment. One has got to understand his
psychology. He can’t le=
ave himself
in peace. He is exquisitely
absurd.”
I recognized the
phrase. Mother and son talked=
of
each other in identical terms. But
perhaps “exquisitely absurd” was the Blunt family saying? There are such sayings in families=
and
generally there is some truth in them.&nbs=
p;
Perhaps this old woman was simply absurd. She continued: “We had a m=
ost
painful discussion all this morning.
He is angry with me for suggesting the very thing his whole being
desires. I don’t feel g=
uilty. It’s he who is tormenting hi=
mself
with his infinite scrupulosity.” “Ah,”=
I
said, looking at the mangled dummy like the model of some atrocious
murder. “Ah, the
fortune. But that can be left
alone.” “What
nonsense! How is it possible?=
It isn’t contained in a bag,=
you can’t
throw it into the sea. And
moreover, it isn’t her fault.
I am astonished that you should have thought of that vulgar
hypocrisy. No, it isn’t=
her
fortune that cheeks my son; it’s something much more subtle. Not so m=
uch
her history as her position. =
He is
absurd. It isn’t what h=
as
happened in her life. It̵=
7;s
her very freedom that makes him torment himself and her, too—as far a=
s I
can understand.” I suppressed a gr=
oan
and said to myself that I must really get away from there. Mrs. Blunt was fa=
irly
launched now. “For all his
superiority he is a man of the world and shares to a certain extent its cur=
rent
opinions. He has no power over
her. She intimidates him. He wishes he had never set eyes on
her. Once or twice this morni=
ng he
looked at me as if he could find it in his heart to hate his old mother.
The silence lasted
for some time and then I heard a murmur: “It’s a matter of the
utmost delicacy between two beings so sensitive, so proud. It has to be
managed.”
I found myself
suddenly on my feet and saying with the utmost politeness that I had to beg=
her
permission to leave her alone as I had an engagement; but she motioned me
simply to sit down—and I sat down again.
“I told you=
I
had a request to make,” she said.&nb=
sp;
“I have understood from Mr. Mills that you have been to the We=
st
Indies, that you have some interests there.”
I was astounded.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “Interests! I certainly have been there,”=
; I
said, “but . . .”
She caught me
up. “Then why not go th=
ere
again? I am speaking to you f=
rankly
because . . .”
“But, Madam=
e, I
am engaged in this affair with Doña Rita, even if I had any interests
elsewhere. I won’t tell=
you
about the importance of my work. I
didn’t suspect it but you brought the news of it to me, and so I need=
n’t
point it out to you.”
And now we were
frankly arguing with each other.
“But where =
will
it lead you in the end? You h=
ave
all your life before you, all your plans, prospects, perhaps dreams, at any
rate your own tastes and all your life-time before you. And would you sacrifice all this
to—the Pretender? A mere
figure for the front page of illustrated papers.”’
“I never th=
ink
of him,” I said curtly,
“but I suppose Doña Rita’s feelings, instincts, call it =
what
you like—or only her chivalrous fidelity to her mistakes—”=
;
“Doña
Rita’s presence here in this town, her withdrawal from the possible c=
omplications
of her life in Paris has produced an excellent effect on my son. It simplifies infinite difficultie=
s, I
mean moral as well as material.
It’s extremely to the advantage of her dignity, of her future,=
and
of her peace of mind. But I am
thinking, of course, mainly of my son.&nbs=
p;
He is most exacting.”
I felt extremely =
sick
at heart. “And so I am =
to
drop everything and vanish,” I said, rising from my chair again. And this time Mrs. Blunt got up, t=
oo, with
a lofty and inflexible manner but she didn’t dismiss me yet.
“Yes,”
she said distinctly. “A=
ll
this, my dear Monsieur George, is such an accident. What have you got to do here? You look to me like somebody who w=
ould
find adventures wherever he went as interesting and perhaps less dangerous =
than
this one.”
She slurred over =
the
word dangerous but I picked it up.
“What do you
know of its dangers, Madame, may I ask?” But she did not condescend to hear=
.
“And then y=
ou,
too, have your chivalrous feelings,” she went on, unswerving, distinc=
t,
and tranquil. “You are =
not
absurd. But my son is. He wou=
ld
shut her up in a convent for a time if he could.”
“He isnR=
17;t
the only one,” I muttered.
“Indeed!=
221;
she was startled, then lower, “Yes.&=
nbsp;
That woman must be the centre of all sorts of passions,” she m=
used
audibly. “But what have=
you got
to do with all this? It’=
;s
nothing to you.”
She waited for me=
to
speak.
“Exactly,
Madame,” I said, “and therefore I don’t see why I should =
concern
myself in all this one way or another.”
“No,”=
she
assented with a weary air, “except that you might ask yourself what is
the good of tormenting a man of noble feelings, however absurd. His Southern
blood makes him very violent sometimes.&nb=
sp;
I fear—” A=
nd
then for the first time during this conversation, for the first time since =
I left
Doña Rita the day before, for the first time I laughed.
“Do you mea=
n to
hint, Madame, that Southern gentlemen are dead shots? I am aware of that—from
novels.”
I spoke looking h=
er
straight in the face and I made that exquisite, aristocratic old woman
positively blink by my directness.
There was a faint flush on her delicate old cheeks but she didn̵=
7;t
move a muscle of her face. I =
made
her a most respectful bow and went out of the studio.
Through the great arched window of =
the
hall I saw the hotel brougham waiting at the door. On passing the door of the front r=
oom
(it was originally meant for a drawing-room but a bed for Blunt was put in
there) I banged with my fist on the panel and shouted: “I am obliged =
to
go out. Your mother’s carriage is at the door.” I didn’t think he was asleep=
. My
view now was that he was aware beforehand of the subject of the conversatio=
n,
and if so I did not wish to appear as if I had slunk away from him after th=
e interview. But I didn’t stop—I
didn’t want to see him—and before he could answer I was already
half way up the stairs running noiselessly up the thick carpet which also
covered the floor of the landing.
Therefore opening the door of my sitting-room quickly I caught by
surprise the person who was in there watching the street half concealed by =
the
window curtain. It was a
woman. A totally unexpected w=
oman. A perfect stranger. She came away quickly to meet me.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Her face was veiled and she was dr=
essed
in a dark walking costume and a very simple form of hat. She murmured: “I had an idea=
that
Monsieur was in the house,” raising a gloved hand to lift her veil. It was Rose and she gave me a
shock. I had never seen her b=
efore
but with her little black silk apron and a white cap with ribbons on her
head. This outdoor dress was =
like a
disguise. I asked anxiously:<=
o:p>
“What has
happened to Madame?”
“Nothing. I have a letter,” she murmur=
ed,
and I saw it appear between the fingers of her extended hand, in a very whi=
te
envelope which I tore open impatiently.&nb=
sp;
It consisted of a few lines only.&n=
bsp;
It began abruptly:
“If you are
gone to sea then I can’t forgive you for not sending the usual word at
the last moment. If you are n=
ot
gone why don’t you come? Why did you leave me yesterday? You leave me crying—I who
haven’t cried for years and years, and you haven’t the sense to
come back within the hour, within twenty hours! This conduct is idiotic”R=
12;and
a sprawling signature of the four magic letters at the bottom.
While I was putti= ng the letter in my pocket the girl said in an earnest undertone: “I don’t like to leave Madame by herself for any length of time.”<= o:p>
“How long h=
ave
you been in my room?” I asked.
“The time
seemed long. I hope Monsieur
won’t mind the liberty. I sat
for a little in the hall but then it struck me I might be seen. In fact, Madame told me not to be =
seen
if I could help it.”
“Why did she
tell you that?”
“I permitted
myself to suggest that to Madame.
It might have given a false impression. Madame is frank and open like the =
day
but it won’t do with everybody.
There are people who would put a wrong construction on anything. Madame’s sister told me Mons=
ieur
was out.”
“And you
didn’t believe her?”
“Non,
Monsieur. I have lived with
Madame’s sister for nearly a week when she first came into this
house. She wanted me to leave=
the
message, but I said I would wait a little.=
Then I sat down in the big porter’s chair in the hall and afte=
r a
while, everything being very quiet, I stole up here. I know the disposition of the
apartments. I reckoned
Madame’s sister would think that I got tired of waiting and let myself
out.”
“And you ha=
ve
been amusing yourself watching the street ever since?”
“The time
seemed long,” she answered evasively. “An empty coupé came =
to the
door about an hour ago and it’s still waiting,” she added, look=
ing at
me inquisitively.
“It seems
strange.”
“There are =
some
dancing girls staying in the house,” I said negligently. “Did y=
ou
leave Madame alone?”
“There̵=
7;s
the gardener and his wife in the house.”
“Those peop=
le
keep at the back. Is Madame
alone? That’s what I wa=
nt to know.”
“Monsieur
forgets that I have been three hours away; but I assure Monsieur that here =
in
this town it’s perfectly safe for Madame to be alone.”
“And
wouldn’t it be anywhere else?
It’s the first I hear of it.”
“In Paris, =
in
our apartments in the hotel, it’s all right, too; but in the Pavilion,
for instance, I wouldn’t leave Madame by herself, not for half an
hour.”
“What is th=
ere
in the Pavilion?” I asked.
“It’s=
a
sort of feeling I have,” she murmured reluctantly . . . “Oh! Th=
ere’s
that coupé going away.”
She made a moveme=
nt
towards the window but checked herself.&nb=
sp;
I hadn’t moved. =
The
rattle of wheels on the cobble-stones died out almost at once.
“Will Monsi=
eur
write an answer?” Rose suggested after a short silence.
“Hardly wor=
th
while,” I said. “=
I will
be there very soon after you. Meantime, please tell Madame from me that I am
not anxious to see any more tears.
Tell her this just like that, you understand. I will take the risk of not being
received.”
She dropped her e=
yes,
said: “Oui, Monsieur,” and at my suggestion waited, holding the
door of the room half open, till I went downstairs to see the road clear.
It was a kind of
deaf-and-dumb house. The
black-and-white hall was empty and everything was perfectly still. Blunt himself had no doubt gone aw=
ay with
his mother in the brougham, but as to the others, the dancing girls, Theres=
e,
or anybody else that its walls may have contained, they might have been all
murdering each other in perfect assurance that the house would not betray t=
hem
by indulging in any unseemly murmurs.
I emitted a low whistle which didn’t seem to travel in that
peculiar atmosphere more than two feet away from my lips, but all the same =
Rose
came tripping down the stairs at once.&nbs=
p;
With just a nod to my whisper: “Take a fiacre,” she glid=
ed
out and I shut the door noiselessly behind her.
The next time I s=
aw
her she was opening the door of the house on the Prado to me, with her cap =
and
the little black silk apron on, and with that marked personality of her own,
which had been concealed so perfectly in the dowdy walking dress, very much=
to
the fore.
“I have giv=
en
Madame the message,” she said in her contained voice, swinging the do=
or
wide open. Then after relievi=
ng me
of my hat and coat she announced me with the simple words: “Voil&agra=
ve;
Monsieur,” and hurried away.
Directly I appeared Doña Rita, away there on the couch, passed
the tips of her fingers over her eyes and holding her hands up palms outwar=
ds on
each side of her head, shouted to me down the whole length of the room:
“The dry season has set in.”&n=
bsp;
I glanced at the pink tips of her fingers perfunctorily and then drew
back. She let her hands fall =
negligently
as if she had no use for them any more and put on a serious expression.
“So it
seems,” I said, sitting down opposite her. “For how long, I wonder.R=
21;
“For years =
and
years. One gets so little
encouragement. First you bolt=
away
from my tears, then you send an impertinent message, and then when you come=
at
last you pretend to behave respectfully, though you don’t know how to=
do
it. You should sit much neare=
r the
edge of the chair and hold yourself very stiff, and make it quite clear that
you don’t know what to do with your hands.”
All this in a
fascinating voice with a ripple of badinage that seemed to play upon the so=
ber
surface of her thoughts. Then
seeing that I did not answer she altered the note a bit.
“Amigo
George,” she said, “I take the trouble to send for you and here=
I
am before you, talking to you and you say nothing.”
“What am I =
to
say?”
“How can I
tell? You might say a thousand
things. You might, for instan=
ce,
tell me that you were sorry for my tears.”
“I might al=
so
tell you a thousand lies. Wha=
t do I
know about your tears? I am not a susceptible idiot. It all depends upon the cause. There are tears of quiet happiness=
. Peeling onions also will bring
tears.”
“Oh, you are
not susceptible,” she flew out at me. “But you are an idiot all the
same.”
“Is it to t=
ell
me this that you have written to me to come?” I asked with a certain
animation.
“Yes. And if you had as much sense as the
talking parrot I owned once you would have read between the lines that all I
wanted you here for was to tell you what I think of you.”
“Well, tell=
me
what you think of me.”
“I would in=
a
moment if I could be half as impertinent as you are.”
“What
unexpected modesty,” I said.
“These, I
suppose, are your sea manners.”
“I
wouldn’t put up with half that nonsense from anybody at sea. Don’t you remember you told =
me
yourself to go away? What was=
I to
do?”
“How stupid=
you
are. I don’t mean that =
you
pretend. You really are. Do you understand what I say? I will spell it for you. S-t-u-p-i-d. Ah, now I feel better. Oh, amigo George, my dear
fellow-conspirator for the king—the king. Such a king! Vive le Roi! Come, why don’t you shout Vi=
ve le
Roi, too?”
“I am not y=
our
parrot,” I said.
“No, he nev=
er
sulked. He was a charming,
good-mannered bird, accustomed to the best society, whereas you, I suppose,=
are
nothing but a heartless vagabond like myself.”
“I daresay =
you
are, but I suppose nobody had the insolence to tell you that to your
face.”
“Well, very
nearly. It was what it amount=
ed
to. I am not stupid. There is no need to spell out simp=
le
words for me. It just came
out. Don Juan struggled despe=
rately
to keep the truth in. It was =
most
pathetic. And yet he couldn=
8217;t
help himself. He talked very =
much
like a parrot.”
“Of the best
society,” I suggested.
“Yes, the m=
ost
honourable of parrots. I
don’t like parrot-talk. It sounds
so uncanny. Had I lived in the
Middle Ages I am certain I would have believed that a talking bird must be
possessed by the devil. I am =
sure
Therese would believe that now. My
own sister! She would cross h=
erself
many times and simply quake with terror.”
“But you we=
re
not terrified,” I said.
“May I ask when that interesting communication took place?R=
21;
“Yesterday,
just before you blundered in here of all days in the year. I was sorry for him.”
“Why tell me
this? I couldn’t help
noticing it. I regretted I
hadn’t my umbrella with me.”
“Those
unforgiven tears! Oh, you sim=
ple
soul! Don’t you know th=
at people
never cry for anybody but themselves? . . . Amigo George, tell me—what
are we doing in this world?”
“Do you mean
all the people, everybody?”
“No, only
people like you and me. Simple
people, in this world which is eaten up with charlatanism of all sorts so t=
hat
even we, the simple, don’t know any longer how to trust each
other.”
“Don’t
we? Then why don’t you =
trust
him? You are dying to do so,
don’t you know?”
She dropped her c=
hin
on her breast and from under her straight eyebrows the deep blue eyes remai=
ned
fixed on me, impersonally, as if without thought.
“What have =
you
been doing since you left me yesterday?” she asked.
“The first
thing I remember I abused your sister horribly this morning.”
“And how did
she take it?”
“Like a warm
shower in spring. She drank i=
t all
in and unfolded her petals.”
“What poeti=
cal
expressions he uses! That gir=
l is
more perverted than one would think possible, considering what she is and
whence she came. It’s t=
rue
that I, too, come from the same spot.”
“She is
slightly crazy. I am a great
favourite with her. I donR=
17;t
say this to boast.”
“It must be
very comforting.”
“Yes, it has
cheered me immensely. Then af=
ter a
morning of delightful musings on one thing and another I went to lunch with=
a
charming lady and spent most of the afternoon talking with her.”
Doña Rita
raised her head.
“A lady!
“She is sim=
ply
perfection in her way and the conversation was by no means banal. I fancy that if your late parrot had
heard it, he would have fallen off his perch. For after all, in that Allè=
gre
Pavilion, my dear Rita, you were but a crowd of glorified bourgeois.”=
She was beautiful=
ly
animated now. In her motionle=
ss
blue eyes like melted sapphires, around those red lips that almost without
moving could breathe enchanting sounds into the world, there was a play of
light, that mysterious ripple of gaiety that seemed always to run and faint=
ly
quiver under her skin even in her gravest moods; just as in her rare moment=
s of
gaiety its warmth and radiance seemed to come to one through infinite sadne=
ss,
like the sunlight of our life hiding the invincible darkness in which the
universe must work out its impenetrable destiny.
“Now I thin=
k of
it! . . . Perhaps that’s the reason I never could feel perfectly seri=
ous
while they were demolishing the world about my ears. I fancy now that I could tell befo=
rehand
what each of them was going to say.
They were repeating the same words over and over again, those great =
clever
men, very much like parrots who also seem to know what they say. That
doesn’t apply to the master of the house, who never talked much. He sat there mostly silent and loo=
ming
up three sizes bigger than any of them.”
“The ruler =
of
the aviary,” I muttered viciously.
“It annoys =
you
that I should talk of that time?” she asked in a tender voice. “Well, I won’t, except=
for
once to say that you must not make a mistake: in that aviary he was the
man. I know because he used t=
o talk
to me afterwards sometimes.
Strange! For six years=
he
seemed to carry all the world and me with it in his hand. . . . ”
“He dominat=
es
you yet,” I shouted.
She shook her head
innocently as a child would do.
“No, no.
And she explained=
to
me that one of them—the long one on the top of the pile, on the table
over there—seemed to contain ugly inferences directed at herself in a=
menacing
way. She begged me to read it=
and
see what I could make of it.
I knew enough of =
the
general situation to see at a glance that she had misunderstood it thorough=
ly
and even amazingly. I proved =
it to
her very quickly. But her mis=
take
was so ingenious in its wrongheadedness and arose so obviously from the
distraction of an acute mind, that I couldn’t help looking at her
admiringly.
“Rita,̶=
1; I
said, “you are a marvellous idiot.”
“Am I? Imbecile,” she retorted with=
an
enchanting smile of relief.
“But perhaps it only seems so to you in contrast with the lady=
so
perfect in her way. What is h=
er
way?”
“Her way, I
should say, lies somewhere between her sixtieth and seventieth year, and I =
have
walked tête-à-tête with her for some little distance this
afternoon.”
“Heavens,=
8221;
she whispered, thunderstruck.
“And meantime I had the son here. He arrived about five minutes afte=
r Rose
left with that note for you,” she went on in a tone of awe. “As a matter of fact, Rose s=
aw him
across the street but she thought she had better go on to you.”
“I am furio=
us
with myself for not having guessed that much,” I said bitterly. “I suppose you got him out o=
f the
house about five minutes after you heard I was coming here. Rose ought to have turned back whe=
n she
saw him on his way to cheer your solitude.=
That girl is stupid after all, though she has got a certain amount of
low cunning which no doubt is very useful at times.”
“I forbid y=
ou
to talk like this about Rose. I
won’t have it. Rose is =
not to
be abused before me.”
“I only mea=
n to
say that she failed in this instance to read your mind, that’s
all.”
“This is,
without exception, the most unintelligent thing you have said ever since I =
have
known you. You may understand=
a lot
about running contraband and about the minds of a certain class of people, =
but
as to Rose’s mind let me tell you that in comparison with hers yours =
is absolutely
infantile, my adventurous friend.
It would be contemptible if it weren’t so—what shall I c=
all
it?—babyish. You ought =
to be
slapped and put to bed.”
There was an extraordinary earnestness in her tone and when she ceas=
ed I
listened yet to the seductive inflexions of her voice, that no matter in wh=
at
mood she spoke seemed only fit for tenderness and love. And I thought sudde=
nly
of Azzolati being ordered to take himself off from her presence for ever, in
that voice the very anger of which seemed to twine itself gently round
one’s heart. No wonder =
the
poor wretch could not forget the scene and couldn’t restrain his tear=
s on
the plain of Rambouillet. My =
moods
of resentment against Rita, hot as they were, had no more duration than a b=
laze
of straw. So I only said:
“Much you k=
now
about the management of children.”&n=
bsp;
The corners of her lips stirred quaintly; her animosity, especially =
when
provoked by a personal attack upon herself, was always tinged by a sort of
wistful humour of the most disarming kind.
“Come, amigo
George, let us leave poor Rose alone.
You had better tell me what you heard from the lips of the charming =
old
lady. Perfection, isn’t
she? I have never seen her in=
my
life, though she says she has seen me several times. But she has written to me on three
separate occasions and every time I answered her as if I were writing to a
queen. Amigo George, how does one write to a queen? How should a goatherd that could h=
ave
been mistress of a king, how should she write to an old queen from very far
away; from over the sea?”
“I will ask=
you
as I have asked the old queen: why do you tell me all this, Doña
Rita?”
“To discover
what’s in your mind,” she said, a little impatiently.
“If you
don’t know that yet!” I exclaimed under my breath.
“No, not in
your mind. Can any one ever t=
ell
what is in a man’s mind? But I see you won’t tell.”
“What’=
;s
the good? You have written to=
her
before, I understand. Do you =
think
of continuing the correspondence?”
“Who
knows?” she said in a profound tone.=
“She is the only woman that ever wrote to me. I returned her three letters to he=
r with
my last answer, explaining humbly that I preferred her to burn them
herself. And I thought that w=
ould
be the end of it. But an occa=
sion
may still arise.”
“Oh, if an
occasion arises,” I said, trying to control my rage, “you may be
able to begin your letter by the words ‘Chère Maman.’=
221;
The cigarette box,
which she had taken up without removing her eyes from me, flew out of her h=
and
and opening in mid-air scattered cigarettes for quite a surprising distance=
all
over the room. I got up at on=
ce and
wandered off picking them up industriously. Doña Rita’s voice beh=
ind me
said indifferently:
“Don’t
trouble, I will ring for Rose.”
“No
need,” I growled, without turning my head, “I can find my hat in
the hall by myself, after I’ve finished picking up . . . ”
“Bear!̶=
1;
I returned with t=
he
box and placed it on the divan near her.&n=
bsp;
She sat cross-legged, leaning back on her arms, in the blue shimmer =
of
her embroidered robe and with the tawny halo of her unruly hair about her f=
ace
which she raised to mine with an air of resignation.
“George, my
friend,” she said, “we have no manners.”
“You would
never have made a career at court, Doña Rita,” I observed. =
220;You
are too impulsive.”
“This is not
bad manners, that’s sheer insolence.=
This has happened to you before.&nb=
sp;
If it happens again, as I can’t be expected to wrestle with a =
savage
and desperate smuggler single-handed, I will go upstairs and lock myself in=
my
room till you leave the house. Why
did you say this to me?”
“Oh, just f=
or
nothing, out of a full heart.”
“If your he=
art
is full of things like that, then my dear friend, you had better take it out
and give it to the crows. No!=
you
said that for the pleasure of appearing terrible. And you see you are not terrible a=
t all,
you are rather amusing. Go on,
continue to be amusing. Tell =
me something
of what you heard from the lips of that aristocratic old lady who thinks th=
at
all men are equal and entitled to the pursuit of happiness.”
“I hardly
remember now. I heard somethi=
ng
about the unworthiness of certain white geese out of stuffy drawing-rooms.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It sounds mad, but the lady knows
exactly what she wants. I also
heard your praises sung. I sat
there like a fool not knowing what to say.”
“Why? You might have joined in the
singing.”
“I didnR=
17;t
feel in the humour, because, don’t you see, I had been incidentally g=
iven
to understand that I was an insignificant and superfluous person who had be=
tter
get out of the way of serious people.”
“Ah, par
exemple!”
“In a sense,
you know, it was flattering; but for the moment it made me feel as if I had
been offered a pot of mustard to sniff.”
She nodded with an
amused air of understanding and I could see that she was interested. “Anything more?” she a=
sked,
with a flash of radiant eagerness in all her person and bending slightly
forward towards me.
“Oh, itR=
17;s
hardly worth mentioning. It w=
as a
sort of threat wrapped up, I believe, in genuine anxiety as to what might
happen to my youthful insignificance.
If I hadn’t been rather on the alert just then I wouldn’t
even have perceived the meaning.
But really an allusion to ‘hot Southern blood’ I could h=
ave
only one meaning. Of course I
laughed at it, but only ‘pour l’honneur’ and to show I
understood perfectly. In real=
ity it
left me completely indifferent.”
Doña Rita
looked very serious for a minute.
“Indifferen=
t to
the whole conversation?”
I looked at her
angrily.
“To the who=
le .
. . You see I got up rather out of sorts this morning. Unrefreshed, you
know. As if tired of life.=
221;
The liquid blue in
her eyes remained directed at me without any expression except that of its
usual mysterious immobility, but all her face took on a sad and thoughtful
cast. Then as if she had made=
up
her mind under the pressure of necessity:
“Listen,
amigo,” she said, “I have suffered domination and it didn’=
;t crush
me because I have been strong enough to live with it; I have known caprice,=
you
may call it folly if you like, and it left me unharmed because I was great
enough not to be captured by anything that wasn’t really worthy of
me. My dear, it went down lik=
e a
house of cards before my breath.
There is something in me that will not be dazzled by any sort of
prestige in this world, worthy or unworthy. I am telling you this because you =
are
younger than myself.”
“If you wan=
t me
to say that there is nothing petty or mean about you, Doña Rita, the=
n I
do say it.”
She nodded at me =
with
an air of accepting the rendered justice and went on with the utmost
simplicity.
“And what i=
s it
that is coming to me now with all the airs of virtue? All the lawful
conventions are coming to me, all the glamours of respectability! And nobody can say that I have mad=
e as
much as the slightest little sign to them.=
Not so much as lifting my little finger. I suppose you know that?=
221;
“I don̵=
7;t
know. I do not doubt your sin=
cerity
in anything you say. I am rea=
dy to
believe. You are not one of t=
hose
who have to work.”
“Have to
work—what do you mean?”
“It’s=
a
phrase I have heard. What I m=
eant
was that it isn’t necessary for you to make any signs.”
She seemed to
meditate over this for a while.
“Don’=
t be
so sure of that,” she said, with a flash of mischief, which made her
voice sound more melancholy than before.&n=
bsp;
“I am not so sure myself,” she continued with a curious,
vanishing, intonation of despair. “I don’t know the truth about
myself because I never had an opportunity to compare myself to anything in =
the
world. I have been offered mo=
ck adulation,
treated with mock reserve or with mock devotion, I have been fawned upon wi=
th
an appalling earnestness of purpose, I can tell you; but these later honour=
s,
my dear, came to me in the shape of a very loyal and very scrupulous
gentleman. For he is all that=
. And as a matter of fact I was
touched.”
“I know.
“That was
yesterday,” she said.
“And yesterday he was extremely correct and very full of extre=
me
self-esteem which expressed itself in the exaggerated delicacy with which he
talked. But I know him in all=
his moods. I have known him even playful. I didn’t listen to him. I was thinking of something else.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Of things that were neither correc=
t nor playful
and that had to be looked at steadily with all the best that was in me. And that was why, in the end—=
;I
cried—yesterday.”
“I saw it
yesterday and I had the weakness of being moved by those tears for a
time.”
“If you wan=
t to
make me cry again I warn you you won’t succeed.”
“No, I
know. He has been here to-day=
and
the dry season has set in.”
“Yes, he has
been here. I assure you it was
perfectly unexpected. Yesterday he was railing at the world at large, at me=
who
certainly have not made it, at himself and even at his mother. All this rather in parrot language=
, in
the words of tradition and morality as understood by the members of that
exclusive club to which he belongs.
And yet when I thought that all this, those poor hackneyed words,
expressed a sincere passion I could have found in my heart to be sorry for
him. But he ended by telling =
me
that one couldn’t believe a single word I said, or something like
that. You were here then, you=
heard
it yourself.”
“And it cut=
you
to the quick,” I said.
“It made you depart from your dignity to the point of weeping =
on
any shoulder that happened to be there.&nb=
sp;
And considering that it was some more parrot talk after all (men have
been saying that sort of thing to women from the beginning of the world) th=
is
sensibility seems to me childish.”
“What
perspicacity,” she observed, with an indulgent, mocking smile, then c=
hanged
her tone. “Therefore he
wasn’t expected to-day when he turned up, whereas you, who were expec=
ted,
remained subject to the charms of conversation in that studio. It never occurred to you . . . did
it? No! What had become of yo=
ur
perspicacity?”
“I tell you=
I
was weary of life,” I said in a passion.
She had another f=
aint
smile of a fugitive and unrelated kind as if she had been thinking of far-o=
ff
things, then roused herself to grave animation.
“He came in
full of smiling playfulness. =
How
well I know that mood! Such self-command has its beauty; but it’s no
great help for a man with such fateful eyes. I could see he was moved in his co=
rrect,
restrained way, and in his own way, too, he tried to move me with something
that would be very simple. He=
told
me that ever since we became friends, we two, he had not an hour of continu=
ous
sleep, unless perhaps when coming back dead-tired from outpost duty, and th=
at
he longed to get back to it and yet hadn’t the courage to tear himself
away from here. He was as sim=
ple as
that. He’s a très
galant homme of absolute probity, even with himself. I said to him: The trouble is, Don=
Juan,
that it isn’t love but mistrust that keeps you in torment. I might have said jealousy, but I
didn’t like to use that word.
A parrot would have added that I had given him no right to be
jealous. But I am no parrot.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I recognized the rights of his pas=
sion
which I could very well see. =
He is
jealous. He is not jealous of=
my
past or of the future; but he is jealously mistrustful of me, of what I am,=
of
my very soul. He believes in =
a soul
in the same way Therese does, as something that can be touched with grace o=
r go
to perdition; and he doesn’t want to be damned with me before his own=
judgment
seat. He is a most noble and =
loyal
gentleman, but I have my own Basque peasant soul and don’t want to th=
ink
that every time he goes away from my feet—yes, mon cher, on this carp=
et,
look for the marks of scorching—that he goes away feeling tempted to
brush the dust off his moral sleeve.
That! Never!”
With brusque
movements she took a cigarette out of the box, held it in her fingers for a
moment, then dropped it unconsciously.
“And then, I
don’t love him,” she uttered slowly as if speaking to herself a=
nd
at the same time watching the very quality of that thought. “I never
did. At first he fascinated m=
e with
his fatal aspect and his cold society smiles. But I have looked into those eyes =
too
often. There are too many dis=
dains
in this aristocratic republican without a home. His fate may be cruel, but =
it
will always be commonplace. W=
hile
he sat there trying in a worldly tone to explain to me the problems, the sc=
ruples,
of his suffering honour, I could see right into his heart and I was sorry f=
or
him. I was sorry enough for h=
im to
feel that if he had suddenly taken me by the throat and strangled me slowly,
avec délices, I could forgive him while I choked. How correct he was! But bitterness against me peeped o=
ut of
every second phrase. At last I
raised my hand and said to him, ‘Enough.’ I believe he was shocked by my ple=
beian abruptness
but he was too polite to show it.
His conventions will always stand in the way of his nature. I told him that everything that ha=
d been
said and done during the last seven or eight months was inexplicable unless=
on
the assumption that he was in love with me,—and yet in everything the=
re
was an implication that he couldn’t forgive me my very existence. I did ask him whether he didn̵=
7;t
think that it was absurd on his part . . . ”
“Didn’=
;t
you say that it was exquisitely absurd?” I asked.
“Exquisitel=
y! .
. . ” Doña Rita was surprised at my question. “No. Why should I say that?”
“It would h=
ave
reconciled him to your abruptness.
It’s their family expression.=
It would have come with a familiar sound and would have been less of=
fensive.”
“Offensive,=
”
Doña Rita repeated earnestly.
“I don’t think he was offended; he suffered in another w=
ay,
but I didn’t care for that.
It was I that had become offended in the end, without spite, you
understand, but past bearing. I
didn’t spare him. I tol=
d him
plainly that to want a woman formed in mind and body, mistress of herself, =
free
in her choice, independent in her thoughts; to love her apparently for what=
she
is and at the same time to demand from her the candour and the innocence th=
at could
be only a shocking pretence; to know her such as life had made her and at t=
he
same time to despise her secretly for every touch with which her life had
fashioned her—that was neither generous nor high minded; it was
positively frantic. He got up=
and went
away to lean against the mantelpiece, there, on his elbow and with his head=
in
his hand. You have no idea of=
the
charm and the distinction of his pose.&nbs=
p;
I couldn’t help admiring him: the expression, the grace, the f=
atal
suggestion of his immobility. Oh,
yes, I am sensible to aesthetic impressions, I have been educated to believe
that there is a soul in them.”
With that enigmat=
ic,
under the eyebrows glance fixed on me she laughed her deep contralto laugh
without mirth but also without irony, and profoundly moving by the mere pur=
ity
of the sound.
“I suspect =
he
was never so disgusted and appalled in his life. His self-command is the most admir=
able
worldly thing I have ever seen.
What made it beautiful was that one could feel in it a tragic sugges=
tion
as in a great work of art.”
She paused with an
inscrutable smile that a great painter might have put on the face of some
symbolic figure for the speculation and wonder of many generations. I said:
“I always
thought that love for you could work great wonders. And now I am certain.”
“Are you tr=
ying
to be ironic?” she said sadly and very much as a child might have spo=
ken.
“I don̵=
7;t
know,” I answered in a tone of the same simplicity. “I find it very difficult to=
be
generous.”
“I, too,=
221;
she said with a sort of funny eagerness.&n=
bsp;
“I didn’t treat him very generously. Only I didn’t say much more.=
I found I didn’t care what I
said—and it would have been like throwing insults at a beautiful comp=
osition. He was well inspired not to move.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It has spared him some disagreeable
truths and perhaps I would even have said more than the truth. I am not fair. I am no more fair than other
people. I would have been
harsh. My very admiration was
making me more angry. It̵=
7;s ridiculous
to say of a man got up in correct tailor clothes, but there was a funereal
grace in his attitude so that he might have been reproduced in marble on a
monument to some woman in one of those atrocious Campo Santos: the bourgeois
conception of an aristocratic mourning lover. When I came to that conclusion I b=
ecame
glad that I was angry or else I would have laughed right out before him.=
221;
“I have hea=
rd a
woman say once, a woman of the people—do you hear me, Doña
Rita?—therefore deserving your attention, that one should never laugh=
at
love.”
“My
dear,” she said gently, “I have been taught to laugh at most th=
ings
by a man who never laughed himself; but it’s true that he never spoke=
of love
to me, love as a subject that is.
So perhaps . . . But why?”
“Because (b=
ut
maybe that old woman was crazy), because, she said, there was death in the
mockery of love.”
Doña Rita
moved slightly her beautiful shoulders and went on:
“I am glad,
then, I didn’t laugh. A=
nd I
am also glad I said nothing more. =
span>I
was feeling so little generous that if I had known something then of his
mother’s allusion to ‘white geese’ I would have advised h=
im to
get one of them and lead it away on a beautiful blue ribbon. Mrs. Blunt was wrong, you know, to=
be so
scornful. A white goose is ex=
actly what
her son wants. But look how b=
adly
the world is arranged. Such w=
hite
birds cannot be got for nothing and he has not enough money even to buy a
ribbon. Who knows! Maybe it was this which gave that =
tragic
quality to his pose by the mantelpiece over there. Yes, that was it. Though no doubt I
didn’t see it then. As =
he
didn’t offer to move after I had done speaking I became quite
unaffectedly sorry and advised him very gently to dismiss me from his mind
definitely. He moved forward =
then
and said to me in his usual voice and with his usual smile that it would ha=
ve been
excellent advice but unfortunately I was one of those women who can’t=
be
dismissed at will. And as I s=
hook
my head he insisted rather darkly: ‘Oh, yes, Doña Rita, it is
so. Cherish no illusions abou=
t that
fact.’ It sounded so
threatening that in my surprise I didn’t even acknowledge his parting
bow. He went out of that false
situation like a wounded man retreating after a fight. No, I have nothing to reproach mys=
elf
with. I did nothing. I led him into nothing. Whatever illusions have passed thr=
ough
my head I kept my distance, and he was so loyal to what he seemed to think =
the
redeeming proprieties of the situation that he has gone from me for good
without so much as kissing the tips of my fingers. He must have felt like a man who h=
ad
betrayed himself for nothing.
It’s horrible.
It’s the fault of that enormous fortune of mine, and I wish wi=
th
all my heart that I could give it to him; for he couldn’t help his ha=
tred
of the thing that is: and as to his love, which is just as real,
well—could I have rushed away from him to shut myself up in a
convent? Could I? After all I have a right to my sha=
re of daylight.”
I took my eyes from her face and be=
came
aware that dusk was beginning to steal into the room. How strange it seemed. Except for the glazed rotunda part=
its
long walls, divided into narrow panels separated by an order of flat pilast=
ers,
presented, depicted on a black background and in vivid colours, slender wom=
en
with butterfly wings and lean youths with narrow birds’ wings. The effect was supposed to be Pomp=
eiian
and Rita and I had often laughed at the delirious fancy of some enriched sh=
opkeeper. But still it was a display of fanc=
y, a
sign of grace; but at that moment these figures appeared to me weird and
intrusive and strangely alive in their attenuated grace of unearthly beings
concealing a power to see and hear.
Without words,
without gestures, Doña Rita was heard again. “It may have been as near co=
ming
to pass as this.” She s=
howed
me the breadth of her little finger nail.&=
nbsp;
“Yes, as near as that.
Why? How? Just like that, for nothing. Because it had come up. Because a wild notion had entered a
practical old woman’s head.
Yes. And the best of i=
t is
that I have nothing to complain of.
Had I surrendered I would have been perfectly safe with these two. It is they or rather he who
couldn’t trust me, or rather that something which I express, which I
stand for. Mills would never =
tell
me what it was. Perhaps he
didn’t know exactly himself.
He said it was something like genius. My genius! Oh, I am not conscious of it, beli=
eve
me, I am not conscious of it. But
if I were I wouldn’t pluck it out and cast it away. I am ashamed of nothing, of
nothing! Don’t be stupid
enough to think that I have the slightest regret. There is no regret. First of all because I am I—=
and
then because . . . My dear, believe me, I have had a horrible time of it my=
self
lately.”
This seemed to be=
the
last word. Outwardly quiet, a=
ll the
time, it was only then that she became composed enough to light an enormous
cigarette of the same pattern as those made specially for the king—po=
r el
Rey! After a time, tipping the ash into the bowl on her left hand, she aske=
d me
in a friendly, almost tender, tone:
“What are y=
ou
thinking of, amigo?”
“I was thin=
king
of your immense generosity. Y=
ou
want to give a crown to one man, a fortune to another. That is very fine. But I suppose there is a limit to =
your
generosity somewhere.”
“I don̵=
7;t
see why there should be any limit—to fine intentions! Yes, one would like to pay ransom =
and be
done with it all.”
“That’=
;s
the feeling of a captive; and yet somehow I can’t think of you as ever
having been anybody’s captive.”
“You do dis=
play
some wonderful insight sometimes.
My dear, I begin to suspect that men are rather conceited about their
powers. They think they domin=
ate
us. Even exceptional men will=
think
that; men too great for mere vanity, men like Henry Allègre for
instance, who by his consistent and serene detachment was certainly fit to
dominate all sorts of people. Yet
for the most part they can only do it because women choose more or less
consciously to let them do so.
Henry Allègre, if any man, might have been certain of his own
power; and yet, look: I was a chit of a girl, I was sitting with a book whe=
re I
had no business to be, in his own garden, when he suddenly came upon me, an
ignorant girl of seventeen, a most uninviting creature with a tousled head,=
in
an old black frock and shabby boots.
I could have run away. I was
perfectly capable of it. But I
stayed looking up at him and—in the end it was HE who went away and it
was I who stayed.”
“Consciousl=
y?”
I murmured.
“Consciousl=
y? You may just as well ask my shadow=
that
lay so still by me on the young grass in that morning sunshine. I never knew before how still I co=
uld
keep. It wasn’t the sti=
llness
of terror. I remained, knowing
perfectly well that if I ran he was not the man to run after me. I remember
perfectly his deep-toned, politely indifferent ‘Restez donc.’ He was mistaken. Already then I hadn’t the
slightest intention to move. =
And if
you ask me again how far conscious all this was the nearest answer I can ma=
ke
you is this: that I remained on purpose, but I didn’t know for what
purpose I remained. Really, t=
hat
couldn’t be expected. . . . Why do you sigh like this? Would you have preferred me to be
idiotically innocent or abominably wise?”
“These are =
not
the questions that trouble me,” I said. “If I sighed it is because I=
am
weary.”
“And getting
stiff, too, I should say, in this Pompeiian armchair. You had better get out of it and s=
it on
this couch as you always used to do. That, at any rate, is not Pompeiian. You have been growing of late extr=
emely
formal, I don’t know why. If
it is a pose then for goodness’ sake drop it. Are you going to model yourself on
Captain Blunt? You couldnR=
17;t,
you know. You are too young.&=
#8221;
“I don̵=
7;t
want to model myself on anybody,” I said. “And anyway Blunt is too rom=
antic;
and, moreover, he has been and is yet in love with you—a thing that
requires some style, an attitude, something of which I am altogether
incapable.”
“You know it
isn’t so stupid, this what you have just said. Yes, there is something in this.=
8221;
“I am not
stupid,” I protested, without much heat.
“Oh, yes, y=
ou
are. You don’t know the=
world
enough to judge. You don̵=
7;t know
how wise men can be. Owls are
nothing to them. Why do you t=
ry to look
like an owl? There are thousa=
nds
and thousands of them waiting for me outside the door: the staring, hissing=
beasts. You don’t know what a relief=
of
mental ease and intimacy you have been to me in the frankness of gestures a=
nd
speeches and thoughts, sane or insane, that we have been throwing at each
other. I have known nothing o=
f this
in my life but with you. Ther=
e had
always been some fear, some constraint, lurking in the background behind
everybody, everybody—except you, my friend.”
“An unmanne=
rly,
Arcadian state of affairs. I =
am
glad you like it. Perhaps it’s because you were intelligent enough to
perceive that I was not in love with you in any sort of style.”
“No, you we=
re
always your own self, unwise and reckless and with something in it kindred =
to
mine, if I may say so without offence.”
“You may say
anything without offence. But=
has
it never occurred to your sagacity that I just, simply, loved you?”
“Just—=
;simply,”
she repeated in a wistful tone.
“You
didn’t want to trouble your head about it, is that it?”
“My poor
head. From your tone one might
think you yearned to cut it off. No, my dear, I have made up my mind not to
lose my head.”
“You would =
be
astonished to know how little I care for your mind.”
“Would I? Come and sit on the couch all the
same,” she said after a moment of hesitation. Then, as I did not move at once, s=
he
added with indifference: “You may sit as far away as you like, itR=
17;s
big enough, goodness knows.”
The light was ebb=
ing
slowly out of the rotunda and to my bodily eyes she was beginning to grow
shadowy. I sat down on the co=
uch
and for a long time no word passed between us. We made no movement. We did not even turn towards each
other. All I was conscious of=
was
the softness of the seat which seemed somehow to cause a relaxation of my s=
tern
mood, I won’t say against my will but without any will on my part.
I felt suddenly
extremely exhausted, absolutely overcome with fatigue since I had moved; as=
if
to sit on that Pompeiian chair had been a task almost beyond human strength=
, a
sort of labour that must end in collapse. I fought against it for a moment =
and
then my resistance gave way. =
Not all
at once but as if yielding to an irresistible pressure (for I was not consc=
ious
of any irresistible attraction) I found myself with my head resting, with a
weight I felt must be crushing, on Doña Rita’s shoulder which =
yet
did not give way, did not flinch at all.&n=
bsp;
A faint scent of violets filled the tragic emptiness of my head and =
it
seemed impossible to me that I should not cry from sheer weakness. But I remained dry-eyed. I only felt myself slipping lower =
and
lower and I caught her round the waist clinging to her not from any intenti=
on
but purely by instinct. All t=
hat
time she hadn’t stirred.
There was only the slight movement of her breathing that showed her =
to
be alive; and with closed eyes I imagined her to be lost in thought, remove=
d by
an incredible meditation while I clung to her, to an immense distance from =
the
earth. The distance must have been immense because the silence was so perfe=
ct, the
feeling as if of eternal stillness.
I had a distinct impression of being in contact with an infinity that
had the slightest possible rise and fall, was pervaded by a warm, delicate
scent of violets and through which came a hand from somewhere to rest light=
ly
on my head. Presently my ear =
caught
the faint and regular pulsation of her heart, firm and quick, infinitely
touching in its persistent mystery, disclosing itself into my very
ear—and my felicity became complete.
It was a dreamlike
state combined with a dreamlike sense of insecurity. Then in that warm and
scented infinity, or eternity, in which I rested lost in bliss but ready for
any catastrophe, I heard the distant, hardly audible, and fit to strike ter=
ror
into the heart, ringing of a bell.
At this sound the greatness of spaces departed. I felt the world close about me; t=
he
world of darkened walls, of very deep grey dusk against the panes, and I as=
ked
in a pained voice:
“Why did you
ring, Rita?”
There was a bell =
rope
within reach of her hand. I h=
ad not
felt her move, but she said very low:
“I rang for=
the
lights.”
“You
didn’t want the lights.”
“It was
time,” she whispered secretly.
Somewhere within =
the
house a door slammed. I got a=
way
from her feeling small and weak as if the best part of me had been torn away
and irretrievably lost. Rose =
must
have been somewhere near the door.
“It’s abominable,” I murmured to the still, idol-like shadow on the couch.<= o:p>
The answer was a
hurried, nervous whisper: “I tell you it was time. I rang because I had no strength t=
o push
you away.”
I suffered a mome=
nt
of giddiness before the door opened, light streamed in, and Rose entered,
preceding a man in a green baize apron whom I had never seen, carrying on an
enormous tray three Argand lamps fitted into vases of Pompeiian form. Rose distributed them over the
room. In the flood of soft li=
ght
the winged youths and the butterfly women reappeared on the panels, affecte=
d, gorgeous,
callously unconscious of anything having happened during their absence. Rose attended to the lamp on the n=
earest
mantelpiece, then turned about and asked in a confident undertone.
“Monsieur
dîne?”
I had lost myself
with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, but I heard the words
distinctly. I heard also the
silence which ensued. I sat u=
p and
took the responsibility of the answer on myself.
“Impossible=
. I am going to sea this evening.=
221;
This was perfectly
true only I had totally forgotten it till then. For the last two days my being was=
no
longer composed of memories but exclusively of sensations of the most
absorbing, disturbing, exhausting nature.&=
nbsp;
I was like a man who has been buffeted by the sea or by a mob till he
loses all hold on the world in the misery of his helplessness. But now I was
recovering. And naturally the=
first
thing I remembered was the fact that I was going to sea.
“You have
heard, Rose,” Doña Rita said at last with some impatience.
The girl waited a
moment longer before she said:
“Oh, yes! There is a man waiting for Monsieu=
r in
the hall. A seaman.”
It could be no one
but Dominic. It dawned upon m=
e that
since the evening of our return I had not been near him or the ship, which =
was
completely unusual, unheard of, and well calculated to startle Dominic.
“I have seen
him before,” continued Rose, “and as he told me he has been pur=
suing
Monsieur all the afternoon and didn’t like to go away without seeing
Monsieur for a moment, I proposed to him to wait in the hall till Monsieur =
was
at liberty.”
I said: “Ve=
ry
well,” and with a sudden resumption of her extremely busy, not-a-mome=
nt-to-lose
manner Rose departed from the room.
I lingered in an imaginary world full of tender light, of unheard-of
colours, with a mad riot of flowers and an inconceivable happiness under the
sky arched above its yawning precipices, while a feeling of awe enveloped me
like its own proper atmosphere. But
everything vanished at the sound of Doña Rita’s loud whisper f=
ull
of boundless dismay, such as to make one’s hair stir on one’s h=
ead.
“Mon Dieu!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And what is going to happen now?=
8221;
She got down from=
the
couch and walked to a window. When
the lights had been brought into the room all the panes had turned inky bla=
ck;
for the night had come and the garden was full of tall bushes and trees
screening off the gas lamps of the main alley of the Prado. Whatever the question meant she wa=
s not
likely to see an answer to it outside.&nbs=
p;
But her whisper had offended me, had hurt something infinitely deep,
infinitely subtle and infinitely clear-eyed in my nature. I said after her from the couch on=
which
I had remained, “Don’t lose your composure. You will always have some sort of =
bell
at hand.”
I saw her shrug h=
er
uncovered shoulders impatiently.
Her forehead was against the very blackness of the panes; pulled upw=
ard
from the beautiful, strong nape of her neck, the twisted mass of her tawny =
hair
was held high upon her head by the arrow of gold.
“You set up=
for
being unforgiving,” she said without anger.
I sprang to my fe=
et
while she turned about and came towards me bravely, with a wistful smile on=
her
bold, adolescent face.
“It seems to
me,” she went on in a voice like a wave of love itself, “that o=
ne
should try to understand before one sets up for being unforgiving. Forgiveness is a very fine word. It is a fine invocation.”
“There are
other fine words in the language such as fascination, fidelity, also frivol=
ity;
and as for invocations there are plenty of them, too; for instance: alas,
heaven help me.”
We stood very clo=
se
together, her narrow eyes were as enigmatic as ever, but that face, which, =
like
some ideal conception of art, was incapable of anything like untruth and
grimace, expressed by some mysterious means such a depth of infinite patien=
ce
that I felt profoundly ashamed of myself.
“This thing=
is
beyond words altogether,” I said.&nb=
sp;
“Beyond forgiveness, beyond forgetting, beyond anger or jealou=
sy.
. . . There is nothing between us two that could make us act together.̶=
1;
“Then we mu=
st
fall back perhaps on something within us, that—you admit it?—we
have in common.”
“Don’=
t be
childish,” I said. R=
20;You
give one with a perpetual and intense freshness feelings and sensations that
are as old as the world itself, and you imagine that your enchantment can be
broken off anywhere, at any time!
But it can’t be broken.
And forgetfulness, like everything else, can only come from you. It’s an impossible situation=
to
stand up against.”
She listened with
slightly parted lips as if to catch some further resonances.
“There is a
sort of generous ardour about you,” she said, “which I don̵=
7;t really
understand. No, I don’t=
know
it. Believe me, it is not of =
myself
I am thinking. And you—=
you
are going out to-night to make another landing.”
“Yes, it is=
a
fact that before many hours I will be sailing away from you to try my luck =
once
more.”
“Your wonde=
rful
luck,” she breathed out.
“Oh, yes, I=
am
wonderfully lucky. Unless the=
luck
really is yours—in having found somebody like me, who cares at the sa=
me
time so much and so little for what you have at heart.”
“What time =
will
you be leaving the harbour?” she asked.
“Some time
between midnight and daybreak. Our
men may be a little late in joining, but certainly we will be gone before t=
he
first streak of light.”
“What
freedom!” she murmured enviously.&nb=
sp;
“It’s something I shall never know. . . .”
“Freedom!=
8221;
I protested. “I am a sl=
ave to
my word. There will be a siri=
ng of
carts and mules on a certain part of the coast, and a most ruffianly lot of
men, men you understand, men with wives and children and sweethearts, who f=
rom
the very moment they start on a trip risk a bullet in the head at any momen=
t,
but who have a perfect conviction that I will never fail them. That’s my freedom. I wonder what they would think if =
they
knew of your existence.”
“I don̵=
7;t
exist,” she said.
“That’=
;s
easy to say. But I will go as=
if
you didn’t exist—yet only because you do exist. You exist in me. I don’t know where I end and=
you begin. You have got into my heart and int=
o my
veins and into my brain.”
“Take this
fancy out and trample it down in the dust,” she said in a tone of tim=
id
entreaty.
“Heroically=
,”
I suggested with the sarcasm of despair.
“Well, yes,
heroically,” she said; and there passed between us dim smiles, I have=
no
doubt of the most touching imbecility on earth. We were standing by then in the mi=
ddle
of the room with its vivid colours on a black background, with its multitud=
e of
winged figures with pale limbs, with hair like halos or flames, all strange=
ly
tense in their strained, decorative attitudes. Doña Rita made a step towar=
ds me,
and as I attempted to seize her hand she flung her arms round my neck. I felt their strength drawing me t=
owards
her and by a sort of blind and desperate effort I resisted. And all the time she was repeating=
with nervous
insistence:
“But it is =
true
that you will go. You will
surely. Not because of those =
people
but because of me. You will g=
o away
because you feel you must.”
With every word
urging me to get away, her clasp tightened, she hugged my head closer to her
breast. I submitted, knowing =
well
that I could free myself by one more effort which it was in my power to
make. But before I made it, i=
n a
sort of desperation, I pressed a long kiss into the hollow of her throat. And lo—there was no need for=
any
effort. With a stifled cry of
surprise her arms fell off me as if she had been shot. I must have been giddy, and perhap=
s we
both were giddy, but the next thing I knew there was a good foot of space
between us in the peaceful glow of the ground-glass globes, in the everlast=
ing
stillness of the winged figures.
Something in the quality of her exclamation, something utterly unexp=
ected,
something I had never heard before, and also the way she was looking at me =
with
a sort of incredulous, concentrated attention, disconcerted me
exceedingly. I knew perfectly=
well
what I had done and yet I felt that I didn’t understand what had
happened. I became suddenly a=
bashed
and I muttered that I had better go and dismiss that poor Dominic. She made no answer, gave no sign.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She stood there lost in a vision=
8212;or
was it a sensation?—of the most absorbing kind. I hurried out into the hall, shame=
faced,
as if I were making my escape while she wasn’t looking. And yet I felt her looking fixedly=
at
me, with a sort of stupefaction on her features—in her whole
attitude—as though she had never even heard of such a thing as a kiss=
in
her life.
A dim lamp (of
Pompeiian form) hanging on a long chain left the hall practically dark. Dominic, advancing towards me from=
a
distant corner, was but a little more opaque shadow than the others. He had expected me on board every =
moment
till about three o’clock, but as I didn’t turn up and gave no s=
ign
of life in any other way he started on his hunt. He sought news of me from the
garçons at the various cafés, from the cochers de fiacre in f=
ront
of the Exchange, from the tobacconist lady at the counter of the fashionable
Débit de Tabac, from the old man who sold papers outside the cercle,=
and
from the flower-girl at the door of the fashionable restaurant where I had =
my
table. That young woman, whos=
e business
name was Irma, had come on duty about mid-day. She said to Dominic: “I think
I’ve seen all his friends this morning but I haven’t seen him f=
or a
week. What has become of
him?”
“That’=
;s
exactly what I want to know,” Dominic replied in a fury and then went
back to the harbour on the chance that I might have called either on board =
or
at Madame Léonore’s café.
I expressed to hi=
m my
surprise that he should fuss about me like an old hen over a chick. It wasn’t like him at all. And he said that “en effet=
8221;
it was Madame Léonore who wouldn’t give him any peace. He hoped I wouldn’t mind, it=
was
best to humour women in little things; and so he started off again, made
straight for the street of the Consuls, was told there that I wasn’t =
at
home but the woman of the house looked so funny that he didn’t know w=
hat
to make of it. Therefore, aft=
er
some hesitation, he took the liberty to inquire at this house, too, and bei=
ng told
that I couldn’t be disturbed, had made up his mind not to go on board
without actually setting his eyes on me and hearing from my own lips that
nothing was changed as to sailing orders.
“There is
nothing changed, Dominic,” I said.
“No change =
of
any sort?” he insisted, looking very sombre and speaking gloomily from
under his black moustaches in the dim glow of the alabaster lamp hanging ab=
ove
his head. He peered at me in =
an
extraordinary manner as if he wanted to make sure that I had all my limbs a=
bout
me. I asked him to call for m=
y bag
at the other house, on his way to the harbour, and he departed reassured, n=
ot,
however, without remarking ironically that ever since she saw that American
cavalier Madame Léonore was not easy in her mind about me.
As I stood alone =
in
the hall, without a sound of any sort, Rose appeared before me.
“Monsieur w=
ill
dine after all,” she whispered calmly.
“My good gi=
rl,
I am going to sea to-night.”
“What am I
going to do with Madame?” she murmured to herself. “She will insist on returnin=
g to
Paris.”
“Oh, have y=
ou
heard of it?”
“I never get
more than two hours’ notice,” she said. “But I know how it will be,&=
#8221;
her voice lost its calmness.
“I can look after Madame up to a certain point but I cannot be
altogether responsible. There=
is a dangerous
person who is everlastingly trying to see Madame alone. I have managed to keep him off sev=
eral
times but there is a beastly old journalist who is encouraging him in his
attempts, and I daren’t even speak to Madame about it.”
“What sort =
of
person do you mean?”
“Why, a
man,” she said scornfully.
I snatched up my =
coat
and hat.
“Aren’=
;t
there dozens of them?”
“Oh! But this one is dangerous. Madame must have given him a hold =
on her
in some way. I ought not to t=
alk
like this about Madame and I wouldn’t to anybody but Monsieur. I am always on the watch, but what=
is a
poor girl to do? . . . Isn’t Monsieur going back to Madame?”
“No, I am n=
ot
going back. Not this
time.” A mist seemed to=
fall
before my eyes. I could hardl=
y see
the girl standing by the closed door of the Pempeiian room with extended ha=
nd,
as if turned to stone. But my=
voice
was firm enough. “Not t=
his
time,” I repeated, and became aware of the great noise of the wind
amongst the trees, with the lashing of a rain squall against the door.
“Perhaps so=
me
other time,” I added.
I heard her say t=
wice
to herself: “Mon Dieu! =
Mon,
Dieu!” and then a dismayed: “What can Monsieur expect me to
do?” But I had to appea=
r insensible
to her distress and that not altogether because, in fact, I had no option b=
ut
to go away. I remember also a
distinct wilfulness in my attitude and something half-contemptuous in my wo=
rds
as I laid my hand on the knob of the front door.
“You will t=
ell
Madame that I am gone. It will
please her. Tell her that I am
gone—heroically.”
Rose had come up
close to me. She met my words=
by a
despairing outward movement of her hands as though she were giving everythi=
ng
up.
“I see it
clearly now that Madame has no friends,” she declared with such a for=
ce
of restrained bitterness that it nearly made me pause. But the very obscurity of actuating
motives drove me on and I stepped out through the doorway muttering:
“Everything is as Madame wishes it.”
She shot at me a
swift: “You should resist,” of an extraordinary intensity, but I
strode on down the path. Then
Rose’s schooled temper gave way at last and I heard her angry voice
screaming after me furiously through the wind and rain: “No! Madame has no friends. Not one!”
That night I didn’t get on bo=
ard
till just before midnight and Dominic could not conceal his relief at havin=
g me
safely there. Why he should h=
ave
been so uneasy it was impossible to say but at the time I had a sort of
impression that my inner destruction (it was nothing less) had affected my
appearance, that my doom was as it were written on my face. I was a mere
receptacle for dust and ashes, a living testimony to the vanity of all
things. My very thoughts were=
like
a ghostly rustle of dead leaves.
But we had an extremely successful trip, and for most of the time
Dominic displayed an unwonted jocularity of a dry and biting kind with whic=
h,
he maintained, he had been infected by no other person than myself. As, with all his force of characte=
r, he
was very responsive to the moods of those he liked I have no doubt he spoke=
the
truth. But I know nothing abo=
ut
it. The observer, more or less
alert, whom each of us carries in his own consciousness, failed me altogeth=
er,
had turned away his face in sheer horror, or else had fainted from the
strain. And thus I had to live
alone, unobserved even by myself.
But the trip had =
been
successful. We re-entered the
harbour very quietly as usual and when our craft had been moored
unostentatiously amongst the plebeian stone-carriers, Dominic, whose grim
joviality had subsided in the last twenty-four hours of our homeward run,
abandoned me to myself as though indeed I had been a doomed man. He only stuck his head for a momen=
t into
our little cuddy where I was changing my clothes and being told in answer to
his question that I had no special orders to give went ashore without waiti=
ng
for me.
Generally we used=
to
step on the quay together and I never failed to enter for a moment Madame
Léonore’s café.
But this time when I got on the quay Dominic was nowhere to be
seen. What was it? Abandonmen=
t—discretion—or
had he quarrelled with his Léonore before leaving on the trip?
My way led me past
the café and through the glass panes I saw that he was already
there. On the other side of t=
he
little marble table Madame Léonore, leaning with mature grace on her
elbow, was listening to him absorbed.
Then I passed on and—what would you have!—I ended by mak=
ing
my way into the street of the Consuls.&nbs=
p;
I had nowhere else to go.
There were my things in the apartment on the first floor. I couldn’t bear the thought =
of
meeting anybody I knew.
The feeble gas fl=
ame
in the hall was still there, on duty, as though it had never been turned off
since I last crossed the hall at half-past eleven in the evening to go to t=
he
harbour. The small flame had
watched me letting myself out; and now, exactly of the same size, the poor
little tongue of light (there was something wrong with that burner) watched=
me letting
myself in, as indeed it had done many times before. Generally the impression was that =
of
entering an untenanted house, but this time before I could reach the foot of
the stairs Therese glided out of the passage leading into the studio. After the usual exclamations she a=
ssured
me that everything was ready for me upstairs, had been for days, and offere=
d to
get me something to eat at once. I
accepted and said I would be down in the studio in half an hour. I found her there by the side of t=
he
laid table ready for conversation.
She began by telling me—the dear, poor young Monsieur—in=
a
sort of plaintive chant, that there were no letters for me, no letters of a=
ny
kind, no letters from anybody. Glances of absolutely terrifying tenderness
mingled with flashes of cunning swept over me from head to foot while I tri=
ed
to eat.
“Are you gi=
ving
me Captain Blunt’s wine to drink?” I asked, noting the straw-co=
loured
liquid in my glass.
She screwed up her
mouth as if she had a twinge of toothache and assured me that the wine belo=
nged
to the house. I would have to=
pay
her for it. As far as personal feelings go, Blunt, who addressed her always
with polite seriousness, was not a favourite with her. The “charming, brave Monsieu=
r”
was now fighting for the King and religion against the impious Liberals.
I let her run on =
in
dread expectation of what she would say next but she stuck to the subject of
Blunt for some time longer. H=
e had
written to her once about some of his things which he wanted her to send to
Paris to his mother’s address; but she was going to do nothing of the
kind. She announced this with=
a pious
smile; and in answer to my questions I discovered that it was a stratagem to
make Captain Blunt return to the house.
“You will g=
et
yourself into trouble with the police, Mademoiselle Therese, if you go on l=
ike
that,” I said. But she =
was as
obstinate as a mule and assured me with the utmost confidence that many peo=
ple
would be ready to defend a poor honest girl. There was something behind this at=
titude
which I could not fathom. Sud=
denly
she fetched a deep sigh.
“Our Rita, =
too,
will end by coming to her sister.”
The name for whic=
h I
had been waiting deprived me of speech for the moment. The poor mad sinner had rushed off=
to
some of her wickednesses in Paris.
Did I know? No? How could she tell whether I did k=
now or
not? Well! I had hardly left the house, so to
speak, when Rita was down with her maid behaving as if the house did really
still belong to her. . .
“What time =
was
it?” I managed to ask. =
And
with the words my life itself was being forced out through my lips. But Therese, not noticing anything=
strange
about me, said it was something like half-past seven in the morning. The “poor sinner” was =
all in
black as if she were going to church (except for her expression, which was
enough to shock any honest person), and after ordering her with frightful
menaces not to let anybody know she was in the house she rushed upstairs and
locked herself up in my bedroom, while “that French creature” (=
whom
she seemed to love more than her own sister) went into my salon and hid her=
self
behind the window curtain.
I had recovered
sufficiently to ask in a quiet natural voice whether Doña Rita and
Captain Blunt had seen each other.
Apparently they had not seen each other. The polite captain had looked so s=
tern
while packing up his kit that Therese dared not speak to him at all. And he was in a hurry, too. He had to see his dear mother off =
to
Paris before his own departure.
Very stern. But he sho=
ok her
hand with a very nice bow.
Therese elevated =
her
right hand for me to see. It =
was
broad and short with blunt fingers, as usual. The pressure of Captain Blunt̵=
7;s
handshake had not altered its unlovely shape.
“What was t=
he
good of telling him that our Rita was here?” went on Therese. “I would have been ashamed o=
f her
coming here and behaving as if the house belonged to her! I had already said some prayers at=
his intention
at the half-past six mass, the brave gentleman. That maid of my sister Rita was up=
stairs
watching him drive away with her evil eyes, but I made a sign of the cross
after the fiacre, and then I went upstairs and banged at your door, my dear
kind young Monsieur, and shouted to Rita that she had no right to lock hers=
elf
in any of my locataires’ rooms. At last she opened it—and what =
do
you think? All her hair was l=
oose
over her shoulders. I suppose=
it
all came down when she flung her hat on your bed. I noticed when she arrived that he=
r hair
wasn’t done properly. S=
he used
your brushes to do it up again in front of your glass.”
“Wait a
moment,” I said, and jumped up, upsetting my wine to run upstairs as =
fast
as I could. I lighted the gas=
, all
the three jets in the middle of the room, the jet by the bedside and two ot=
hers
flanking the dressing-table. =
I had
been struck by the wild hope of finding a trace of Rita’s passage, a =
sign
or something. I pulled out al=
l the
drawers violently, thinking that perhaps she had hidden there a scrap of pa=
per,
a note. It was perfectly mad.=
Of course there was no chance of t=
hat. Therese
would have seen to it. I pick=
ed up
one after another all the various objects on the dressing-table. On laying my hands on the brushes =
I had
a profound emotion, and with misty eyes I examined them meticulously with t=
he
new hope of finding one of Rita’s tawny hairs entangled amongst the
bristles by a miraculous chance.
But Therese would have done away with that chance, too. There was nothing to be seen, thou=
gh I
held them up to the light with a beating heart. It was written that not even that =
trace
of her passage on the earth should remain with me; not to help but, as it w=
ere,
to soothe the memory. Then I
lighted a cigarette and came downstairs slowly. My unhappiness became dulled, as t=
he
grief of those who mourn for the dead gets dulled in the overwhelming sensa=
tion
that everything is over, that a part of themselves is lost beyond recall ta=
king
with it all the savour of life.
I discovered Ther=
ese
still on the very same spot of the floor, her hands folded over each other =
and
facing my empty chair before which the spilled wine had soaked a large port=
ion
of the table-cloth. She hadn&=
#8217;t
moved at all. She hadn’=
t even
picked up the overturned glass. But
directly I appeared she began to speak in an ingratiating voice.
“If you have
missed anything of yours upstairs, my dear young Monsieur, you mustn’t
say it’s me. You don=
217;t
know what our Rita is.”
“I wish to
goodness,” I said, “that she had taken something.”
And again I became
inordinately agitated as though it were my absolute fate to be everlastingly
dying and reviving to the tormenting fact of her existence. Perhaps she had taken something? Anything. Some small object. I thought suddenly of a Rhenish-st=
one
match-box. Perhaps it was tha=
t. I didn’t remember having see=
n it
when upstairs. I wanted to ma=
ke sure
at once. At once. But I commanded myself to sit stil=
l.
“And she so
wealthy,” Therese went on.
“Even you with your dear generous little heart can do nothing =
for
our Rita. No man can do anyth=
ing
for her—except perhaps one, but she is so evilly disposed towards him
that she wouldn’t even see him, if in the goodness of his forgiving h=
eart
he were to offer his hand to her.
It’s her bad conscience that frightens her. He loves her more than his life, t=
he
dear, charitable man.”
“You mean s=
ome
rascal in Paris that I believe persecutes Doña Rita. Listen,
Mademoiselle Therese, if you know where he hangs out you had better let him
have word to be careful. I be=
lieve
he, too, is mixed up in the Carlist intrigue. Don’t you know that your sis=
ter
can get him shut up any day or get him expelled by the police?”
Therese sighed de=
eply
and put on a look of pained virtue.
“Oh, the
hardness of her heart. She tr=
ied to
be tender with me. She is awf=
ul. I said to her, ‘Rita, have y=
ou
sold your soul to the Devil?’ and she shouted like a fiend: ‘For
happiness! Ha, ha, ha!’=
She threw herself backwards on that
couch in your room and laughed and laughed and laughed as if I had been
tickling her, and she drummed on the floor with the heels of her shoes. She is possessed. Oh, my dear innocent young Monsieu=
r, you
have never seen anything like that.
That wicked girl who serves her rushed in with a tiny glass bottle a=
nd
put it to her nose; but I had a mind to run out and fetch the priest from t=
he
church where I go to early mass.
Such a nice, stout, severe man.&nbs=
p;
But that false, cheating creature (I am sure she is robbing our Rita
from morning to night), she talked to our Rita very low and quieted her
down. I am sure I don’t=
know what
she said. She must be leagued=
with
the devil. And then she asked=
me if
I would go down and make a cup of chocolate for her Madame. Madame—th=
at’s
our Rita. Madame! It seems they were going off direc=
tly to
Paris and her Madame had had nothing to eat since the morning of the day
before. Fancy me being ordere=
d to
make chocolate for our Rita! However, the poor thing looked so exhausted and
white-faced that I went. Ah! the devil can give you an awful shake up if he
likes.”
Therese fetched
another deep sigh and raising her eyes looked at me with great attention. I preserved an inscrutable express=
ion,
for I wanted to hear all she had to tell me of Rita. I watched her with the greatest an=
xiety
composing her face into a cheerful expression.
“So Do&ntil=
de;a
Rita is gone to Paris?” I asked negligently.
“Yes, my de=
ar
Monsieur. I believe she went
straight to the railway station from here.=
When she first got up from the couch she could hardly stand. But before, while she was drinking=
the
chocolate which I made for her, I tried to get her to sign a paper giving o=
ver
the house to me, but she only closed her eyes and begged me to try and be a
good sister and leave her alone for half an hour. And she lying there looking as if =
she wouldn’t
live a day. But she always ha=
ted
me.”
I said bitterly,
“You needn’t have worried her like this. If she had not lived for another d=
ay you
would have had this house and everything else besides; a bigger bit than ev=
en
your wolfish throat can swallow, Mademoiselle Therese.”
I then said a few
more things indicative of my disgust with her rapacity, but they were quite
inadequate, as I wasn’t able to find words strong enough to express my
real mind. But it didn’t
matter really because I don’t think Therese heard me at all. She seemed lost in rapt amazement.=
“What do you
say, my dear Monsieur? What!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> All for me without any sort of
paper?”
She appeared
distracted by my curt: “Yes.”&=
nbsp;
Therese believed in my truthfulness. She believed me implicitly, except=
when
I was telling her the truth about herself, mincing no words, when she used =
to
stand smilingly bashful as if I were overwhelming her with compliments. I expected her to continue the hor=
rible
tale but apparently she had found something to think about which checked the
flow. She fetched another sig=
h and
muttered:
“Then the l=
aw
can be just, if it does not require any paper. After all, I am her sister.”=
“It’s
very difficult to believe that—at sight,” I said roughly.
“Ah, but th=
at I
could prove. There are papers=
for
that.”
After this declaration she began to clear the table, preserving a thoughtful silence.<= o:p>
I was not very
surprised at the news of Doña Rita’s departure for Paris. It w=
as
not necessary to ask myself why she had gone. I didn’t even ask myself whe=
ther
she had left the leased Villa on the Prado for ever. Later talking again wi=
th
Therese, I learned that her sister had given it up for the use of the Carli=
st
cause and that some sort of unofficial Consul, a Carlist agent of some sort,
either was going to live there or had already taken possession. This, Rita herself had told her be=
fore
her departure on that agitated morning spent in the house—in my
rooms. A close investigation
demonstrated to me that there was nothing missing from them. Even the wretched match-box which I
really hoped was gone turned up in a drawer after I had, delightedly, given=
it
up. It was a great blow. She might have taken that at least=
! She knew I used to carry it about =
with
me constantly while ashore. S=
he
might have taken it! Apparently she meant that there should be no bond left
even of that kind; and yet it was a long time before I gave up visiting and
revisiting all the corners of all possible receptacles for something that s=
he
might have left behind on purpose.
It was like the mania of those disordered minds who spend their days
hunting for a treasure. I hop=
ed for
a forgotten hairpin, for some tiny piece of ribbon. Sometimes at night I reflected tha=
t such
hopes were altogether insensate; but I remember once getting up at two in t=
he
morning to search for a little cardboard box in the bathroom, into which, I
remembered, I had not looked before.
Of course it was empty; and, anyway, Rita could not possibly have kn=
own
of its existence. I got back =
to bed
shivering violently, though the night was warm, and with a distinct impress=
ion
that this thing would end by making me mad. It was no longer a question of =
220;this
sort of thing” killing me. The moral atmosphere of this torture was
different. It would make me m=
ad. And at that thought great shudders=
ran
down my prone body, because, once, I had visited a famous lunatic asylum wh=
ere
they had shown me a poor wretch who was mad, apparently, because he thought=
he
had been abominably fooled by a woman.&nbs=
p;
They told me that his grievance was quite imaginary. He was a young man with a thin fair
beard, huddled up on the edge of his bed, hugging himself forlornly; and hi=
s incessant
and lamentable wailing filled the long bare corridor, striking a chill into=
one’s
heart long before one came to the door of his cell.
And there was no =
one
from whom I could hear, to whom I could speak, with whom I could evoke the
image of Rita. Of course I co=
uld
utter that word of four letters to Therese; but Therese for some reason too=
k it
into her head to avoid all topics connected with her sister. I felt as if I could pull out great
handfuls of her hair hidden modestly under the black handkerchief of which =
the
ends were sometimes tied under her chin.&n=
bsp;
But, really, I could not have given her any intelligible excuse for =
that
outrage. Moreover, she was ve=
ry
busy from the very top to the very bottom of the house, which she persisted=
in
running alone because she couldn’t make up her mind to part with a few
francs every month to a servant. It
seemed to me that I was no longer such a favourite with her as I used to
be. That, strange to say, was
exasperating, too. It was as =
if
some idea, some fruitful notion had killed in her all the softer and more
humane emotions. She went abo=
ut
with brooms and dusters wearing an air of sanctimonious thoughtfulness.
The man who to a
certain extent took my place in Therese’s favour was the old father of
the dancing girls inhabiting the ground floor. In a tall hat and a well-to-do dar=
k blue
overcoat he allowed himself to be button-holed in the hall by Therese who w=
ould
talk to him interminably with downcast eyes. He smiled gravely down at her, and
meanwhile tried to edge towards the front door. I imagine he didn’t put a gr=
eat
value on Therese’s favour.
Our stay in harbour was prolonged this time and I kept indoors like =
an
invalid. One evening I asked =
that
old man to come in and drink and smoke with me in the studio. He made no difficulties to accept,
brought his wooden pipe with him, and was very entertaining in a pleasant
voice. One couldn’t tell
whether he was an uncommon person or simply a ruffian, but in any case with=
his
white beard he looked quite venerable.&nbs=
p;
Naturally he couldn’t give me much of his company as he had to
look closely after his girls and their admirers; not that the girls were un=
duly
frivolous, but of course being very young they had no experience. They were friendly creatures with
pleasant, merry voices and he was very much devoted to them. He was a muscular man with a high =
colour
and silvery locks curling round his bald pate and over his ears, like a bar=
occo
apostle. I had an idea that h=
e had
had a lurid past and had seen some fighting in his youth. The admirers of the two girls stoo=
d in
great awe of him, from instinct no doubt, because his behaviour to them was
friendly and even somewhat obsequious, yet always with a certain truculent
glint in his eye that made them pause in everything but their generosity=
212;which
was encouraged. I sometimes
wondered whether those two careless, merry hard-working creatures understood
the secret moral beauty of the situation.
My real company w=
as
the dummy in the studio and I can’t say it was exactly satisfying. I even went so far as to discover =
that
it had a sort of grace of its own.
But I never went so far as to address set speeches to it where it lu=
rked
shyly in its corner, or drag it out from there for contemplation. I left it in peace. I wasn’t mad. I was only convinced that I soon w=
ould
be.
Notwithstanding my misanthropy I ha=
d to
see a few people on account of all these Royalist affairs which I
couldn’t very well drop, and in truth did not wish to drop. They were my excuse for remaining =
in
Europe, which somehow I had not the strength of mind to leave for the West
Indies, or elsewhere. On the =
other
hand, my adventurous pursuit kept me in contact with the sea where I found
occupation, protection, consolation, the mental relief of grappling with
concrete problems, the sanity one acquires from close contact with simple
mankind, a little self-confidence born from the dealings with the elemental
powers of nature. I couldn=
217;t give
all that up. And besides all =
this
was related to Doña Rita. I
had, as it were, received it all from her own hand, from that hand the clas=
p of
which was as frank as a man’s and yet conveyed a unique sensation. The
very memory of it would go through me like a wave of heat. It was over that hand that we firs=
t got
into the habit of quarrelling, with the irritability of sufferers from some
obscure pain and yet half unconscious of their disease. Rita’s own spirit hovered ov=
er the
troubled waters of Legitimity. But
as to the sound of the four magic letters of her name I was not very likely=
to
hear it fall sweetly on my ear. For
instance, the distinguished personality in the world of finance with whom I=
had
to confer several times, alluded to the irresistible seduction of the power=
which
reigned over my heart and my mind; which had a mysterious and unforgettable
face, the brilliance of sunshine together with the unfathomable splendour of
the night as—Madame de Lastaola.&nbs=
p;
That’s how that steel-grey man called the greatest mystery of =
the
universe. When uttering that
assumed name he would make for himself a guardedly solemn and reserved face=
as
though he were afraid lest I should presume to smile, lest he himself should
venture to smile, and the sacred formality of our relations should be outra=
ged
beyond mending.
He would refer in=
a
studiously grave tone to Madame de Lastaola’s wishes, plans, activiti=
es,
instructions, movements; or picking up a letter from the usual litter of pa=
per
found on such men’s desks, glance at it to refresh his memory; and, w=
hile
the very sight of the handwriting would make my lips go dry, would ask me i=
n a
bloodless voice whether perchance I had “a direct communication
from—er—Paris lately.”&n=
bsp;
And there would be other maddening circumstances connected with those
visits. He would treat me as a
serious person having a clear view of certain eventualities, while at the v=
ery
moment my vision could see nothing but streaming across the wall at his bac=
k,
abundant and misty, unearthly and adorable, a mass of tawny hair that seeme=
d to
have hot sparks tangled in it.
Another nuisance was the atmosphere of Royalism, of Legitimacy, that=
pervaded
the room, thin as air, intangible, as though no Legitimist of flesh and blo=
od
had ever existed to the man’s mind except perhaps myself. He, of cour=
se,
was just simply a banker, a very distinguished, a very influential, and a v=
ery
impeccable banker. He persist=
ed
also in deferring to my judgment and sense with an over-emphasis called out=
by his
perpetual surprise at my youth.
Though he had seen me many times (I even knew his wife) he could nev=
er
get over my immature age. He
himself was born about fifty years old, all complete, with his iron-grey
whiskers and his bilious eyes, which he had the habit of frequently closing
during a conversation. On one
occasion he said to me. ̶=
0;By
the by, the Marquis of Villarel is here for a time. He inquired after you the last tim=
e he called
on me. May I let him know tha=
t you
are in town?”
I didn’t say
anything to that. The Marquis=
of
Villarel was the Don Rafael of Rita’s own story. What had I to do with Spanish
grandees? And for that matter=
what
had she, the woman of all time, to do with all the villainous or splendid
disguises human dust takes upon itself?&nb=
sp;
All this was in the past, and I was acutely aware that for me there =
was
no present, no future, nothing but a hollow pain, a vain passion of such ma=
gnitude
that being locked up within my breast it gave me an illusion of lonely
greatness with my miserable head uplifted amongst the stars. But when I made up my mind (which =
I did
quickly, to be done with it) to call on the banker’s wife, almost the
first thing she said to me was that the Marquis de Villarel was “amon=
gst
us.” She said it
joyously. If in her husband=
8217;s
room at the bank legitimism was a mere unpopulated principle, in her salon
Legitimacy was nothing but persons.
“Il m’a causé beaucoup de vous,” she said a=
s if
there had been a joke in it of which I ought to be proud. I slunk away from her. I couldn’t believe that the
grandee had talked to her about me.
I had never felt myself part of the great Royalist enterprise. I confess that I was so indifferen=
t to
everything, so profoundly demoralized, that having once got into that
drawing-room I hadn’t the strength to get away; though I could see
perfectly well my volatile hostess going from one to another of her
acquaintances in order to tell them with a little gesture, “Look! Over there—in that corner. T=
hat’s
the notorious Monsieur George.”
At last she herself drove me out by coming to sit by me vivaciously =
and
going into ecstasies over “ce cher Monsieur Mills” and that
magnificent Lord X; and ultimately, with a perfectly odious snap in the eyes
and drop in the voice, dragging in the name of Madame de Lastaola and askin=
g me
whether I was really so much in the confidence of that astonishing person.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “Vous devez bien regretter s=
on
départ pour Paris,” she cooed, looking with affected bashfulne=
ss
at her fan. . . . How I got out of the room I really don’t know. There was also a staircase. I did not fall down it head
first—that much I am certain of; and I also remember that I wandered =
for
a long time about the seashore and went home very late, by the way of the
Prado, giving in passing a fearful glance at the Villa. It showed not a gleam of light thr=
ough
the thin foliage of its trees.
I spent the next =
day
with Dominic on board the little craft watching the shipwrights at work on =
her
deck. From the way they went =
about
their business those men must have been perfectly sane; and I felt greatly =
refreshed
by my company during the day.
Dominic, too, devoted himself to his business, but his taciturnity w=
as
sardonic. Then I dropped in a=
t the café
and Madame Léonore’s loud “Eh, Signorino, here you are at
last!” pleased me by its resonant friendliness. But I found the sparkle of her bla=
ck
eyes as she sat down for a moment opposite me while I was having my drink
rather difficult to bear. Tha=
t man
and that woman seemed to know something.&n=
bsp;
What did they know? At
parting she pressed my hand significantly.=
What did she mean? But=
I
didn’t feel offended by these manifestations. The souls within these people̵=
7;s
breasts were not volatile in the manner of slightly scented and inflated
bladders. Neither had they the impervious skins which seem the rule in the =
fine
world that wants only to get on.
Somehow they had sensed that there was something wrong; and whatever
impression they might have formed for themselves I had the certitude that it
would not be for them a matter of grins at my expense.
That day on retur=
ning
home I found Therese looking out for me, a very unusual occurrence of
late. She handed me a card be=
aring
the name of the Marquis de Villarel.
“How did you
come by this?” I asked. She
turned on at once the tap of her volubility and I was not surprised to learn
that the grandee had not done such an extraordinary thing as to call upon m=
e in
person. A young gentleman had
brought it. Such a nice young
gentleman, she interjected with her piously ghoulish expression. He was not very tall. He had a very smooth complexion (t=
hat
woman was incorrigible) and a nice, tiny black moustache. Therese was sure that he must have=
been
an officer en las filas legitimas.
With that notion in her head she had asked him about the welfare of =
that
other model of charm and elegance, Captain Blunt. To her extreme surprise the charmi=
ng
young gentleman with beautiful eyes had apparently never heard of Blunt.
“I suppose =
our
Rita does tell people awful lies about her poor sister.” She sighed
deeply (she had several kinds of sighs and this was the hopeless kind) and
added reflectively, “Sin on sin, wickedness on wickedness! And the longer she lives the worse=
it
will be. It would be better f=
or our
Rita to be dead.”
I told
“Mademoiselle Therese” that it was really impossible to tell wh=
ether
she was more stupid or atrocious; but I wasn’t really very much shock=
ed. These outbursts did not signify an=
ything
in Therese. One got used to
them. They were merely the
expression of her rapacity and her righteousness; so that our conversation
ended by my asking her whether she had any dinner ready for me that evening=
.
“What’=
;s
the good of getting you anything to eat, my dear young Monsieur,” she
quizzed me tenderly. “Y=
ou
just only peck like a little bird.
Much better let me save the money for you.” It will show the super-terrestrial
nature of my misery when I say that I was quite surprised at Therese’s
view of my appetite. Perhaps =
she
was right. I certainly did not
know. I stared hard at her an=
d in
the end she admitted that the dinner was in fact ready that very moment.
The new young
gentleman within Therese’s horizon didn’t surprise me very much=
. Villarel would travel with some so=
rt of
suite, a couple of secretaries at least.&n=
bsp;
I had heard enough of Carlist headquarters to know that the man had =
been
(very likely was still) Captain General of the Royal Bodyguard and was a pe=
rson
of great political (and domestic) influence at Court. The card was, under its social for=
m, a
mere command to present myself before the grandee. No Royalist devoted by conviction,=
as I
must have appeared to him, could have mistaken the meaning. I put the card in my pocket and af=
ter
dining or not dining—I really don’t remember—spent the
evening smoking in the studio, pursuing thoughts of tenderness and grief,
visions exalting and cruel. F=
rom
time to time I looked at the dummy.
I even got up once from the couch on which I had been writhing like a
worm and walked towards it as if to touch it, but refrained, not from sudden
shame but from sheer despair. By
and by Therese drifted in. It=
was
then late and, I imagine, she was on her way to bed. She looked the picture of cheerful,
rustic innocence and started propounding to me a conundrum which began with=
the
words:
“If our Rita
were to die before long . . .”
She didn’t =
get
any further because I had jumped up and frightened her by shouting: “=
Is
she ill? What has happened? Have you had a letter?”
She had had a
letter. I didn’t ask he=
r to
show it to me, though I daresay she would have done so. I had an idea that there was no me=
aning in
anything, at least no meaning that mattered. But the interruption had made Ther=
ese
apparently forget her sinister conundrum.&=
nbsp;
She observed me with her shrewd, unintelligent eyes for a bit, and t=
hen
with the fatuous remark about the Law being just she left me to the horrors=
of
the studio. I believe I went to sleep there from sheer exhaustion. Some time during the night I woke =
up
chilled to the bone and in the dark.
These were horrors and no mistake.&=
nbsp;
I dragged myself upstairs to bed past the indefatigable statuette
holding up the ever-miserable light.
The black-and-white hall was like an ice-house.
The main
consideration which induced me to call on the Marquis of Villarel was the f=
act
that after all I was a discovery of Doña Rita’s, her own recru=
it. My fidelity and steadfastness had b=
een
guaranteed by her and no one else.
I couldn’t bear the idea of her being criticized by every
empty-headed chatterer belonging to the Cause. And as, apart from that, nothing
mattered much, why, then—I would get this over.
But it appeared t=
hat
I had not reflected sufficiently on all the consequences of that step. First of all the sight of the Villa
looking shabbily cheerful in the sunshine (but not containing her any longe=
r)
was so perturbing that I very nearly went away from the gate. Then when I got in after much
hesitation—being admitted by the man in the green baize apron who
recognized me—the thought of entering that room, out of which she was
gone as completely as if she had been dead, gave me such an emotion that I =
had
to steady myself against the table till the faintness was past. Yet I was irritated as at a treaso=
n when
the man in the baize apron instead of letting me into the Pompeiian dining-=
room
crossed the hall to another door not at all in the Pompeiian style (more Lo=
uis
XV rather—that Villa was like a Salade Russe of styles) and introduce=
d me
into a big, light room full of very modern furniture. The portrait en pied of an officer=
in a
sky-blue uniform hung on the end wall.&nbs=
p;
The officer had a small head, a black beard cut square, a robust bod=
y,
and leaned with gauntleted hands on the simple hilt of a straight sword. Th=
at
striking picture dominated a massive mahogany desk, and, in front of this d=
esk,
a very roomy, tall-backed armchair of dark green velvet. I thought I had been announced int=
o an
empty room till glancing along the extremely loud carpet I detected a pair =
of
feet under the armchair.
I advanced toward=
s it
and discovered a little man, who had made no sound or movement till I came =
into
his view, sunk deep in the green velvet.&n=
bsp;
He altered his position slowly and rested his hollow, black, quietly
burning eyes on my face in prolonged scrutiny. I detected something comminatory i=
n his
yellow, emaciated countenance, but I believe now he was simply startled by =
my
youth. I bowed profoundly.
“Take a cha=
ir,
Don Jorge.”
He was very small,
frail, and thin, but his voice was not languid, though he spoke hardly above
his breath. Such was the enve=
lope
and the voice of the fanatical soul belonging to the Grand-master of Ceremo=
nies
and Captain General of the Bodyguard at the Headquarters of the Legitimist =
Court,
now detached on a special mission.
He was all fidelity, inflexibility, and sombre conviction, but like =
some
great saints he had very little body to keep all these merits in.
“You are ve=
ry
young,” he remarked, to begin with.&=
nbsp;
“The matters on which I desired to converse with you are very
grave.”
“I was under
the impression that your Excellency wished to see me at once. But if your Excellency prefers it =
I will
return in, say, seven years’ time when I may perhaps be old enough to
talk about grave matters.”
He didn’t s=
tir
hand or foot and not even the quiver of an eyelid proved that he had heard =
my
shockingly unbecoming retort.
“You have b=
een
recommended to us by a noble and loyal lady, in whom His Majesty—whom=
God
preserve—reposes an entire confidence. God will reward her as she deserve=
s and
you, too, Señor, according to the disposition you bring to this great
work which has the blessing (here he crossed himself) of our Holy Mother the
Church.”
“I suppose =
your
Excellency understands that in all this I am not looking for reward of any
kind.”
At this he made a
faint, almost ethereal grimace.
“I was spea=
king
of the spiritual blessing which rewards the service of religion and will be=
of
benefit to your soul,” he explained with a slight touch of acidity. “The other is perfectly unde=
rstood
and your fidelity is taken for granted.&nb=
sp;
His Majesty—whom God preserve—has been already pleased to
signify his satisfaction with your services to the most noble and loyal
Doña Rita by a letter in his own hand.”
Perhaps he expect=
ed
me to acknowledge this announcement in some way, speech, or bow, or somethi=
ng,
because before my immobility he made a slight movement in his chair which
smacked of impatience. “=
;I am
afraid, Señor, that you are affected by the spirit of scoffing and
irreverence which pervades this unhappy country of France in which both you=
and
I are strangers, I believe. A=
re you
a young man of that sort?”
“I am a very
good gun-runner, your Excellency,” I answered quietly.
He bowed his head
gravely. “We are aware.=
But I was looking for the motives =
which
ought to have their pure source in religion.”
“I must con=
fess
frankly that I have not reflected on my motives,” I said. “It is
enough for me to know that they are not dishonourable and that anybody can =
see
they are not the motives of an adventurer seeking some sordid advantage.=
221;
He had listened
patiently and when he saw that there was nothing more to come he ended the
discussion.
“Señ=
or,
we should reflect upon our motives.
It is salutary for our conscience and is recommended (he crossed
himself) by our Holy Mother the Church.&nb=
sp;
I have here certain letters from Paris on which I would consult your
young sagacity which is accredited to us by the most loyal Doña Rita=
.”
The sound of that
name on his lips was simply odious.
I was convinced that this man of forms and ceremonies and fanatical
royalism was perfectly heartless. =
span>Perhaps
he reflected on his motives; but it seemed to me that his conscience could =
be
nothing else but a monstrous thing which very few actions could disturb
appreciably. Yet for the cred=
it of Doña
Rita I did not withhold from him my young sagacity. What he thought of it I don’t
know. The matters we discussed were not of course of high policy, though fr=
om
the point of view of the war in the south they were important enough. We agreed on certain things to be =
done,
and finally, always out of regard for Doña Rita’s credit, I put
myself generally at his disposition or of any Carlist agent he would appoin=
t in
his place; for I did not suppose that he would remain very long in
Marseilles. He got out of the=
chair
laboriously, like a sick child might have done. The audience was over but he notic=
ed my
eyes wandering to the portrait and he said in his measured, breathed-out to=
nes:
“I owe the
pleasure of having this admirable work here to the gracious attention of Ma=
dame
de Lastaola, who, knowing my attachment to the royal person of my Master, h=
as
sent it down from Paris to greet me in this house which has been given up f=
or
my occupation also through her generosity to the Royal Cause. Unfortunately she, too, is touched=
by
the infection of this irreverent and unfaithful age. But she is young yet. She is
young.”
These last words =
were
pronounced in a strange tone of menace as though he were supernaturally awa=
re
of some suspended disasters. =
With
his burning eyes he was the image of an Inquisitor with an unconquerable so=
ul
in that frail body. But sudde=
nly he
dropped his eyelids and the conversation finished as characteristically as =
it
had begun: with a slow, dismissing inclination of the head and an “Ad=
ios,
Señor—may God guard you from sin.”
I must say that for the next three =
months
I threw myself into my unlawful trade with a sort of desperation, dogged and
hopeless, like a fairly decent fellow who takes deliberately to drink. The business was getting dangerous=
. The bands in the South were not ve=
ry well
organized, worked with no very definite plan, and now were beginning to be
pretty closely hunted. The
arrangements for the transport of supplies were going to pieces; our friends
ashore were getting scared; and it was no joke to find after a day of skilf=
ul
dodging that there was no one at the landing place and have to go out again
with our compromising cargo, to slink and lurk about the coast for another =
week
or so, unable to trust anybody and looking at every vessel we met with
suspicion. Once we were ambus=
hed by
a lot of “rascally Carabineers,” as Dominic called them, who hi=
d themselves
among the rocks after disposing a train of mules well in view on the
seashore. Luckily, on evidence
which I could never understand, Dominic detected something suspicious. Perhaps it was by virtue of some s=
ixth
sense that men born for unlawful occupations may be gifted with. “The=
re
is a smell of treachery about this,” he remarked suddenly, turning at=
his
oar. (He and I were pulling a=
lone
in a little boat to reconnoitre.) =
span>I
couldn’t detect any smell and I regard to this day our escape on that
occasion as, properly speaking, miraculous. Surely some supernatural power mus=
t have
struck upwards the barrels of the Carabineers’ rifles, for they misse=
d us
by yards. And as the Carabine=
ers have
the reputation of shooting straight, Dominic, after swearing most horribly,
ascribed our escape to the particular guardian angel that looks after crazy
young gentlemen. Dominic beli=
eved
in angels in a conventional way, but laid no claim to having one of his
own. Soon afterwards, while s=
ailing
quietly at night, we found ourselves suddenly near a small coasting vessel,
also without lights, which all at once treated us to a volley of rifle
fire. Dominic’s mighty =
and
inspired yell: “A plat ventre!” and also an unexpected roll to
windward saved all our lives.
Nobody got a scratch. =
We
were past in a moment and in a breeze then blowing we had the heels of anyt=
hing
likely to give us chase. But an hour afterwards, as we stood side by side p=
eering
into the darkness, Dominic was heard to mutter through his teeth: “Le
métier se gâte.”
I, too, had the feeling that the trade, if not altogether spoiled, h=
ad
seen its best days. But I did=
not
care. In fact, for my purpose=
it
was rather better, a more potent influence; like the stronger intoxication =
of
raw spirit. A volley in the d=
ark
after all was not such a bad thing.
Only a moment before we had received it, there, in that calm night of
the sea full of freshness and soft whispers, I had been looking at an
enchanting turn of a head in a faint light of its own, the tawny hair with
snared red sparks brushed up from the nape of a white neck and held up on h=
igh
by an arrow of gold feathered with brilliants and with ruby gleams all along
its shaft. That jewelled orna=
ment,
which I remember often telling Rita was of a very Philistinish conception (=
it was
in some way connected with a tortoiseshell comb) occupied an undue place in=
my
memory, tried to come into some sort of significance even in my sleep. Often I dreamed of her with white =
limbs
shimmering in the gloom like a nymph haunting a riot of foliage, and raisin=
g a
perfect round arm to take an arrow of gold out of her hair to throw it at m=
e by
hand, like a dart. It came on=
, a
whizzing trail of light, but I always woke up before it struck. Always. Invariably. It never had a chance. A volley of=
small
arms was much more likely to do the business some day—or night.
=
&nb=
sp;
* * * * *
At last came the =
day
when everything slipped out of my grasp.&n=
bsp;
The little vessel, broken and gone like the only toy of a lonely chi=
ld,
the sea itself, which had swallowed it, throwing me on shore after a shipwr=
eck that
instead of a fair fight left in me the memory of a suicide. It took away all that there was in=
me of
independent life, but just failed to take me out of the world, which looked
then indeed like Another World fit for no one else but unrepentant
sinners. Even Dominic failed =
me,
his moral entity destroyed by what to him was a most tragic ending of our c=
ommon
enterprise. The lurid swiftne=
ss of
it all was like a stunning thunder-clap—and, one evening, I found mys=
elf
weary, heartsore, my brain still dazed and with awe in my heart entering
Marseilles by way of the railway station, after many adventures, one more
disagreeable than another, involving privations, great exertions, a lot of
difficulties with all sorts of people who looked upon me evidently more as =
a discreditable
vagabond deserving the attentions of gendarmes than a respectable (if crazy)
young gentleman attended by a guardian angel of his own. I must confess that I slunk out of=
the
railway station shunning its many lights as if, invariably, failure made an
outcast of a man. I hadn̵=
7;t
any money in my pocket. I
hadn’t even the bundle and the stick of a destitute wayfarer. I was unshaven and unwashed, and my
heart was faint within me. My
attire was such that I daren’t approach the rank of fiacres, where in=
deed
I could perceive only two pairs of lamps, of which one suddenly drove away
while I looked. The other I g=
ave up
to the fortunate of this earth. I
didn’t believe in my power of persuasion. I had no powers. I slunk on and on, shivering with =
cold,
through the uproarious streets.
Bedlam was loose in them. It
was the time of Carnival.
Small objects of =
no
value have the secret of sticking to a man in an astonishing way. I had nearly lost my liberty and e=
ven my
life, I had lost my ship, a money-belt full of gold, I had lost my companio=
ns,
had parted from my friend; my occupation, my only link with life, my touch =
with
the sea, my cap and jacket were gone—but a small penknife and a latch=
key
had never parted company with me.
With the latchkey I opened the door of refuge. The hall wore its deaf-and-dumb ai=
r, its
black-and-white stillness.
The sickly gas-jet
still struggled bravely with adversity at the end of the raised silver arm =
of
the statuette which had kept to a hair’s breadth its graceful pose on=
the
toes of its left foot; and the staircase lost itself in the shadows above.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Therese was parsimonious with the
lights. To see all this was surprising.&nb=
sp;
It seemed to me that all the things I had known ought to have come d=
own
with a crash at the moment of the final catastrophe on the Spanish coast. And there was Therese herself desc=
ending
the stairs, frightened but plucky.
Perhaps she thought that she would be murdered this time for
certain. She had a strange, u=
nemotional
conviction that the house was particularly convenient for a crime. One could never get to the bottom =
of her
wild notions which she held with the stolidity of a peasant allied to the
outward serenity of a nun. She
quaked all over as she came down to her doom, but when she recognized me she
got such a shock that she sat down suddenly on the lowest step. She did not expect me for another =
week
at least, and, besides, she explained, the state I was in made her blood ta=
ke
“one turn.”
Indeed my plight
seemed either to have called out or else repressed her true nature. But who had ever fathomed her
nature! There was none of her
treacly volubility. There wer=
e none
of her “dear young gentlemans” and “poor little hearts=
221;
and references to sin. In
breathless silence she ran about the house getting my room ready, lighting
fires and gas-jets and even hauling at me to help me up the stairs. Yes, she did lay hands on me for t=
hat
charitable purpose. They
trembled. Her pale eyes hardl=
y left
my face. “What brought =
you
here like this?” she whispered once.
“If I were =
to
tell you, Mademoiselle Therese, you would see there the hand of God.”=
She dropped the e=
xtra
pillow she was carrying and then nearly fell over it. “Oh, dear heart,” she
murmured, and ran off to the kitchen.
I sank into bed as
into a cloud and Therese reappeared very misty and offering me something in=
a
cup. I believe it was hot mil=
k, and
after I drank it she took the cup and stood looking at me fixedly. I managed to say with difficulty:
“Go away,” whereupon she vanished as if by magic before the wor=
ds
were fairly out of my mouth.
Immediately afterwards the sunlight forced through the slats of the
jalousies its diffused glow, and Therese was there again as if by magic, sa=
ying
in a distant voice: “It’s midday”. . . Youth will have its
rights. I had slept like a st=
one
for seventeen hours.
I suppose an hono=
urable
bankrupt would know such an awakening: the sense of catastrophe, the shrink=
ing
from the necessity of beginning life again, the faint feeling that there are
misfortunes which must be paid for by a hanging. In the course of the morning There=
se
informed me that the apartment usually occupied by Mr. Blunt was vacant and
added mysteriously that she intended to keep it vacant for a time, because =
she
had been instructed to do so. I
couldn’t imagine why Blunt should wish to return to Marseilles. She told me also that the house was
empty except for myself and the two dancing girls with their father. Those people had been away for som=
e time
as the girls had engagements in some Italian summer theatres, but apparently
they had secured a re-engagement for the winter and were now back. I let Therese talk because it kept=
my imagination
from going to work on subjects which, I had made up my mind, were no concer=
n of
mine. But I went out early to
perform an unpleasant task. I=
t was
only proper that I should let the Carlist agent ensconced in the Prado Villa
know of the sudden ending of my activities. It would be grave enough news for =
him,
and I did not like to be its bearer for reasons which were mainly
personal. I resembled Dominic=
in so
far that I, too, disliked failure.
The Marquis of
Villarel had of course gone long before.&n=
bsp;
The man who was there was another type of Carlist altogether, and his
temperament was that of a trader.
He was the chief purveyor of the Legitimist armies, an honest broker=
of
stores, and enjoyed a great reputation for cleverness. His important task k=
ept
him, of course, in France, but his young wife, whose beauty and devotion to=
her
King were well known, represented him worthily at Headquarters, where his o=
wn
appearances were extremely rare. The dissimilar but united loyalties of tho=
se
two people had been rewarded by the title of baron and the ribbon of some o=
rder
or other. The gossip of the
Legitimist circles appreciated those favours with smiling indulgence. He was the man who had been so
distressed and frightened by Doña Rita’s first visit to
Tolosa. He had an extreme reg=
ard
for his wife. And in that sph=
ere of
clashing arms and unceasing intrigue nobody would have smiled then at his
agitation if the man himself hadn’t been somewhat grotesque.
He must have been
startled when I sent in my name, for he didn’t of course expect to se=
e me
yet—nobody expected me. He
advanced soft-footed down the room.
With his jutting nose, flat-topped skull and sable garments he recal=
led
an obese raven, and when he heard of the disaster he manifested his
astonishment and concern in a most plebeian manner by a low and expressive
whistle. I, of course, could =
not
share his consternation. My
feelings in that connection were of a different order; but I was annoyed at=
his
unintelligent stare.
“I
suppose,” I said, “you will take it on yourself to advise
Doña Rita, who is greatly interested in this affair.”
“Yes, but I=
was
given to understand that Madame de Lastaola was to leave Paris either yeste=
rday
or this morning.”
It was my turn to
stare dumbly before I could manage to ask: “For Tolosa?” in a v=
ery
knowing tone.
Whether it was the
droop of his head, play of light, or some other subtle cause, his nose seem=
ed
to have grown perceptibly longer.
“That,
Señor, is the place where the news has got to be conveyed without un=
due
delay,” he said in an agitated wheeze. “I could, of course, telegra=
ph to
our agent in Bayonne who would find a messenger. But I don’t like, I don̵=
7;t
like! The Alphonsists have ag=
ents,
too, who hang about the telegraph offices.=
It’s no use letting the enemy get that news.”
He was obviously =
very
confused, unhappy, and trying to think of two different things at once.
“Sit down, =
Don
George, sit down.” He
absolutely forced a cigar on me. “I am extremely distressed. That—I mean Doña Rita=
is
undoubtedly on her way to Tolosa.
This is very frightful.”
I must say, howev=
er,
that there was in the man some sense of duty. He mastered his private fears. After some cogitation he murmured:
“There is another way of getting the news to Headquarters. Suppose you write me a formal lett=
er
just stating the facts, the unfortunate facts, which I will be able to
forward. There is an agent of=
ours,
a fellow I have been employing for purchasing supplies, a perfectly honest
man. He is coming here from t=
he
north by the ten o’clock train with some papers for me of a confident=
ial
nature. I was rather embarras=
sed
about it. It wouldn’t d=
o for
him to get into any sort of trouble.
He is not very intelligent.
I wonder, Don George, whether you would consent to meet him at the
station and take care of him generally till to-morrow. I don’t like the idea of him=
going
about alone. Then, to-morrow =
night,
we would send him on to Tolosa by the west coast route, with the news; and =
then
he can also call on Doña Rita who will no doubt be already there. . .
.” He became again dist=
racted
all in a moment and actually went so far as to wring his fat hands. “Oh, yes, she will be
there!” he exclaimed in most pathetic accents.
I was not in the
humour to smile at anything, and he must have been satisfied with the gravi=
ty
with which I beheld his extraordinary antics. My mind was very far away.
“Oh,
yes,” I said, “I have nothing to do and even nothing to think o=
f just
now, I will meet your man as he gets off the train at ten o’clock to-=
night. What’s he like?”
“Oh, he has=
a
black moustache and whiskers, and his chin is shaved,” said the
newly-fledged baron cordially.
“A very honest fellow.
I always found him very useful.&nbs=
p;
His name is José Ortega.”
He was perfectly
self-possessed now, and walking soft-footed accompanied me to the door of t=
he
room. He shook hands with a
melancholy smile. “This is a very frightful situation. My poor wife will be quite distrac=
ted. She is such a patriot. Many thanks, Don George. You relieve me greatly. The fellow is rather stupid and ra=
ther
bad-tempered. Queer creature, but very honest! Oh, very honest!”
It was the last evening of Carnival=
. The same masks, the same yells, th=
e same
mad rushes, the same bedlam of disguised humanity blowing about the streets=
in
the great gusts of mistral that seemed to make them dance like dead leaves =
on
an earth where all joy is watched by death.
It was exactly tw=
elve
months since that other carnival evening when I had felt a little weary and=
a
little lonely but at peace with all mankind. It must have been—to a d=
ay
or two. But on this evening it
wasn’t merely loneliness that I felt. I felt bereaved with a sense of a
complete and universal loss in which there was perhaps more resentment than
mourning; as if the world had not been taken away from me by an august decr=
ee
but filched from my innocence by an underhand fate at the very moment when =
it had
disclosed to my passion its warm and generous beauty. This consciousness of universal lo=
ss had
this advantage that it induced something resembling a state of philosophic
indifference. I walked up to =
the
railway station caring as little for the cold blasts of wind as though I had
been going to the scaffold. T=
he
delay of the train did not irritate me in the least. I had finally made up my mind to w=
rite a
letter to Doña Rita; and this “honest fellow” for whom I=
was
waiting would take it to her. He
would have no difficulty in Tolosa in finding Madame de Lastaola. The General Headquarters, which wa=
s also
a Court, would be buzzing with comments on her presence. Most likely that “honest fel=
low”
was already known to Doña Rita.&nbs=
p;
For all I knew he might have been her discovery just as I was. Probably I, too, was regarded as a=
n “honest
fellow” enough; but stupid—since it was clear that my luck was =
not
inexhaustible. I hoped that w=
hile
carrying my letter the man would not let himself be caught by some Alphonsi=
st
guerilla who would, of course, shoot him.&=
nbsp;
But why should he? I, =
for
instance, had escaped with my life from a much more dangerous enterprise th=
an
merely passing through the frontier line in charge of some trustworthy
guide. I pictured the fellow =
to
myself trudging over the stony slopes and scrambling down wild ravines with=
my
letter to Doña Rita in his pocket.&=
nbsp;
It would be such a letter of farewell as no lover had ever written, =
no
woman in the world had ever read, since the beginning of love on earth. It would be worthy of the woman. No experience, no memories, no dead
traditions of passion or language would inspire it. She herself would be its sole
inspiration. She would see her own image in it as in a mirror; and perhaps =
then
she would understand what it was I was saying farewell to on the very thres=
hold
of my life. A breath of vanity
passed through my brain. A le=
tter
as moving as her mere existence was moving would be something unique. I regretted I was not a poet.
I woke up to a gr=
eat
noise of feet, a sudden influx of people through the doors of the
platform. I made out my man=
8217;s
whiskers at once—not that they were enormous, but because I had been
warned beforehand of their existence by the excellent Commissary General. At first I saw nothing of him but =
his
whiskers: they were black and cut somewhat in the shape of a shark’s =
fin
and so very fine that the least breath of air animated them into a sort of
playful restlessness. The
man’s shoulders were hunched up and when he had made his way clear of=
the
throng of passengers I perceived him as an unhappy and shivery being. Obviously he didn’t expect t=
o be
met, because when I murmured an enquiring, “Señor Ortega?̶=
1; into
his ear he swerved away from me and nearly dropped a little handbag he was
carrying. His complexion was
uniformly pale, his mouth was red, but not engaging. His social status was not very
definite. He was wearing a da=
rk
blue overcoat of no particular cut, his aspect had no relief; yet those
restless side-whiskers flanking his red mouth and the suspicious expression=
of
his black eyes made him noticeable.
This I regretted the more because I caught sight of two skulking fel=
lows,
looking very much like policemen in plain clothes, watching us from a corne=
r of
the great hall. I hurried my =
man
into a fiacre. He had been tr=
avelling
from early morning on cross-country lines and after we got on terms a little
confessed to being very hungry and cold.&n=
bsp;
His red lips trembled and I noted an underhand, cynical curiosity wh=
en
he had occasion to raise his eyes to my face. I was in some doubt how to dispose=
of
him but as we rolled on at a jog trot I came to the conclusion that the bes=
t thing
to do would be to organize for him a shake-down in the studio. Obscure lodg=
ing
houses are precisely the places most looked after by the police, and even t=
he
best hotels are bound to keep a register of arrivals. I was very anxious that nothing sh=
ould
stop his projected mission of courier to headquarters. As we passed various street corner=
s where
the mistral blast struck at us fiercely I could feel him shivering by my
side. However, Therese would =
have
lighted the iron stove in the studio before retiring for the night, and,
anyway, I would have to turn her out to make up a bed on the couch. Service of the King! I must say that she was amiable and
didn’t seem to mind anything one asked her to do. Thus while the fellow slumbered on=
the
divan I would sit upstairs in my room setting down on paper those great wor=
ds
of passion and sorrow that seethed in my brain and even must have forced
themselves in murmurs on to my lips, because the man by my side suddenly as=
ked
me: “What did you say?”—“Nothing,” I answered,
very much surprised. In the
shifting light of the street lamps he looked the picture of bodily misery w=
ith
his chattering teeth and his whiskers blown back flat over his ears. But somehow he didn’t arouse=
my
compassion. He was swearing to
himself, in French and Spanish, and I tried to soothe him by the assurance =
that
we had not much farther to go.
“I am starving,” he remarked acidly, and I felt a little
compunction. Clearly, the fir=
st
thing to do was to feed him. =
We
were then entering the Cannebière and as I didn’t care to show=
myself
with him in the fashionable restaurant where a new face (and such a face, t=
oo)
would be remarked, I pulled up the fiacre at the door of the Maison
Dorée. That was more o=
f a
place of general resort where, in the multitude of casual patrons, he would
pass unnoticed.
For this last nig=
ht
of carnival the big house had decorated all its balconies with rows of colo=
ured
paper lanterns right up to the roof.
I led the way to the grand salon, for as to private rooms they had b=
een
all retained days before. The=
re was
a great crowd of people in costume, but by a piece of good luck we managed =
to
secure a little table in a corner. The revellers, intent on their pleasure,
paid no attention to us.
Señor Ortega trod on my heels and after sitting down opposite=
me
threw an ill-natured glance at the festive scene. It might have been about half-past=
ten,
then.
Two glasses of wi=
ne
he drank one after another did not improve his temper. He only ceased to shiver. After he had eaten something it mu=
st have
occurred to him that he had no reason to bear me a grudge and he tried to
assume a civil and even friendly manner.&n=
bsp;
His mouth, however, betrayed an abiding bitterness. I mean when he smiled. In repose it was a very expression=
less
mouth, only it was too red to be altogether ordinary. The whole of him was like that: the
whiskers too black, the hair too shiny, the forehead too white, the eyes too
mobile; and he lent you his attention with an air of eagerness which made y=
ou
uncomfortable. He seemed to expect you to give yourself away by some
unconsidered word that he would snap up with delight. It was that peculiarity that someh=
ow put
me on my guard. I had no idea=
who I
was facing across the table and as a matter of fact I did not care. All my impressions were blurred; a=
nd even
the promptings of my instinct were the haziest thing imaginable. Now and th=
en I
had acute hallucinations of a woman with an arrow of gold in her hair. This caused alternate moments of
exaltation and depression from which I tried to take refuge in conversation;
but Señor Ortega was not stimulating. He was preoccupied with personal
matters. When suddenly he ask=
ed me
whether I knew why he had been called away from his work (he had been buying
supplies from peasants somewhere in Central France), I answered that I
didn’t know what the reason was originally, but I had an idea that the
present intention was to make of him a courier, bearing certain messages fr=
om
Baron H. to the Quartel Real in Tolosa.
He glared at me l=
ike
a basilisk. “And why ha=
ve I
been met like this?” he enquired with an air of being prepared to hea=
r a
lie.
I explained that =
it
was the Baron’s wish, as a matter of prudence and to avoid any possib=
le
trouble which might arise from enquiries by the police.
He took it
badly. “What
nonsense.” He was—=
;he
said—an employé (for several years) of Hernandez Brothers in
Paris, an importing firm, and he was travelling on their business—as =
he
could prove. He dived into hi=
s side
pocket and produced a handful of folded papers of all sorts which he plunged
back again instantly.
And even then I
didn’t know whom I had there, opposite me, busy now devouring a slice=
of
pâté de foie gras. Not
in the least. It never entere=
d my
head. How could it? The Rita that haunted me had no hi=
story;
she was but the principle of life charged with fatality. Her form was only a mirage of desi=
re
decoying one step by step into despair.
Señor Orte=
ga
gulped down some more wine and suggested I should tell him who I was. “It’s only right I sho=
uld
know,” he added.
This could not be
gainsaid; and to a man connected with the Carlist organization the shortest=
way
was to introduce myself as that “Monsieur George” of whom he had
probably heard.
He leaned far over
the table, till his very breast-bone was over the edge, as though his eyes =
had
been stilettos and he wanted to drive them home into my brain. It was only much later that I unde=
rstood
how near death I had been at that moment.&=
nbsp;
But the knives on the tablecloth were the usual restaurant knives wi=
th
rounded ends and about as deadly as pieces of hoop-iron. Perhaps in the very gust of his fu=
ry he
remembered what a French restaurant knife is like and something sane within=
him
made him give up the sudden project of cutting my heart out where I sat.
“Oh!”=
I
said, “that’s giving me too much importance.” The person responsible and whom I =
looked
upon as chief of all the business was, as he might have heard, too, a certa=
in
noble and loyal lady.
“I am as no=
ble
as she is,” he snapped peevishly, and I put him down at once as a very
offensive beast. “And a=
s to
being loyal, what is that? It is being truthful! It is being faithful! I know all about her.”
I managed to pres=
erve
an air of perfect unconcern. =
He
wasn’t a fellow to whom one could talk of Doña Rita.
“You are a
Basque,” I said.
He admitted rather
contemptuously that he was a Basque and even then the truth did not dawn up=
on
me. I suppose that with the h=
idden
egoism of a lover I was thinking of myself, of myself alone in relation to
Doña Rita, not of Doña Rita herself. He, too, obviously. He said: “I am an educated m=
an,
but I know her people, all peasants.
There is a sister, an uncle, a priest, a peasant, too, and perfectly
unenlightened. One can’=
t expect
much from a priest (I am a free-thinker of course), but he is really too ba=
d,
more like a brute beast. As t=
o all
her people, mostly dead now, they never were of any account. There was a little land, but they =
were
always working on other people’s farms, a barefooted gang, a starved
lot. I ought to know because =
we are
distant relations. Twentieth cousins or something of the sort. Yes, I am related to that most loy=
al
lady. And what is she, after =
all,
but a Parisian woman with innumerable lovers, as I have been told.”
“I don̵=
7;t
think your information is very correct,” I said, affecting to yawn
slightly. “This is mere
gossip of the gutter and I am surprised at you, who really know nothing abo=
ut
it—”
But the disgusting
animal had fallen into a brown study.
The hair of his very whiskers was perfectly still. I had now given up all idea of the=
letter
to Rita. Suddenly he spoke ag=
ain:
“Women are =
the
origin of all evil. One should
never trust them. They have no
honour. No honour!” he
repeated, striking his breast with his closed fist on which the knuckles st=
ood
out very white. “I left=
my village
many years ago and of course I am perfectly satisfied with my position and I
don’t know why I should trouble my head about this loyal lady. I suppose that’s the way wom=
en get
on in the world.”
I felt convinced =
that
he was no proper person to be a messenger to headquarters. He struck me as altogether untrust=
worthy
and perhaps not quite sane. T=
his
was confirmed by him saying suddenly with no visible connection and as if it
had been forced from him by some agonizing process: “I was a boy
once,” and then stopping dead short with a smile. He had a smile that
frightened one by its association of malice and anguish.
“Will you h=
ave
anything more to eat?” I asked.
He declined
dully. He had had enough. But he drained the last of a bottl=
e into
his glass and accepted a cigar which I offered him. While he was lighting it I had a s=
ort of
confused impression that he wasn’t such a stranger to me as I had ass=
umed
he was; and yet, on the other hand, I was perfectly certain I had never seen
him before. Next moment I fel=
t that
I could have knocked him down if he hadn’t looked so amazingly unhapp=
y, while
he came out with the astounding question: “Señor, have you eve=
r been
a lover in your young days?”
“What do you
mean?” I asked. “=
How
old do you think I am?”
“That’=
;s
true,” he said, gazing at me in a way in which the damned gaze out of
their cauldrons of boiling pitch at some soul walking scot free in the plac=
e of
torment. “It’s tr=
ue,
you don’t seem to have anything on your mind.” He assumed an air of ease, throwin=
g an
arm over the back of his chair and blowing the smoke through the gash of his
twisted red mouth. “Tell
me,” he said, “between men, you know, has this—wonderful =
celebrity—what
does she call herself? How lo=
ng has
she been your mistress?”
I reflected rapid=
ly
that if I knocked him over, chair and all, by a sudden blow from the should=
er
it would bring about infinite complications beginning with a visit to the
Commissaire de Police on night-duty, and ending in God knows what scandal a=
nd
disclosures of political kind; because there was no telling what, or how mu=
ch,
this outrageous brute might choose to say and how many people he might not
involve in a most undesirable publicity.&n=
bsp;
He was smoking his cigar with a poignantly mocking air and not even
looking at me. One can’=
t hit
like that a man who isn’t even looking at one; and then, just as I was
looking at him swinging his leg with a caustic smile and stony eyes, I felt
sorry for the creature. It wa=
s only
his body that was there in that chair.&nbs=
p;
It was manifest to me that his soul was absent in some hell of its
own. At that moment I attaine=
d the
knowledge of who it was I had before me.&n=
bsp;
This was the man of whom both Doña Rita and Rose were so much
afraid. It remained then for =
me to
look after him for the night and then arrange with Baron H. that he should =
be
sent away the very next day—and anywhere but to Tolosa. Yes, evidently, I mustn’t lo=
se
sight of him. I proposed in t=
he calmest
tone that we should go on where he could get his much-needed rest. He rose with alacrity, picked up h=
is
little hand-bag, and, walking out before me, no doubt looked a very ordinary
person to all eyes but mine. =
It was
then past eleven, not much, because we had not been in that restaurant quit=
e an
hour, but the routine of the town’s night-life being upset during the
Carnival the usual row of fiacres outside the Maison Dorée was not
there; in fact, there were very few carriages about. Perhaps the coachmen h=
ad
assumed Pierrot costumes and were rushing about the streets on foot yelling
with the rest of the population. “We will have to walk,”=
I
said after a while.—“Oh, yes, let us walk,” assented Se&n=
tilde;or
Ortega, “or I will be frozen here.” It was like a plaint of unutterable
wretchedness. I had a fancy t=
hat
all his natural heat had abandoned his limbs and gone to his brain. It was otherwise with me; my head =
was
cool but I didn’t find the night really so very cold. We stepped out briskly side by
side. My lucid thinking was, =
as it
were, enveloped by the wide shouting of the consecrated Carnival gaiety.
I remember once a
young doctor expounding the theory that most catastrophes in family circles,
surprising episodes in public affairs and disasters in private life, had th=
eir
origin in the fact that the world was full of half-mad people. He asserted that they were the rea=
l majority. When asked whether he considered h=
imself
as belonging to the majority, he said frankly that he didn’t think so;
unless the folly of voicing this view in a company, so utterly unable to
appreciate all its horror, could be regarded as the first symptom of his own
fate. We shouted down him and=
his
theory, but there is no doubt that it had thrown a chill on the gaiety of o=
ur
gathering.
We had now entere=
d a
quieter quarter of the town and Señor Ortega had ceased his
muttering. For myself I had n=
ot the
slightest doubt of my own sanity.
It was proved to me by the way I could apply my intelligence to the
problem of what was to be done with Señor Ortega. Generally, he was unfit to be trus=
ted
with any mission whatever. The
unstability of his temper was sure to get him into a scrape. Of course carrying a letter to Hea=
dquarters
was not a very complicated matter; and as to that I would have trusted
willingly a properly trained dog.
My private letter to Doña Rita, the wonderful, the unique let=
ter
of farewell, I had given up for the present. Naturally I thought of the Ortega
problem mainly in the terms of Doña Rita’s safety. Her image presided at every counci=
l, at every
conflict of my mind, and dominated every faculty of my senses. It floated before my eyes, it touc=
hed my
elbow, it guarded my right side and my left side; my ears seemed to catch t=
he
sound of her footsteps behind me, she enveloped me with passing whiffs of
warmth and perfume, with filmy touches of the hair on my face. She penetrated me, my head was ful=
l of
her . . . And his head, too, I thought suddenly with a side glance at my
companion. He walked quietly =
with
hunched-up shoulders carrying his little hand-bag and he looked the most
commonplace figure imaginable.
Yes. There was between us a most horrib=
le
fellowship; the association of his crazy torture with the sublime suffering=
of
my passion. We hadn’t b=
een a
quarter of an hour together when that woman had surged up fatally between u=
s;
between this miserable wretch and myself.&=
nbsp;
We were haunted by the same image.&=
nbsp;
But I was sane! I was =
sane! Not because I was certain that the
fellow must not be allowed to go to Tolosa, but because I was perfectly ali=
ve
to the difficulty of stopping him from going there, since the decision was
absolutely in the hands of Baron H.
If I were to go e=
arly
in the morning and tell that fat, bilious man: “Look here, your
Ortega’s mad,” he would certainly think at once that I was, get
very frightened, and . . . one couldn’t tell what course he would
take. He would eliminate me s=
omehow
out of the affair. And yet I =
could
not let the fellow proceed to where Doña Rita was, because, obviousl=
y,
he had been molesting her, had filled her with uneasiness and even alarm, w=
as
an unhappy element and a disturbing influence in her life—incredible =
as
the thing appeared! I
couldn’t let him go on to make himself a worry and a nuisance, drive =
her
out from a town in which she wished to be (for whatever reason) and perhaps
start some explosive scandal. And
that girl Rose seemed to fear something graver even than a scandal. But if I were to explain the matter
fully to H. he would simply rejoice in his heart. Nothing would please him more than=
to
have Doña Rita driven out of Tolosa. What a relief from his anxieties (=
and
his wife’s, too); and if I were to go further, if I even went so far =
as
to hint at the fears which Rose had not been able to conceal from me, why t=
hen—I
went on thinking coldly with a stoical rejection of the most elementary fai=
th
in mankind’s rectitude—why then, that accommodating husband wou=
ld
simply let the ominous messenger have his chance. He would see there only his natural
anxieties being laid to rest for ever. Horrible? Yes. But I could not take the risk. In a twelvemonth I had travelled a=
long
way in my mistrust of mankind.
We paced on
steadily. I thought: “H=
ow on
earth am I going to stop you?” Had this arisen only a month before, w=
hen
I had the means at hand and Dominic to confide in, I would have simply
kidnapped the fellow. A littl=
e trip
to sea would not have done Señor Ortega any harm; though no doubt it
would have been abhorrent to his feelings.=
But now I had not the means.
I couldn’t even tell where my poor Dominic was hiding his dimi=
nished
head.
Again I glanced at
him sideways. I was the talle=
r of
the two and as it happened I met in the light of the street lamp his own
stealthy glance directed up at me with an agonized expression, an expression
that made me fancy I could see the man’s very soul writhing in his bo=
dy
like an impaled worm. In spit=
e of
my utter inexperience I had some notion of the images that rushed into his =
mind
at the sight of any man who had approached Doña Rita. It was enough to awaken in any hum=
an
being a movement of horrified compassion; but my pity went out not to him b=
ut
to Doña Rita. It was f=
or her
that I felt sorry; I pitied her for having that damned soul on her track. I pitied her with tenderness and i=
ndignation,
as if this had been both a danger and a dishonour.
I don’t mea=
n to
say that those thoughts passed through my head consciously. I had only the resultant, settled
feeling. I had, however, a th=
ought,
too. It came on me suddenly, =
and I
asked myself with rage and astonishment: “Must I then kill that
brute?” There didn̵=
7;t
seem to be any alternative. B=
etween
him and Doña Rita I couldn’t hesitate. I believe I gave a slight laugh of
desperation. The suddenness o=
f this
sinister conclusion had in it something comic and unbelievable. It loosened my grip on my mental
processes. A Latin tag came i=
nto my
head about the facile descent into the abyss. I marvelled at its aptness, and al=
so
that it should have come to me so pat.&nbs=
p;
But I believe now that it was suggested simply by the actual declivi=
ty
of the street of the Consuls which lies on a gentle slope. We had just turned the corner. All the houses were dark and in a =
perspective
of complete solitude our two shadows dodged and wheeled about our feet.
“Here we
are,” I said.
He was an
extraordinarily chilly devil. When
we stopped I could hear his teeth chattering again. I don’t know what came over =
me, I
had a sort of nervous fit, was incapable of finding my pockets, let alone t=
he
latchkey. I had the illusion of a narrow streak of light on the wall of the
house as if it had been cracked.
“I hope we will be able to get in,” I murmured.
Señor Orte=
ga
stood waiting patiently with his handbag, like a rescued wayfarer. “But you live in this house,
don’t you?” he observed.
“No,”=
I
said, without hesitation. I
didn’t know how that man would behave if he were aware that I was sta=
ying
under the same roof. He was h=
alf
mad. He might want to talk all
night, try crazily to invade my privacy.&n=
bsp;
How could I tell? More=
over,
I wasn’t so sure that I would remain in the house. I had some notion of going out aga=
in and
walking up and down the street of the Consuls till daylight. “No, an absent friend lets m=
e use
. . . I had that latchkey this morning . . . Ah! here it is.”
I let him go in
first. The sickly gas flame w=
as
there on duty, undaunted, waiting for the end of the world to come and put =
it
out. I think that the
black-and-white hall surprised Ortega.&nbs=
p;
I had closed the front door without noise and stood for a moment
listening, while he glanced about furtively. There were only two other doors in=
the
hall, right and left. Their p=
anels
of ebony were decorated with bronze applications in the centre. The one on the left was of course
Blunt’s door. As the pa=
ssage
leading beyond it was dark at the further end I took Señor Ortega by=
the
hand and led him along, unresisting, like a child. For some reason or other I moved on
tip-toe and he followed my example.
The light and the warmth of the studio impressed him favourably; he =
laid
down his little bag, rubbed his hands together, and produced a smile of
satisfaction; but it was such a smile as a totally ruined man would perhaps
force on his lips, or a man condemned to a short shrift by his doctor. I begged him to make himself at ho=
me and
said that I would go at once and hunt up the woman of the house who would m=
ake
him up a bed on the big couch there.
He hardly listened to what I said. What were all those things to
him! He knew that his destiny=
was
to sleep on a bed of thorns, to feed on adders. But he tried to show a sort of pol=
ite
interest. He asked: “Wh=
at is
this place?”
“It used to
belong to a painter,” I
mumbled.
“Ah, your a=
bsent
friend,” he said, making a wry mouth. “I detest all those artists,=
and
all those writers, and all politicos who are thieves; and I would go even
farther and higher, laying a curse on all idle lovers of women. You think perhaps I am a Royalist?=
No.
If there was anybody in heaven or hell to pray to I would pray for a
revolution—a red revolution everywhere.”
“You astoni=
sh
me,” I said, just to say something.
“No! But there are half a dozen people =
in the
world with whom I would like to settle accounts. One could shoot them like partridg=
es and
no questions asked. That̵=
7;s
what revolution would mean to me.”
“It’s=
a
beautifully simple view,” I said.&nb=
sp;
“I imagine you are not the only one who holds it; but I really
must look after your comforts. You mustn’t
forget that we have to see Baron H. early to-morrow morning.” And I w=
ent
out quietly into the passage wondering in what part of the house Therese had
elected to sleep that night. =
But,
lo and behold, when I got to the foot of the stairs there was Therese coming
down from the upper regions in her nightgown, like a sleep-walker. However, it wasn’t that, bec=
ause,
before I could exclaim, she vanished off the first floor landing like a str=
eak
of white mist and without the slightest sound. Her attire made it perfectly clear=
that
she could not have heard us coming in.&nbs=
p;
In fact, she must have been certain that the house was empty, because
she was as well aware as myself that the Italian girls after their work at =
the
opera were going to a masked ball to dance for their own amusement, attende=
d of
course by their conscientious father.
But what thought, need, or sudden impulse had driven Therese out of =
bed
like this was something I couldn’t conceive.
I didn’t ca=
ll
out after her. I felt sure th=
at she
would return. I went up slowl=
y to
the first floor and met her coming down again, this time carrying a lighted
candle. She had managed to ma=
ke
herself presentable in an extraordinarily short time.
“Oh, my dear
young Monsieur, you have given me a fright.”
“Yes. And I nearly fainted, too,” I
said. “You looked perfe=
ctly
awful. What’s the matter with you?&n=
bsp;
Are you ill?”
She had lighted by
then the gas on the landing and I must say that I had never seen exactly th=
at
manner of face on her before. She
wriggled, confused and shifty-eyed, before me; but I ascribed this behaviou=
r to
her shocked modesty and without troubling myself any more about her feeling=
s I
informed her that there was a Carlist downstairs who must be put up for the
night. Most unexpectedly she
betrayed a ridiculous consternation, but only for a moment. Then she assumed at once that I wo=
uld
give him hospitality upstairs where there was a camp-bedstead in my
dressing-room. I said:
“No. Give him a shake-down in the studi=
o,
where he is now. It’s w=
arm in
there. And remember! I charge=
you
strictly not to let him know that I sleep in this house. In fact, I don’t know myself=
that
I will; I have certain matters to attend to this very night. You will also have to serve him his
coffee in the morning. I will=
take
him away before ten o’clock.”
All this seemed to
impress her more than I had expected.
As usual when she felt curious, or in some other way excited, she
assumed a saintly, detached expression, and asked:
“The dear
gentleman is your friend, I suppose?”
“I only kno=
w he
is a Spaniard and a Carlist,” I said: “and that ought to be eno=
ugh
for you.”
Instead of the us=
ual
effusive exclamations she murmured: “Dear me, dear me,” and
departed upstairs with the candle to get together a few blankets and pillow=
s, I
suppose. As for me I walked q=
uietly
downstairs on my way to the studio.
I had a curious sensation that I was acting in a preordained manner,
that life was not at all what I had thought it to be, or else that I had be=
en
altogether changed sometime during the day, and that I was a different pers=
on
from the man whom I remembered getting out of my bed in the morning.
Also feelings had
altered all their values. The
words, too, had become strange. It
was only the inanimate surroundings that remained what they had always
been. For instance the studio=
. . .
.
During my absence
Señor Ortega had taken off his coat and I found him as it were in the
air, sitting in his shirt sleeves on a chair which he had taken pains to pl=
ace
in the very middle of the floor. I
repressed an absurd impulse to walk round him as though he had been some so=
rt
of exhibit. His hands were sp=
read
over his knees and he looked perfectly insensible. I don’t mean strange, or gha=
stly,
or wooden, but just insensible—like an exhibit. And that effect persisted even aft=
er he raised
his black suspicious eyes to my face.
He lowered them almost at once.&nbs=
p;
It was very mechanical. I
gave him up and became rather concerned about myself. My thought was that I had better g=
et out
of that before any more queer notions came into my head. So I only remained long enough to =
tell
him that the woman of the house was bringing down some bedding and that I h=
oped
that he would have a good night’s rest. And directly I spoke it struck me =
that
this was the most extraordinary speech that ever was addressed to a figure =
of
that sort. He, however, did n=
ot
seem startled by it or moved in any way.&n=
bsp;
He simply said:
“Thank
you.”
In the darkest pa=
rt
of the long passage outside I met Therese with her arms full of pillows and
blankets.
Coming out of the bright light of t=
he
studio I didn’t make out Therese very distinctly. She, however, having groped in dark
cupboards, must have had her pupils sufficiently dilated to have seen that I
had my hat on my head. This h=
as its
importance because after what I had said to her upstairs it must have convi=
nced
her that I was going out on some midnight business. I passed her without a word and he=
ard
behind me the door of the studio close with an unexpected crash. It strikes me now that under the
circumstances I might have without shame gone back to listen at the keyhole=
. But truth to say the association of
events was not so clear in my mind as it may be to the reader of this
story. Neither were the exact=
connections
of persons present to my mind. And,
besides, one doesn’t listen at a keyhole but in pursuance of some pla=
n;
unless one is afflicted by a vulgar and fatuous curiosity. But that vice is not in my charact=
er. As to plan, I had none. I moved along the passage between =
the
dead wall and the black-and-white marble elevation of the staircase with hu=
shed
footsteps, as though there had been a mortally sick person somewhere in the
house. And the only person th=
at
could have answered to that description was Señor Ortega. I moved on, stealthy, absorbed, un=
decided;
asking myself earnestly: “What on earth am I going to do with him?=
221; That exclusive preoccupation of my=
mind
was as dangerous to Señor Ortega as typhoid fever would have been. It strikes me that this comparison=
is
very exact. People recover fr=
om
typhoid fever, but generally the chance is considered poor. This was precisely his case. His c=
hance
was poor; though I had no more animosity towards him than a virulent disease
has against the victim it lays low.
He really would have nothing to reproach me with; he had run up agai=
nst
me, unwittingly, as a man enters an infected place, and now he was very ill,
very ill indeed. No, I had no=
plans
against him. I had only the f=
eeling
that he was in mortal danger.
I believe that me=
n of
the most daring character (and I make no claim to it) often do shrink from =
the
logical processes of thought. It is
only the devil, they say, that loves logic. But I was not a devil. I was not even a victim of the
devil. It was only that I had=
given
up the direction of my intelligence before the problem; or rather that the =
problem
had dispossessed my intelligence and reigned in its stead side by side with=
a
superstitious awe. A dreadful=
order
seemed to lurk in the darkest shadows of life. The madness of that Carlist with t=
he
soul of a Jacobin, the vile fears of Baron H., that excellent organizer of =
supplies,
the contact of their two ferocious stupidities, and last, by a remote disas=
ter
at sea, my love brought into direct contact with the situation: all that was
enough to make one shudder—not at the chance, but at the design.
For it was my love
that was called upon to act here, and nothing else. And love which elevates=
us
above all safeguards, above restraining principles, above all littlenesses =
of
self-possession, yet keeps its feet always firmly on earth, remains
marvellously practical in its suggestions.
I discovered that
however much I had imagined I had given up Rita, that whatever agonies I had
gone through, my hope of her had never been lost. Plucked out, stamped down,
torn to shreds, it had remained with me secret, intact, invincible. Before the danger of the situation=
it sprang,
full of life, up in arms—the undying child of immortal love. What inc=
ited
me was independent of honour and compassion; it was the prompting of a love
supreme, practical, remorseless in its aim; it was the practical thought th=
at
no woman need be counted as lost for ever, unless she be dead!
This excluded for=
the
moment all considerations of ways and means and risks and difficulties. Its tremendous intensity robbed it=
of
all direction and left me adrift in the big black-and-white hall as on a si=
lent
sea. It was not, properly spe=
aking,
irresolution. It was merely h=
esitation
as to the next immediate step, and that step even of no great importance:
hesitation merely as to the best way I could spend the rest of the night. I didn’t think further forwa=
rd for
many reasons, more or less optimistic, but mainly because I have no homicid=
al
vein in my composition. The
disposition to gloat over homicide was in that miserable creature in the
studio, the potential Jacobin; in that confounded buyer of agricultural
produce, the punctual employé of Hernandez Brothers, the jealous wre=
tch
with an obscene tongue and an imagination of the same kind to drive him
mad. I thought of him without=
pity
but also without contempt. I
reflected that there were no means of sending a warning to Doña Rita=
in
Tolosa; for of course no postal communication existed with the
Headquarters. And moreover wh=
at
would a warning be worth in this particular case, supposing it would reach =
her,
that she would believe it, and that she would know what to do? How could I communicate to another=
that
certitude which was in my mind, the more absolute because without proofs th=
at
one could produce?
The last expressi=
on
of Rose’s distress rang again in my ears: “Madame has no
friends. Not one!” and =
I saw
Doña Rita’s complete loneliness beset by all sorts of
insincerities, surrounded by pitfalls; her greatest dangers within herself,=
in
her generosity, in her fears, in her courage, too. What I had to do first of
all was to stop that wretch at all costs.&=
nbsp;
I became aware of a great mistrust of Therese. I didn’t want her to find me=
in
the hall, but I was reluctant to go upstairs to my rooms from an unreasonab=
le
feeling that there I would be too much out of the way; not sufficiently on =
the
spot. There was the alternati=
ve of
a live-long night of watching outside, before the dark front of the house.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was a most distasteful prospect=
. And then it occurred to me that
Blunt’s former room would be an extremely good place to keep a watch
from. I knew that room. When Henry Allègre gave the=
house
to Rita in the early days (long before he made his will) he had planned a c=
omplete
renovation and this room had been meant for the drawing-room. Furniture had been made for it spe=
cially,
upholstered in beautiful ribbed stuff, made to order, of dull gold colour w=
ith
a pale blue tracery of arabesques and oval medallions enclosing Rita’s
monogram, repeated on the backs of chairs and sofas, and on the heavy curta=
ins
reaching from ceiling to floor. To
the same time belonged the ebony and bronze doors, the silver statuette at =
the
foot of the stairs, the forged iron balustrade reproducing right up the mar=
ble staircase
Rita’s decorative monogram in its complicated design. Afterwards the =
work
was stopped and the house had fallen into disrepair. When Rita devoted it to
the Carlist cause a bed was put into that drawing-room, just simply the
bed. The room next to that ye=
llow
salon had been in Allègre’s young days fitted as a fencing-room
containing also a bath, and a complicated system of all sorts of shower and=
jet
arrangements, then quite up to date.
That room was very large, lighted from the top, and one wall of it w=
as
covered by trophies of arms of all sorts, a choice collection of cold steel
disposed on a background of Indian mats and rugs: Blunt used it as a
dressing-room. It communicate=
d by a
small door with the studio.
I had only to ext=
end
my hand and make one step to reach the magnificent bronze handle of the ebo=
ny
door, and if I didn’t want to be caught by Therese there was no time =
to
lose. I made the step and ext=
ended
the hand, thinking that it would be just like my luck to find the door lock=
ed. But the door came open to my push.=
In contrast to the dark hall the r=
oom
was most unexpectedly dazzling to my eyes, as if illuminated a giorno for a
reception. No voice came from=
it,
but nothing could have stopped me now.&nbs=
p;
As I turned round to shut the door behind me noiselessly I caught si=
ght
of a woman’s dress on a chair, of other articles of apparel scattered
about. The mahogany bed with a
piece of light silk which Therese found somewhere and used for a counterpane
was a magnificent combination of white and crimson between the gleaming sur=
faces
of dark wood; and the whole room had an air of splendour with marble consol=
es,
gilt carvings, long mirrors and a sumptuous Venetian lustre depending from =
the
ceiling: a darkling mass of icy pendants catching a spark here and there fr=
om
the candles of an eight-branched candelabra standing on a little table near=
the
head of a sofa which had been dragged round to face the fireplace. The faintest possible whiff of a
familiar perfume made my head swim with its suggestion.
I grabbed the bac=
k of
the nearest piece of furniture and the splendour of marbles and mirrors, of=
cut
crystals and carvings, swung before my eyes in the golden mist of walls and
draperies round an extremely conspicuous pair of black stockings thrown ove=
r a
music stool which remained motionless.&nbs=
p;
The silence was profound. It
was like being in an enchanted place.
Suddenly a voice began to speak, clear, detached, infinitely touchin=
g in
its calm weariness.
“Haven̵=
7;t
you tormented me enough to-day?” it said. . . . My head was steady now
but my heart began to beat violently.
I listened to the end without moving, “Can’t you make up
your mind to leave me alone for to-night?” It pleaded with an accent of chari=
table
scorn.
The penetrating
quality of these tones which I had not heard for so many, many days made my
eyes run full of tears. I gue=
ssed
easily that the appeal was addressed to the atrocious Therese. The speaker was concealed from me =
by the
high back of the sofa, but her apprehension was perfectly justified. For was it not I who had turned ba=
ck
Therese the pious, the insatiable, coming downstairs in her nightgown to
torment her sister some more? Mere
surprise at Doña Rita’s presence in the house was enough to pa=
ralyze
me; but I was also overcome by an enormous sense of relief, by the assuranc=
e of
security for her and for myself. I
didn’t even ask myself how she came there. It was enough for me that she was =
not in
Tolosa. I could have smiled a=
t the
thought that all I had to do now was to hasten the departure of that abomin=
able
lunatic—for Tolosa: an easy task, almost no task at all. Yes, I would have smiled, had not =
I felt
outraged by the presence of Señor Ortega under the same roof with
Doña Rita. The mere fa=
ct was
repugnant to me, morally revolting; so that I should have liked to rush at =
him
and throw him out into the street.
But that was not to be done for various reasons. One of them was pity. I was suddenly at peace with all
mankind, with all nature. I f=
elt as
if I couldn’t hurt a fly. The
intensity of my emotion sealed my lips.&nb=
sp;
With a fearful joy tugging at my heart I moved round the head of the
couch without a word.
In the wide firep=
lace
on a pile of white ashes the logs had a deep crimson glow; and turned towar=
ds
them Doña Rita reclined on her side enveloped in the skins of wild
beasts like a charming and savage young chieftain before a camp fire. She never even raised her eyes, gi=
ving
me the opportunity to contemplate mutely that adolescent, delicately mascul=
ine
head, so mysteriously feminine in the power of instant seduction, so infini=
tely
suave in its firm design, almost childlike in the freshness of detail:
altogether ravishing in the inspired strength of the modelling. That precious head reposed in the =
palm of
her hand; the face was slightly flushed (with anger perhaps). She kept her eyes obstinately fixe=
d on
the pages of a book which she was holding with her other hand. I had the time to lay my infinite
adoration at her feet whose white insteps gleamed below the dark edge of the
fur out of quilted blue silk bedroom slippers, embroidered with small
pearls. I had never seen them
before; I mean the slippers. =
The
gleam of the insteps, too, for that matter. I lost myself in a feeling of deep
content, something like a foretaste of a time of felicity which must be qui=
et
or it couldn’t be eternal. I
had never tasted such perfect quietness before. It was not of this earth. I had gone far beyond. It was as if I had reached the ult=
imate
wisdom beyond all dreams and all passions.=
She was That which is to be contemplated to all Infinity.
The perfect still=
ness
and silence made her raise her eyes at last, reluctantly, with a hard,
defensive expression which I had never seen in them before. And no wonder! The glance was meant for Therese a=
nd assumed
in self-defence. For some tim=
e its
character did not change and when it did it turned into a perfectly stony s=
tare
of a kind which I also had never seen before. She had never wished so much to be=
left
in peace. She had never been so astonished in her life. She had arrived by the evening exp=
ress
only two hours before Señor Ortega, had driven to the house, and aft=
er
having something to eat had become for the rest of the evening the helpless
prey of her sister who had fawned and scolded and wheedled and threatened i=
n a
way that outraged all Rita’s feelings. Seizing this unexpected occasi=
on
Therese had displayed a distracting versatility of sentiment: rapacity, vir=
tue,
piety, spite, and false tenderness—while, characteristically enough, =
she
unpacked the dressing-bag, helped the sinner to get ready for bed, brushed =
her
hair, and finally, as a climax, kissed her hands, partly by surprise and pa=
rtly
by violence. After that she h=
ad
retired from the field of battle slowly, undefeated, still defiant, firing =
as a
last shot the impudent question: “Tell me only, have you made your wi=
ll,
Rita?” To this poor
Doña Rita with the spirit of opposition strung to the highest pitch
answered: “No, and I don’t mean to”—being under the
impression that this was what her sister wanted her to do. There can be no doubt, however, th=
at all
Therese wanted was the information.
Rita, much too
agitated to expect anything but a sleepless night, had not the courage to g=
et
into bed. She thought she wou=
ld
remain on the sofa before the fire and try to compose herself with a book.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> As she had no dressing-gown with h=
er she
put on her long fur coat over her night-gown, threw some logs on the fire, =
and
lay down. She didn’t he=
ar the
slightest noise of any sort till she heard me shut the door gently. Quietness of movement was one of
Therese’s accomplishments, and the harassed heiress of the Allè=
;gre
millions naturally thought it was her sister coming again to renew the
scene. Her heart sank within
her. In the end she became a =
little
frightened at the long silence, and raised her eyes. She didn’t believe them for =
a long
time. She concluded that I wa=
s a
vision. In fact, the first wo=
rd
which I heard her utter was a low, awed “No,” which, though I
understood its meaning, chilled my blood like an evil omen.
It was then that I
spoke. “Yes,” I s=
aid,
“it’s me that you see,” and made a step forward. She didn’t start; only her o=
ther
hand flew to the edges of the fur coat, gripping them together over her
breast. Observing this gestur=
e I
sat down in the nearest chair. The
book she had been reading slipped with a thump on the floor.
“How is it
possible that you should be here?” she said, still in a doubting voic=
e.
“I am really
here,” I said. “W=
ould
you like to touch my hand?”
She didn’t =
move
at all; her fingers still clutched the fur coat.
“What has
happened?”
“It’s=
a
long story, but you may take it from me that all is over. The tie between us is broken. I don’t know that it was eve=
r very
close. It was an external
thing. The true misfortune is=
that
I have ever seen you.”
This last phrase =
was
provoked by an exclamation of sympathy on her part. She raised herself on h=
er
elbow and looked at me intently.
“All over,” she murmured.
“Yes, we ha=
d to
wreck the little vessel. It w=
as
awful. I feel like a murderer=
. But she had to be killed.”
“Why?”=
;
“Because I
loved her too much. Don’=
;t you
know that love and death go very close together?”
“I could fe=
el
almost happy that it is all over, if you hadn’t had to lose your
love. Oh, amigo George, it wa=
s a
safe love for you.”
“Yes,”=
; I
said. “It was a faithful
little vessel. She would have=
saved
us all from any plain danger. But
this was a betrayal. It
was—never mind. All
that’s past. The questi=
on is
what will the next one be.”
“Why should=
it
be that?”
“I don̵=
7;t
know. Life seems but a series=
of
betrayals. There are so many =
kinds
of them. This was a betrayed =
plan,
but one can betray confidence, and hope and—desire, and the most sacr=
ed .
. .”
“But what a=
re
you doing here?” she interrupted.
“Oh, yes! The eternal why. Till a few hours ago I didn’=
t know
what I was here for. And what=
are
you here for?” I asked point blank and with a bitterness she
disregarded. She even answere=
d my
question quite readily with many words out of which I could make very
little. I only learned that f=
or at
least five mixed reasons, none of which impressed me profoundly, Doña
Rita had started at a moment’s notice from Paris with nothing but a
dressing-bag, and permitting Rose to go and visit her aged parents for two
days, and then follow her mistress.
That girl of late had looked so perturbed and worried that the sensi=
tive
Rita, fearing that she was tired of her place, proposed to settle a sum of
money on her which would have enabled her to devote herself entirely to her
aged parents. And did I know =
what
that extraordinary girl said? She
had said: “Don’t let Madame think that I would be too proud to
accept anything whatever from her; but I can’t even dream of leaving
Madame. I believe Madame has =
no
friends. Not one.” So instead of a large sum of money
Doña Rita gave the girl a kiss and as she had been worried by several
people who wanted her to go to Tolosa she bolted down this way just to get
clear of all those busybodies.
“Hide from them,” she went on with ardour. “Yes, I came here to hide,=
8221;
she repeated twice as if delighted at last to have hit on that reason among=
so
many others. “How could=
I
tell that you would be here?”
Then with sudden fire which only added to the delight with which I h=
ad
been watching the play of her physiognomy she added: “Why did you come
into this room?”
She enchanted
me. The ardent modulations of=
the
sound, the slight play of the beautiful lips, the still, deep sapphire glea=
m in
those long eyes inherited from the dawn of ages and that seemed always to w=
atch
unimaginable things, that underlying faint ripple of gaiety that played und=
er
all her moods as though it had been a gift from the high gods moved to pity=
for
this lonely mortal, all this within the four walls and displayed for me alo=
ne
gave me the sense of almost intolerable joy. The words didn’t matter. They had to be answered, of course=
.
“I came in =
for
several reasons. One of them =
is
that I didn’t know you were here.”
“Therese
didn’t tell you?”
“No.”=
“Never talk=
ed
to you about me?”
I hesitated only =
for
a moment. “Never,”=
; I
said. Then I asked in my turn,
“Did she tell you I was here?”
“No,”=
she
said.
“It’s
very clear she did not mean us to come together again.”
“Neither di=
d I,
my dear.”
“What do you
mean by speaking like this, in this tone, in these words? You seem to use t=
hem
as if they were a sort of formula.
Am I a dear to you? Or=
is
anybody? . . . or everybody? . . .”
She had been for =
some
time raised on her elbow, but then as if something had happened to her vita=
lity
she sank down till her head rested again on the sofa cushion.
“Why do you=
try
to hurt my feelings?” she asked.
“For the sa=
me
reason for which you call me dear at the end of a sentence like that: for w=
ant
of something more amusing to do.
You don’t pretend to make me believe that you do it for any so=
rt
of reason that a decent person would confess to.”
The colour had go=
ne
from her face; but a fit of wickedness was on me and I pursued, “What=
are
the motives of your speeches? What
prompts your actions? On your=
own
showing your life seems to be a continuous running away. You have just run away from Paris.=
Where will you run to-morrow? What=
are
you everlastingly running from—or is it that you are running after
something? What is it? A man, a phantom—or some sen=
sation
that you don’t like to own to?”
Truth to say, I w=
as
abashed by the silence which was her only answer to this sally. I said to myself that I would not =
let my
natural anger, my just fury be disarmed by any assumption of pathos or
dignity. I suppose I was real=
ly out
of my mind and what in the middle ages would have been called
“possessed” by an evil spirit.=
I went on enjoying my own villainy.
“Why
aren’t you in Tolosa? Y=
ou
ought to be in Tolosa. Isn=
217;t
Tolosa the proper field for your abilities, for your sympathies, for your p=
rofusions,
for your generosities—the king without a crown, the man without a
fortune! But here there is no=
thing
worthy of your talents. No, there is no longer anything worth any sort of
trouble here. There isn’=
;t
even that ridiculous Monsieur George.
I understand that the talk of the coast from here to Cette is that
Monsieur George is drowned. U=
pon my
word I believe he is. And ser=
ve him
right, too. There’s The=
rese,
but I don’t suppose that your love for your sister . . .”
“For goodness’ sake don’t let her come in and find you here.”<= o:p>
Those words recal=
led
me to myself, exorcised the evil spirit by the mere enchanting power of the
voice. They were also impress=
ive by
their suggestion of something practical, utilitarian, and remote from senti=
ment. The evil spirit left me and I rema=
ined
taken aback slightly.
“Well,̶=
1; I
said, “if you mean that you want me to leave the room I will confess =
to
you that I can’t very well do it yet. But I could lock both doors if you
don’t mind that.”
“Do what you
like as long as you keep her out.
You two together would be too much for me to-night. Why don’t you go and lock th=
ose
doors? I have a feeling she i=
s on
the prowl.”
I got up at once
saying, “I imagine she has gone to bed by this time.” I felt absolutely calm and
responsible. I turned the key=
s one
after another so gently that I couldn’t hear the click of the locks
myself. This done I recrossed the room with measured steps, with downcast e=
yes,
and approaching the couch without raising them from the carpet I sank down =
on
my knees and leaned my forehead on its edge. That penitential attitude had but =
little
remorse in it. I detected no
movement and heard no sound from her.
In one place a bit of the fur coat touched my cheek softly, but no
forgiving hand came to rest on my bowed head. I only breathed deeply the faint s=
cent
of violets, her own particular fragrance enveloping my body, penetrating my
very heart with an inconceivable intimacy, bringing me closer to her than t=
he
closest embrace, and yet so subtle that I sensed her existence in me only a=
s a
great, glowing, indeterminate tenderness, something like the evening light
disclosing after the white passion of the day infinite depths in the colour=
s of
the sky and an unsuspected soul of peace in the protean forms of life. I had not known such quietness for
months; and I detected in myself an immense fatigue, a longing to remain wh=
ere
I was without changing my position to the end of time. Indeed to remain seemed to me a co=
mplete
solution for all the problems that life presents—even as to the very
death itself.
Only the unwelcome
reflection that this was impossible made me get up at last with a sigh of d=
eep
grief at the end of the dream. But
I got up without despair. She
didn’t murmur, she didn’t stir. There was something august in the
stillness of the room. It was=
a
strange peace which she shared with me in this unexpected shelter full of
disorder in its neglected splendour.
What troubled me was the sudden, as it were material, consciousness =
of
time passing as water flows. =
It
seemed to me that it was only the tenacity of my sentiment that held that
woman’s body, extended and tranquil above the flood. But when I ventured at last to loo=
k at
her face I saw her flushed, her teeth clenched—it was visible—h=
er
nostrils dilated, and in her narrow, level-glancing eyes a look of inward a=
nd
frightened ecstasy. The edges=
of
the fur coat had fallen open and I was moved to turn away. I had the same impression as on the
evening we parted that something had happened which I did not understand; o=
nly
this time I had not touched her at all.&nb=
sp;
I really didn’t understand.&n=
bsp;
At the slightest whisper I would now have gone out without a murmur,=
as
though that emotion had given her the right to be obeyed. But there was no whisper; and for =
a long
time I stood leaning on my arm, looking into the fire and feeling distinctly
between the four walls of that locked room the unchecked time flow past our=
two
stranded personalities.
And suddenly she
spoke. She spoke in that voic=
e that
was so profoundly moving without ever being sad, a little wistful perhaps a=
nd
always the supreme expression of her grace. She asked as if nothing had happen=
ed:
“What are y=
ou
thinking of, amigo?”
I turned about. She was lying on her side, tranquil
above the smooth flow of time, again closely wrapped up in her fur, her head
resting on the old-gold sofa cushion bearing like everything else in that r=
oom
the decoratively enlaced letters of her monogram; her face a little pale no=
w, with
the crimson lobe of her ear under the tawny mist of her loose hair, the lip=
s a
little parted, and her glance of melted sapphire level and motionless, dark=
ened
by fatigue.
“Can I thin=
k of
anything but you?” I murmured, taking a seat near the foot of the
couch. “Or rather it
isn’t thinking, it is more like the consciousness of you always being
present in me, complete to the last hair, to the faintest shade of expressi=
on,
and that not only when we are apart but when we are together, alone, as clo=
se
as this. I see you now lying =
on
this couch but that is only the insensible phantom of the real you that is =
in
me. And it is the easier for =
me to
feel this because that image which others see and call by your name—h=
ow
am I to know that it is anything else but an enchanting mist? You have always eluded me except i=
n one
or two moments which seem still more dream-like than the rest. Since I came
into this room you have done nothing to destroy my conviction of your unrea=
lity
apart from myself. You
haven’t offered me your hand to touch. Is it because you suspect that apa=
rt
from me you are but a mere phantom, and that you fear to put it to the
test?”
One of her hands =
was
under the fur and the other under her cheek. She made no sound. She didn’t offer to stir.
“Just what I
expected. You are a cold
illusion.”
She smiled
mysteriously, right away from me, straight at the fire, and that was all.
I had a momentary suspicion that I =
had
said something stupid. Her sm=
ile amongst
many other things seemed to have meant that, too. And I answered it with a certain
resignation:
“Well, I
don’t know that you are so much mist. I remember once hanging on to you =
like a
drowning man . . . But perhaps I had better not speak of this. It wasn’t so very long ago, =
and
you may . . . ”
“I don̵=
7;t
mind. Well . . .”
“Well, I ha=
ve
kept an impression of great solidity.
I’ll admit that. A woman
of granite.”
“A doctor o=
nce
told me that I was made to last for ever,” she said.
“But
essentially it’s the same thing,” I went on. “Granite, too, is insensible=
.”
I watched her pro=
file
against the pillow and there came on her face an expression I knew well when
with an indignation full of suppressed laughter she used to throw at me the
word “Imbecile.” I
expected it to come, but it didn’t come. I must say, though, that I was swi=
mmy in
my head and now and then had a noise as of the sea in my ears, so I might n=
ot
have heard it. The woman of
granite, built to last for ever, continued to look at the glowing logs which
made a sort of fiery ruin on the white pile of ashes. “I will tell you how it is,&=
#8221;
I said. “When I have you
before my eyes there is such a projection of my whole being towards you tha=
t I
fail to see you distinctly. I=
t was
like that from the beginning. I may
say that I never saw you distinctly till after we had parted and I thought =
you
had gone from my sight for ever. It
was then that you took body in my imagination and that my mind seized on a =
definite
form of you for all its adorations—for its profanations, too. DonR=
17;t
imagine me grovelling in spiritual abasement before a mere image. I got a g=
rip
on you that nothing can shake now.”
“Don’t
speak like this,” she said.
“It’s too much for me.&=
nbsp;
And there is a whole long night before us.”
“You
don’t think that I dealt with you sentimentally enough perhaps? But the sentiment was there; as cl=
ear a
flame as ever burned on earth from the most remote ages before that eternal
thing which is in you, which is your heirloom. And is it my fault that what I had=
to
give was real flame, and not a mystic’s incense? It is neither your fault nor mine.=
And
now whatever we say to each other at night or in daylight, that sentiment m=
ust
be taken for granted. It will=
be
there on the day I die—when you won’t be there.”
She continued to =
look
fixedly at the red embers; and from her lips that hardly moved came the
quietest possible whisper: “Nothing would be easier than to die for
you.”
“Really,=
221;
I cried. “And you expec=
t me
perhaps after this to kiss your feet in a transport of gratitude while I hug
the pride of your words to my breast.
But as it happens there is nothing in me but contempt for this subli=
me
declaration. How dare you off=
er me
this charlatanism of passion? What
has it got to do between you and me who are the only two beings in the world
that may safely say that we have no need of shams between ourselves? Is it possible that you are a char=
latan
at heart? Not from egoism, I admit, but from some sort of fear. Yet, should you be sincere,
then—listen well to me—I would never forgive you. I would visit your grave every day=
to
curse you for an evil thing.”
“Evil
thing,” she echoed softly.
“Would you
prefer to be a sham—that one could forget?”
“You will n=
ever
forget me,” she said in the same tone at the glowing embers. “Evil or good. But, my dear, I feel neither an ev=
il nor
a sham. I have got to be what I am, and that, amigo, is not so easy; becaus=
e I may
be simple, but like all those on whom there is no peace I am not One. No, I=
am
not One!”
“You are all
the women in the world,” I whispered bending over her. She didn’t seem to be aware =
of
anything and only spoke—always to the glow.
“If I were =
that
I would say: God help them then.
But that would be more appropriate for Therese. For me, I can only give them my in=
finite
compassion. I have too much
reverence in me to invoke the name of a God of whom clever men have robbed =
me a
long time ago. How could I he=
lp it?
For the talk was clever and—and I had a mind. And I am also, as Therese says,
naturally sinful. Yes, my dea=
r, I
may be naturally wicked but I am not evil and I could die for you.”
“You!”=
; I
said. “You are afraid to
die.”
“Yes. But not for you.”
The whole structu=
re
of glowing logs fell down, raising a small turmoil of white ashes and
sparks. The tiny crash seemed=
to
wake her up thoroughly. She turned her head upon the cushion to look at me.=
“It’s=
a
very extraordinary thing, we two coming together like this,” she said
with conviction. “You c=
oming
in without knowing I was here and then telling me that you can’t very
well go out of the room. That
sounds funny. I wouldn’=
t have
been angry if you had said that you wouldn’t. It would have hurt me. But nobody ever paid much attentio=
n to
my feelings. Why do you smile like this?”
“At a
thought. Without any charlata=
nism
of passion I am able to tell you of something to match your devotion. I was not afraid for your sake to =
come
within a hair’s breadth of what to all the world would have been a sq=
ualid
crime. Note that you and I are
persons of honour. And there =
might
have been a criminal trial at the end of it for me. Perhaps the scaffold.”
“Do you say
these horrors to make me tremble?”
“Oh, you ne=
edn’t
tremble. There shall be no
crime. I need not risk the sc=
affold,
since now you are safe. But I
entered this room meditating resolutely on the ways of murder, calculating
possibilities and chances without the slightest compunction. It’s all over now. It was all over directly I saw you =
here,
but it had been so near that I shudder yet.”
She must have been
very startled because for a time she couldn’t speak. Then in a faint
voice:
“For me!
“For
you—or for myself? Yet =
it
couldn’t have been selfish.
What would it have been to me that you remained in the world? I never expected to see you again.=
I even composed a most beautiful l=
etter
of farewell. Such a letter as no woman had ever received.”
Instantly she shot
out a hand towards me. The ed=
ges of
the fur cloak fell apart. A w=
ave of
the faintest possible scent floated into my nostrils.
“Let me have
it,” she said imperiously.
“You
can’t have it. It’=
;s all
in my head. No woman will read
it. I suspect it was somethin=
g that
could never have been written. But
what a farewell! And now I su=
ppose
we shall say good-bye without even a handshake. But you are safe! Only I must ask you not to come ou=
t of this
room till I tell you you may.”
I was extremely
anxious that Señor Ortega should never even catch a glimpse of
Doña Rita, never guess how near he had been to her. I was extremely anxious the fellow
should depart for Tolosa and get shot in a ravine; or go to the Devil in his
own way, as long as he lost the track of Doña Rita completely. He then, probably, would get mad a=
nd get
shut up, or else get cured, forget all about it, and devote himself to his =
vocation,
whatever it was—keep a shop and grow fat. All this flashed through my mind i=
n an
instant and while I was still dazzled by those comforting images, the voice=
of
Doña Rita pulled me up with a jerk.
“You mean n=
ot
out of the house?”
“No, I mean=
not
out of this room,” I said with some embarrassment.
“What do you
mean? Is there something in t=
he
house then? This is most extr=
aordinary! Stay in this room? And you, too, it seems? Are you also afraid for yourself?&=
#8221;
“I can̵=
7;t
even give you an idea how afraid I was.&nb=
sp;
I am not so much now. But you know very well, Doña Rita, that=
I
never carry any sort of weapon in my pocket.”
“Why
don’t you, then?” she asked in a flash of scorn which bewitched=
me so
completely for an instant that I couldn’t even smile at it.
“Because if=
I
am unconventionalized I am an old European,” I murmured gently. “No, Excellentissima, I shal=
l go through
life without as much as a switch in my hand. It’s no use you being angry.=
Adapting to this great moment some=
words
you’ve heard before: I am like that.=
Such is my character!”
Doña Rita
frankly stared at me—a most unusual expression for her to have. Sudde=
nly
she sat up.
“Don
George,” she said with lovely animation, “I insist upon knowing=
who
is in my house.”
“You insist=
! .
. . But Therese says it is her house.”
Had there been
anything handy, such as a cigarette box, for instance, it would have gone
sailing through the air spouting cigarettes as it went. Rosy all over, chee=
ks,
neck, shoulders, she seemed lighted up softly from inside like a beautiful
transparency. But she didn=
217;t
raise her voice.
“You and
Therese have sworn my ruin. I=
f you
don’t tell me what you mean I will go outside and shout up the stairs=
to
make her come down. I know th=
ere is
no one but the three of us in the house.”
“Yes, three;
but not counting my Jacobin. =
There
is a Jacobin in the house.”
“A Jac . .
.! Oh, George, is this the ti=
me to
jest?” she began in persuasive tones when a faint but peculiar noise
stilled her lips as though they had been suddenly frozen. She became quiet all over instantl=
y. I, on the contrary, made an involu=
ntary
movement before I, too, became as still as death. We strained our ears; but that pec=
uliar metallic
rattle had been so slight and the silence now was so perfect that it was ve=
ry
difficult to believe one’s senses.&n=
bsp;
Doña Rita looked inquisitively at me. I gave her a slight nod. We remained looking into each
other’s eyes while we listened and listened till the silence became u=
nbearable. Doña Rita whispered compose=
dly:
“Did you hear?”
“I am asking
myself . . . I almost think I didn’t.”
“Don’t
shuffle with me. It was a scr=
aping
noise.”
“Something
fell.”
“Something!=
What thing? What are the things that fall by
themselves? Who is that man of whom you spoke? Is there a man?”
“No doubt a=
bout
it whatever. I brought him he=
re
myself.”
“What
for?”
“Why
shouldn’t I have a Jacobin of my own? Haven’t you one, too? But mine is a different problem fr=
om
that white-haired humbug of yours.
He is a genuine article.
There must be plenty like him about. He has scores to settle with half a
dozen people, he says, and he clamours for revolutions to give him a
chance.”
“But why did
you bring him here?”
“I don̵=
7;t
know—from sudden affection . . . ”
All this passed in
such low tones that we seemed to make out the words more by watching each
other’s lips than through our sense of hearing. Man is a strange
animal. I didn’t care w=
hat I
said. All I wanted was to kee=
p her
in her pose, excited and still, sitting up with her hair loose, softly glow=
ing,
the dark brown fur making a wonderful contrast with the white lace on her
breast. All I was thinking of=
was
that she was adorable and too lovely for words! I cared for nothing but that subli=
mely
aesthetic impression. It summ=
ed up
all life, all joy, all poetry! It
had a divine strain. I am cer=
tain
that I was not in my right mind. I
suppose I was not quite sane. I am
convinced that at that moment of the four people in the house it was
Doña Rita who upon the whole was the most sane. She observed my face and I am sure=
she
read there something of my inward exaltation. She knew what to do. In the softest possible tone and h=
ardly
above her breath she commanded: “George, come to yourself.”
Her gentleness had
the effect of evening light. =
I was
soothed. Her confidence in he=
r own
power touched me profoundly. I
suppose my love was too great for madness to get hold of me. I can’t say that I passed to=
a complete
calm, but I became slightly ashamed of myself. I whispered:
“No, it was=
not
from affection, it was for the love of you that I brought him here. That imbecile H. was going to send=
him
to Tolosa.”
“That
Jacobin!” Doña Rita was immensely surprised, as she might well
have been. Then resigned to t=
he
incomprehensible: “Yes,” she breathed out, “what did you =
do
with him?”
“I put him =
to
bed in the studio.”
How lovely she was
with the effort of close attention depicted in the turn of her head and in =
her
whole face honestly trying to approve.&nbs=
p;
“And then?” she inquired.
“Then I cam=
e in
here to face calmly the necessity of doing away with a human life. I didn’t shirk it for a
moment. That’s what a s=
hort twelvemonth
has brought me to. Don’t
think I am reproaching you, O blind force!=
You are justified because you are.&=
nbsp;
Whatever had to happen you would not even have heard of it.”
Horror darkened h=
er
marvellous radiance. Then her=
face
became utterly blank with the tremendous effort to understand. Absolute silence reigned in the
house. It seemed to me that
everything had been said now that mattered in the world; and that the world
itself had reached its ultimate stage, had reached its appointed end of an =
eternal,
phantom-like silence. Suddenly Doña Rita raised a warning finger.
“Yes, yes, =
in
the fencing-room, as before.”
In the same way I
answered her: “Impossible!
The door is locked and Therese has the key.” She asked then in the most cautious
manner,
“Have you s=
een
Therese to-night?”
“Yes,”=
; I
confessed without misgiving.
“I left her making up the fellow’s bed when I came in
here.”
“The bed of=
the
Jacobin?” she said in a peculiar tone as if she were humouring a luna=
tic.
“I think I =
had
better tell you he is a Spaniard—that he seems to know you from early
days. . . .” I glanced =
at her
face, it was extremely tense, apprehensive. For myself I had no longer any dou=
bt as
to the man and I hoped she would reach the correct conclusion herself. But I believe she was too distract=
ed and
worried to think consecutively. She
only seemed to feel some terror in the air. In very pity I bent down and whisp=
ered carefully
near her ear, “His name is Ortega.”
I expected some
effect from that name but I never expected what happened. With the sudden,
free, spontaneous agility of a young animal she leaped off the sofa, leaving
her slippers behind, and in one bound reached almost the middle of the
room. The vigour, the instinc=
tive
precision of that spring, were something amazing. I just escaped being knocked over.=
She
landed lightly on her bare feet with a perfect balance, without the slighte=
st
suspicion of swaying in her instant immobility. It lasted less than a second, then=
she
spun round distractedly and darted at the first door she could see. My own agility was just enough to =
enable
me to grip the back of the fur coat and then catch her round the body before
she could wriggle herself out of the sleeves. She was muttering all the time,
“No, no, no.” She
abandoned herself to me just for an instant during which I got her back to =
the
middle of the room. There she=
attempted
to free herself and I let her go at once.&=
nbsp;
With her face very close to mine, but apparently not knowing what she
was looking at she repeated again twice, “No—No,” with an
intonation which might well have brought dampness to my eyes but which only
made me regret that I didn’t kill the honest Ortega at sight. Suddenly Doña Rita swung ro=
und
and seizing her loose hair with both hands started twisting it up before on=
e of
the sumptuous mirrors. The wi=
de fur
sleeves slipped down her white arms.
In a brusque movement like a downward stab she transfixed the whole =
mass
of tawny glints and sparks with the arrow of gold which she perceived lying
there, before her, on the marble console.&=
nbsp;
Then she sprang away from the glass muttering feverishly,
“Out—out—out of this house,” and trying with an awf=
ul,
senseless stare to dodge past me who had put myself in her way with open
arms. At last I managed to se=
ize
her by the shoulders and in the extremity of my distress I shook her roughl=
y. If
she hadn’t quieted down then I believe my heart would have broken.
There was a passi=
on
of mature grief in this tone of appeal.&nb=
sp;
And yet she remained as touching and helpless as a distressed
child. It had all the simplic=
ity
and depth of a child’s emotion.
It tugged at one’s heart-strings in the same direct way. But what could one do? How could one soothe her? It was impossible to pat her on the
head, take her on the knee, give her a chocolate or show her a
picture-book. I found myself
absolutely without resource.
Completely at a loss.
“Yes,
Ortega. Well, what of it?R=
21; I
whispered with immense assurance.
My brain was in a whirl. I am safe to say that at this prec=
ise
moment there was nobody completely sane in the house. Setting apart Therese and Ortega, =
both
in the grip of unspeakable passions, all the moral economy of Doña R=
ita
had gone to pieces. Everythin=
g was
gone except her strong sense of life with all its implied menaces. The woman was a mere chaos of sens=
ations
and vitality. I, too, suffere=
d most
from inability to get hold of some fundamental thought. The one on which I could best buil=
d some
hopes was the thought that, of course, Ortega did not know anything. I
whispered this into the ear of Doña Rita, into her precious, her bea=
utifully
shaped ear.
But she shook her
head, very much like an inconsolable child and very much with a child’=
;s
complete pessimism she murmured, “Therese has told him.”
The words, “=
;Oh,
nonsense,” never passed my lips, because I could not cheat myself into
denying that there had been a noise; and that the noise was in the
fencing-room. I knew that
room. There was nothing there=
that by
the wildest stretch of imagination could be conceived as falling with that
particular sound. There was a=
table
with a tall strip of looking-glass above it at one end; but since Blunt took
away his campaigning kit there was no small object of any sort on the conso=
le
or anywhere else that could have been jarred off in some mysterious manner.=
Along
one of the walls there was the whole complicated apparatus of solid brass
pipes, and quite close to it an enormous bath sunk into the floor. The grea=
test
part of the room along its whole length was covered with matting and had
nothing else but a long, narrow leather-upholstered bench fixed to the
wall. And that was all. And the door leading to the studio=
was
locked. And Therese had the
key. And it flashed on my min=
d, independently
of Doña Rita’s pessimism, by the force of personal conviction,
that, of course, Therese would tell him.&n=
bsp;
I beheld the whole succession of events perfectly connected and tend=
ing
to that particular conclusion.
Therese would tell him! I
could see the contrasted heads of those two formidable lunatics close toget=
her
in a dark mist of whispers compounded of greed, piety, and jealousy, plotti=
ng
in a sense of perfect security as if under the very wing of Providence. So at least Therese would think. She could not be but under the
impression that (providentially) I had been called out for the rest of the
night.
And now there was=
one
sane person in the house, for I had regained complete command of my
thoughts. Working in a logical
succession of images they showed me at last as clearly as a picture on a wa=
ll,
Therese pressing with fervour the key into the fevered palm of the rich, pr=
estigious,
virtuous cousin, so that he should go and urge his self-sacrificing offer to
Rita, and gain merit before Him whose Eye sees all the actions of men. And this image of those two with t=
he key
in the studio seemed to me a most monstrous conception of fanaticism, of a =
perfectly
horrible aberration. For who =
could
mistake the state that made José Ortega the figure he was, inspiring
both pity and fear? I could n=
ot deny
that I understood, not the full extent but the exact nature of his sufferin=
g. Young as I was I had solved for my=
self
that grotesque and sombre personality.&nbs=
p;
His contact with me, the personal contact with (as he thought) one of
the actual lovers of that woman who brought to him as a boy the curse of the
gods, had tipped over the trembling scales. No doubt I was very near death in =
the
“grand salon” of the Maison Dorée, only that his torture=
had
gone too far. It seemed to me=
that
I ought to have heard his very soul scream while we were seated at supper.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But in a moment he had ceased to c=
are
for me. I was nothing. To the crazy exaggeration of his j=
ealousy
I was but one amongst a hundred thousand. What was my death? Nothing. All mankind had possessed that
woman. I knew what his wooing=
of
her would be: Mine—or Dead.
All this ought to
have had the clearness of noon-day, even to the veriest idiot that ever liv=
ed;
and Therese was, properly speaking, exactly that. An idiot. A one-ideaed creature. Only the idea was complex; therefo=
re it
was impossible really to say what she wasn’t capable of. This was what made her obscure pro=
cesses
so awful. She had at times th=
e most
amazing perceptions. Who coul=
d tell
where her simplicity ended and her cunning began? She had also the faculty of never
forgetting any fact bearing upon her one idea; and I remembered now that the
conversation with me about the will had produced on her an indelible impres=
sion
of the Law’s surprising justice.&nbs=
p;
Recalling her naïve admiration of the “just” law th=
at
required no “paper” from a sister, I saw her casting loose the =
raging
fate with a sanctimonious air. And
Therese would naturally give the key of the fencing-room to her dear, virtu=
ous,
grateful, disinterested cousin, to that damned soul with delicate whiskers,
because she would think it just possible that Rita might have locked the do=
or leading
front her room into the hall; whereas there was no earthly reason, not the
slightest likelihood, that she would bother about the other. Righteousness demanded that the er=
ring
sister should be taken unawares.
All the above is =
the
analysis of one short moment.
Images are to words like light to sound—incomparably swifter.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And all this was really one flash =
of
light through my mind. A comf=
orting
thought succeeded it: that both doors were locked and that really there was=
no
danger.
However, there had
been that noise—the why and the how of it? Of course in the dark he might have
fallen into the bath, but that wouldn’t have been a faint noise. It wouldn’t have been a
rattle. There was absolutely
nothing he could knock over. =
He
might have dropped a candle-stick if Therese had left him her own. That was possible, but then those t=
hick
mats—and then, anyway, why should he drop it? and, hang it all, why
shouldn’t he have gone straight on and tried the door? I had suddenly a sickening vision =
of the
fellow crouching at the key-hole, listening, listening, listening, for some
movement or sigh of the sleeper he was ready to tear away from the world, a=
live
or dead. I had a conviction t=
hat he
was still listening. Why? Goodness knows! He may have been only gloating ove=
r the
assurance that the night was long and that he had all these hours to himsel=
f.
I was pretty cert=
ain
that he could have heard nothing of our whispers, the room was too big for =
that
and the door too solid. I
hadn’t the same confidence in the efficiency of the lock. Still I . . . Guarding my lips wit=
h my
hand I urged Doña Rita to go back to the sofa. She wouldn’t answer me and w=
hen I
got hold of her arm I discovered that she wouldn’t move. She had taken root in that thick-p=
ile
Aubusson carpet; and she was so rigidly still all over that the brilliant
stones in the shaft of the arrow of gold, with the six candles at the head =
of
the sofa blazing full on them, emitted no sparkle.
I was extremely
anxious that she shouldn’t betray herself. I reasoned, save the mark, as a
psychologist. I had no doubt =
that
the man knew of her being there; but he only knew it by hearsay. And that was bad enough. I could not help feeling that if he
obtained some evidence for his senses by any sort of noise, voice, or movem=
ent,
his madness would gain strength enough to burst the lock. I was rather ridiculously worried =
about
the locks. A horrid mistrust =
of the
whole house possessed me. I s=
aw it
in the light of a deadly trap. I
had no weapon, I couldn’t say whether he had one or not. I wasn’t afraid of a struggl=
e as
far as I, myself, was concerned, but I was afraid of it for Doña
Rita. To be rolling at her fe=
et,
locked in a literally tooth-and-nail struggle with Ortega would have been
odious. I wanted to spare her
feelings, just as I would have been anxious to save from any contact with m=
ud
the feet of that goatherd of the mountains with a symbolic face. I looked at her face. For immobility it might have been a
carving. I wished I knew how =
to
deal with that embodied mystery, to influence it, to manage it. Oh, how I longed for the gift of
authority! In addition, since=
I had
become completely sane, all my scruples against laying hold of her had
returned. I felt shy and embarrassed.
My eyes were fixed on the bronze handle of the fencing-room door as =
if it
were something alive. I braced
myself up against the moment when it would move. This was what was going to happen =
next. It would move very gently. My heart began to thump. But I was prepared to keep myself =
as
still as death and I hoped Doña Rita would have sense enough to do t=
he
same. I stole another glance =
at her
face and at that moment I heard the word: “Beloved!” form itsel=
f in
the still air of the room, weak, distinct, piteous, like the last request of
the dying.
With great presen=
ce
of mind I whispered into Doña Rita’s ear: “Perfect silen=
ce!”
and was overjoyed to discover that she had heard me, understood me; that she
even had command over her rigid lips.
She answered me in a breath (our cheeks were nearly touching):
“Take me out of this house.”
I glanced at all =
her
clothing scattered about the room and hissed forcibly the warning
“Perfect immobility”; noticing with relief that she didn’t
offer to move, though animation was returning to her and her lips had remai=
ned
parted in an awful, unintended effect of a smile. And I don’t know whether I w=
as
pleased when she, who was not to be touched, gripped my wrist suddenly. It had the air of being done on pu=
rpose because
almost instantly another: “Beloved!” louder, more agonized if p=
ossible,
got into the room and, yes, went home to my heart. It was followed without any transi=
tion,
preparation, or warning, by a positively bellowed: “Speak, perjured
beast!” which I felt pass in a thrill right through Doña Rita =
like
an electric shock, leaving her as motionless as before.
Till he shook the
door handle, which he did immediately afterwards, I wasn’t certain
through which door he had spoken.
The two doors (in different walls) were rather near each other. It was as I expected. He was in the fencing-room, thorou=
ghly
aroused, his senses on the alert to catch the slightest sound. A situation not to be trifled with=
. Leaving the room was for us out of=
the
question. It was quite possib=
le for
him to dash round into the hall before we could get clear of the front door=
. As
to making a bolt of it upstairs there was the same objection; and to allow
ourselves to be chased all over the empty house by this maniac would have b=
een
mere folly. There was no adva=
ntage
in locking ourselves up anywhere upstairs where the original doors and locks
were much lighter. No, true s=
afety
was in absolute stillness and silence, so that even his rage should be brou=
ght
to doubt at last and die expended, or choke him before it died; I didn̵=
7;t
care which.
For me to go out =
and
meet him would have been stupid.
Now I was certain that he was armed. I had remembered the wall in the
fencing-room decorated with trophies of cold steel in all the civilized and
savage forms; sheaves of assegais, in the guise of columns and grouped betw=
een them
stars and suns of choppers, swords, knives; from Italy, from Damascus, from
Abyssinia, from the ends of the world.&nbs=
p;
Ortega had only to make his barbarous choice. I suppose he had got up on the ben=
ch,
and fumbling about amongst them must have brought one down, which, falling,=
had
produced that rattling noise. But
in any case to go to meet him would have been folly, because, after all, I
might have been overpowered (even with bare hands) and then Doña Rita
would have been left utterly defenceless.
“He will sp=
eak,”
came to me the ghostly, terrified murmur of her voice. “Take me out of
the house before he begins to speak.”
“Keep
still,” I whispered.
“He will soon get tired of this.”
“You
don’t know him.”
“Oh, yes, I
do. Been with him two hours.&=
#8221;
At this she let g=
o my
wrist and covered her face with her hands passionately. When she dropped them she had the =
look
of one morally crushed.
“What did he
say to you?”
“He
raved.”
“Listen to
me. It was all true!”
“I daresay,=
but
what of that?”
These ghostly wor=
ds
passed between us hardly louder than thoughts; but after my last answer she
ceased and gave me a searching stare, then drew in a long breath. The voice on the other side of the=
door
burst out with an impassioned request for a little pity, just a little, and
went on begging for a few words, for two words, for one word—one poor
little word. Then it gave up,=
then
repeated once more, “Say you are there, Rita, Say one word, just one
word. Say ‘yes.’<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Come! Just one little yes.”
“You
see,” I said. She only
lowered her eyelids over the anxious glance she had turned on me.
For a minute we c=
ould
have had the illusion that he had stolen away, unheard, on the thick mats.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But I don’t think that eithe=
r of
us was deceived. The voice
returned, stammering words without connection, pausing and faltering, till
suddenly steadied it soared into impassioned entreaty, sank to low, harsh
tones, voluble, lofty sometimes and sometimes abject. When it paused it left us looking
profoundly at each other.
“It’s
almost comic,” I whispered.
“Yes. One could laugh,” she assent=
ed,
with a sort of sinister conviction.
Never had I seen her look exactly like that, for an instant another,=
an
incredible Rita!
“Haven’t I laughed at him innumerable times?” she
added in a sombre whisper.
He was muttering =
to
himself out there, and unexpectedly shouted: “What?” as though =
he
had fancied he had heard something.
He waited a while before he started up again with a loud: “Spe=
ak
up, Queen of the goats, with your goat tricks. . .” All was still for a time, then cam=
e a
most awful bang on the door. =
He
must have stepped back a pace to hurl himself bodily against the panels. He repeated that performance once =
more,
and then varied it by a prolonged drumming with his fists. It was comic. But I felt myself struggling menta=
lly with
an invading gloom as though I were no longer sure of myself.
“Take me
out,” whispered Doña Rita feverishly, “take me out of th=
is
house before it is too late.”
“You will h=
ave
to stand it,” I answered.
“So be it; =
but
then you must go away yourself. Go
now, before it is too late.”
I didn’t
condescend to answer this. The
drumming on the panels stopped and the absurd thunder of it died out in the
house. I don’t know why=
precisely
then I had the acute vision of the red mouth of José Ortega wriggling
with rage between his funny whiskers.
He began afresh but in a tired tone:
“Do you exp=
ect
a fellow to forget your tricks, you wicked little devil? Haven’t you =
ever
seen me dodging about to get a sight of you amongst those pretty gentlemen,=
on
horseback, like a princess, with pure cheeks like a carved saint? I wonder I didn’t throw ston=
es at
you, I wonder I didn’t run after you shouting the tale—curse my
timidity! But I daresay they =
knew as
much as I did. More. All the new tricks—if that w=
ere possible.”
While he was maki=
ng
this uproar, Doña Rita put her fingers in her ears and then suddenly
changed her mind and clapped her hands over my ears. Instinctively I diseng=
aged
my head but she persisted. We=
had a
short tussle without moving from the spot, and suddenly I had my head free,=
and
there was complete silence. H=
e had
screamed himself out of breath, but Doña Rita muttering: “Too
late, too late,” got her hands away from my grip and slipping altoget=
her
out of her fur coat seized some garment lying on a chair near by (I think it
was her skirt), with the intention of dressing herself, I imagine, and rush=
ing
out of the house. Determined =
to
prevent this, but indeed without thinking very much what I was doing, I got
hold of her arm. That struggl=
e was
silent, too; but I used the least force possible and she managed to give me=
an
unexpected push. Stepping back to save myself from falling I overturned the
little table, bearing the six-branched candlestick. It hit the floor, rebounded with a=
dull
ring on the carpet, and by the time it came to a rest every single candle w=
as
out. He on the other side of =
the
door naturally heard the noise and greeted it with a triumphant screech:
“Aha! I’ve manage=
d to wake
you up,” the very savagery of which had a laughable effect. I felt the weight of Doña R=
ita
grow on my arm and thought it best to let her sink on the floor, wishing to=
be
free in my movements and really afraid that now he had actually heard a noi=
se
he would infallibly burst the door.
But he didn’t even thump it.&=
nbsp;
He seemed to have exhausted himself in that scream. There was no other light in the ro=
om but
the darkened glow of the embers and I could hardly make out amongst the sha=
dows
of furniture Doña Rita sunk on her knees in a penitential and despai=
ring
attitude. Before this collaps=
e I,
who had been wrestling desperately with her a moment before, felt that I da=
re
not touch her. This emotion, =
too, I
could not understand; this abandonment of herself, this conscience-stricken
humility. A humbly imploring
request to open the door came from the other side. Ortega kept on repeating: “O=
pen
the door, open the door,” in such an amazing variety of intonations,
imperative, whining, persuasive, insinuating, and even unexpectedly jocose,
that I really stood there smiling to myself, yet with a gloomy and uneasy
heart. Then he remarked, parenthetically as it were, “Oh, you know ho=
w to
torment a man, you brown-skinned, lean, grinning, dishevelled imp, you. And=
mark,”
he expounded further, in a curiously doctoral tone—“you are in =
all
your limbs hateful: your eyes are hateful and your mouth is hateful, and yo=
ur
hair is hateful, and your body is cold and vicious like a snake—and
altogether you are perdition.”
This statement was
astonishingly deliberate. He =
drew a
moaning breath after it and uttered in a heart-rending tone, “You kno=
w,
Rita, that I cannot live without you.
I haven’t lived. I am
not living now. This isn̵=
7;t
life. Come, Rita, you canR=
17;t
take a boy’s soul away and then let him grow up and go about the worl=
d,
poor devil, while you go amongst the rich from one pair of arms to another,
showing all your best tricks. But I
will forgive you if you only open the door,” he ended in an inflated =
tone:
“You remember how you swore time after time to be my wife. You are more fit to be Satan’=
;s
wife but I don’t mind. =
You
shall be my wife!”
A sound near the
floor made me bend down hastily with a stern: “Don’t laugh,R=
21;
for in his grotesque, almost burlesque discourses there seemed to me to be
truth, passion, and horror enough to move a mountain.
Suddenly suspicion
seized him out there. With
perfectly farcical unexpectedness he yelled shrilly: “Oh, you deceitf=
ul
wretch! You won’t escape
me! I will have you. . . .=
221;
And in a manner of
speaking he vanished. Of cour=
se I
couldn’t see him but somehow that was the impression. I had hardly time to receive it wh=
en
crash! . . . he was already at the other door. I suppose he thought that his prey=
was
escaping him. His swiftness w=
as
amazing, almost inconceivable, more like the effect of a trick or of a
mechanism. The thump on the d=
oor
was awful as if he had not been able to stop himself in time. The shock seemed enough to stun an
elephant. It was really funny=
. And
after the crash there was a moment of silence as if he were recovering
himself. The next thing was a=
low
grunt, and at once he picked up the thread of his fixed idea.
“You will h=
ave
to be my wife. I have no
shame. You swore you would be=
and
so you will have to be.”
Stifled low sounds made me bend down again to the kneeling form, whi=
te
in the flush of the dark red glow.
“For goodness’ sake don’t,” I whispered
down. She was struggling with=
an appalling
fit of merriment, repeating to herself, “Yes, every day, for two
months. Sixty times at least,=
sixty
times at least.” Her vo=
ice
was rising high. She was stru=
ggling
against laughter, but when I tried to put my hand over her lips I felt her =
face
wet with tears. She turned it=
this
way and that, eluding my hand with repressed low, little moans. I lost my caution and said, “=
;Be
quiet,” so sharply as to startle myself (and her, too) into expectant
stillness.
Ortega’s vo=
ice
in the hall asked distinctly: “Eh?&n=
bsp;
What’s this?” and then he kept still on his side listeni=
ng,
but he must have thought that his ears had deceived him. He was getting tired, too. He was keeping quiet out
there—resting. Presentl=
y he
sighed deeply; then in a harsh melancholy tone he started again.
“My love, my
soul, my life, do speak to me. What
am I that you should take so much trouble to pretend that you aren’t
there? Do speak to me,”=
he
repeated tremulously, following this mechanical appeal with a string of
extravagantly endearing names, some of them quite childish, which all of a
sudden stopped dead; and then after a pause there came a distinct, unuttera=
bly
weary: “What shall I do now?” as though he were speaking to him=
self.
I shuddered to he=
ar
rising from the floor, by my side, a vibrating, scornful: “Do! Why, slink off home looking over y=
our
shoulder as you used to years ago when I had done with you—all but the
laughter.”
“Rita,̶=
1; I
murmured, appalled. He must h=
ave
been struck dumb for a moment.
Then, goodness only knows why, in his dismay or rage he was moved to
speak in French with a most ridiculous accent.
“So you have
found your tongue at last—Catin!&nbs=
p;
You were that from the cradle.
Don’t you remember how . . .”
Doña Rita
sprang to her feet at my side with a loud cry, “No, George, no,”
which bewildered me completely. The
suddenness, the loudness of it made the ensuing silence on both sides of the
door perfectly awful. It seem=
ed to
me that if I didn’t resist with all my might something in me would di=
e on
the instant. In the straight,
falling folds of the night-dress she looked cold like a block of marble; wh=
ile
I, too, was turned into stone by the terrific clamour in the hall.
“Therese,
Therese,” yelled Ortega.
“She has got a man in there.” He ran to the foot of the stairs a=
nd
screamed again, “Therese, Therese!&n=
bsp;
There is a man with her. A
man! Come down, you miserable,
starved peasant, come down and see.”
I don’t know
where Therese was but I am sure that this voice reached her, terrible, as if
clamouring to heaven, and with a shrill over-note which made me certain tha=
t if
she was in bed the only thing she would think of doing would be to put her =
head
under the bed-clothes. With a=
final
yell: “Come down and see,” he flew back at the door of the room=
and
started shaking it violently.
It was a double d=
oor,
very tall, and there must have been a lot of things loose about its fitting=
s,
bolts, latches, and all those brass applications with broken screws, becaus=
e it
rattled, it clattered, it jingled; and produced also the sound as of thunder
rolling in the big, empty hall. It
was deafening, distressing, and vaguely alarming as if it could bring the h=
ouse
down. At the same time the fu=
tility
of it had, it cannot be denied, a comic effect. The very magnitude of the racket h=
e raised
was funny. But he couldn̵=
7;t
keep up that violent exertion continuously, and when he stopped to rest we
could hear him shouting to himself in vengeful tones. He saw it all! He had been decoyed there! (Rattle,
rattle, rattle.) He had been
decoyed into that town, he screamed, getting more and more excited by the n=
oise
he made himself, in order to be exposed to this! (Rattle, rattle.) By this shameless “Catin! Ca=
tin!
Catin!”
He started at the
door again with superhuman vigour.
Behind me I heard Doña Rita laughing softly, statuesque, turn=
ed
all dark in the fading glow. I
called out to her quite openly, “Do keep your self-control.” And
she called back to me in a clear voice: “Oh, my dear, will you ever c=
onsent
to speak to me after all this? But
don’t ask for the impossible. He was born to be laughed at.”
“Yes,”=
; I
cried. “But don’t=
let
yourself go.”
I don’t know
whether Ortega heard us. He w=
as
exerting then his utmost strength of lung against the infamous plot to expo=
se
him to the derision of the fiendish associates of that obscene woman! . . .
Then he began another interlude upon the door, so sustained and strong that=
I
had the thought that this was growing absurdly impossible, that either the =
plaster
would begin to fall off the ceiling or he would drop dead next moment, out
there.
He stopped, utter=
ed a
few curses at the door, and seemed calmer from sheer exhaustion.
“This story
will be all over the world,” we heard him begin. “Deceived, decoyed, inveighe=
d, in
order to be made a laughing-stock before the most debased of all mankind, t=
hat
woman and her associates.”
This was really a meditation.
And then he screamed: “I will kill you all.” Once more he started worrying the =
door
but it was a startlingly feeble effort which he abandoned almost at once. He must have been at the end of his
strength. Doña Rita from the middle of the room asked me recklessly
loud: “Tell me! Wasn’t he born to be laughed at?” I didn’t answer her. I was so near the door that I thou=
ght I
ought to hear him panting there. He
was terrifying, but he was not serious.&nb=
sp;
He was at the end of his strength, of his breath, of every kind of
endurance, but I did not know it.
He was done up, finished; but perhaps he did not know it himself.
The sight of Orte=
ga lying
on his back at the foot of the stairs arrested me in the doorway. One of his legs was drawn up, the =
other
extended fully, his foot very near the pedestal of the silver statuette hol=
ding
the feeble and tenacious gleam which made the shadows so heavy in that hall=
. One of his arms lay across his
breast. The other arm was ext=
ended full
length on the white-and-black pavement with the hand palm upwards and the
fingers rigidly spread out. T=
he
shadow of the lowest step slanted across his face but one whisker and part =
of
his chin could be made out. He
appeared strangely flattened. He
didn’t move at all. He =
was in
his shirt-sleeves. I felt an
extreme distaste for that sight. The characteristic sound of a key worrying=
in
the lock stole into my ears. =
I couldn’t
locate it but I didn’t attend much to that at first. I was engaged in watching Se&ntild=
e;or
Ortega. But for his raised le=
g he
clung so flat to the floor and had taken on himself such a distorted shape =
that
he might have been the mere shadow of Señor Ortega. It was rather fascinating to see h=
im so
quiet at the end of all that fury, clamour, passion, and uproar. Surely there was never anything so=
still
in the world as this Ortega. =
I had
a bizarre notion that he was not to be disturbed.
A noise like the =
rattling
of chain links, a small grind and click exploded in the stillness of the ha=
ll
and a voice began to swear in Italian.&nbs=
p;
These surprising sounds were quite welcome, they recalled me to myse=
lf,
and I perceived they came from the front door which seemed pushed a little
ajar. Was somebody trying to =
get
in? I had no objection, I wen=
t to
the door and said: “Wait a moment, it’s on the chain.”
Suddenly I became
intensely alive to the whole situation.&nb=
sp;
I bounded back, closed the door of Blunt’s room, and the next
moment was speaking to the Italian.
“A little patience.”&nb=
sp;
My hands trembled but I managed to take down the chain and as I allo=
wed
the door to swing open a little more I put myself in his way. He was burly, venerable, a little
indignant, and full of thanks.
Behind him his two girls, in short-skirted costumes, white stockings,
and low shoes, their heads powdered and earrings sparkling in their ears, h=
uddled
together behind their father, wrapped up in their light mantles. One had kept her little black mask=
on
her face, the other held hers in her hand.
The Italian was
surprised at my blocking the way and remarked pleasantly, “It’s
cold outside, Signor.” I
said, “Yes,” and added in a hurried whisper: “There is a =
dead
man in the hall.” He
didn’t say a single word but put me aside a little, projected his bod=
y in
for one searching glance.
“Your daughters,” I murmured. He said kindly, “Va bene, va=
bene.” And then to them, “Come in,
girls.”
There is nothing =
like
dealing with a man who has had a long past of out-of-the-way experiences. The skill with which he rounded up=
and
drove the girls across the hall, paternal and irresistible, venerable and r=
eassuring,
was a sight to see. They had =
no
time for more than one scared look over the shoulder. He hustled them in and locked them=
up safely
in their part of the house, then crossed the hall with a quick, practical
stride. When near Señor
Ortega he trod short just in time and said: “In truth, blood”; =
then
selecting the place, knelt down by the body in his tall hat and respectable
overcoat, his white beard giving him immense authority somehow. “But—this man is not
dead,” he exclaimed, looking up at me. With profound sagacity, inherent a=
s it
were in his great beard, he never took the trouble to put any questions to =
me
and seemed certain that I had nothing to do with the ghastly sight. “He managed to give himself =
an
enormous gash in his side,” was his calm remark. “And what a weapon!” he
exclaimed, getting it out from under the body. It was an Abyssinian or Nubian
production of a bizarre shape; the clumsiest thing imaginable, partaking of=
a
sickle and a chopper with a sharp edge and a pointed end. A mere cruel-looking curio of inco=
nceivable
clumsiness to European eyes.
The old man let it
drop with amused disdain.
“You had better take hold of his legs,” he decided witho=
ut
appeal. I certainly had no
inclination to argue. When we
lifted him up the head of Señor Ortega fell back desolately, making =
an
awful, defenceless display of his large, white throat.
We found the lamp
burning in the studio and the bed made up on the couch on which we deposited
our burden. My venerable frie=
nd
jerked the upper sheet away at once and started tearing it into strips.
“You may le= ave him to me,” said that efficient sage, “but the doctor is your affair. If you don’t wa= nt this business to make a noise you will have to find a discreet man.”<= o:p>
He was most
benevolently interested in all the proceedings. He remarked with a patriarchal smi=
le as
he tore the sheet noisily: “You had better not lose any time.”<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I didn’t lose any time. I crammed into the next hour an
astonishing amount of bodily activity.&nbs=
p;
Without more words I flew out bare-headed into the last night of
Carnival. Luckily I was certa=
in of
the right sort of doctor. He =
was an
iron-grey man of forty and of a stout habit of body but who was able to put=
on
a spurt. In the cold, dark, a=
nd
deserted by-streets, he ran with earnest, and ponderous footsteps, which ec=
hoed
loudly in the cold night air, while I skimmed along the ground a pace or tw=
o in
front of him. It was only on
arriving at the house that I perceived that I had left the front door wide
open. All the town, every evil in the world could have entered the black-an=
d-white
hall. But I had no time to me=
ditate
upon my imprudence. The doctor and I worked in silence for nearly an hour a=
nd
it was only then while he was washing his hands in the fencing-room that he
asked:
“What was h=
e up
to, that imbecile?”
“Oh, he was
examining this curiosity,” I said.
“Oh, yes, a=
nd
it accidentally went off,” said the doctor, looking contemptuously at=
the
Nubian knife I had thrown on the table.&nb=
sp;
Then while wiping his hands: “I would bet there is a woman
somewhere under this; but that of course does not affect the nature of the
wound. I hope this blood-lett=
ing
will do him good.”
“Nothing wi=
ll
do him any good,” I said.
“Curious ho=
use
this,” went on the doctor, “It belongs to a curious sort of wom=
an,
too. I happened to see her on=
ce or
twice. I shouldn’t wond=
er if
she were to raise considerable trouble in the track of her pretty feet as s=
he
goes along. I believe you kno=
w her
well.”
“Yes.”=
;
“Curious pe=
ople
in the house, too. There was =
a Carlist
officer here, a lean, tall, dark man, who couldn’t sleep. He consulted me once. Do you know what became of him?=
221;
“No.”=
The doctor had
finished wiping his hands and flung the towel far away.
“Considerab=
le
nervous over-strain. Seemed t=
o have
a restless brain. Not a good =
thing,
that. For the rest a perfect
gentleman. And this Spaniard =
here,
do you know him?”
“Enough not=
to
care what happens to him,” I said, “except for the trouble he m=
ight
cause to the Carlist sympathizers here, should the police get hold of this
affair.”
“Well, then=
, he
must take his chance in the seclusion of that conservatory sort of place wh=
ere
you have put him. I’ll =
try to
find somebody we can trust to look after him. Meantime, I will leave the case to
you.”
Directly I had shut the door after =
the
doctor I started shouting for Therese.&nbs=
p;
“Come down at once, you wretched hypocrite,” I yelled at=
the
foot of the stairs in a sort of frenzy as though I had been a second Ortega=
. Not even an echo answered me; but =
all of
a sudden a small flame flickered descending from the upper darkness and The=
rese
appeared on the first floor landing carrying a lighted candle in front of a
livid, hard face, closed against remorse, compassion, or mercy by the meann=
ess
of her righteousness and of her rapacious instincts. She was fully dressed in that abom=
inable
brown stuff with motionless folds, and as I watched her coming down step by
step she might have been made of wood.&nbs=
p;
I stepped back and pointed my finger at the darkness of the passage
leading to the studio. She pa=
ssed
within a foot of me, her pale eyes staring straight ahead, her face still w=
ith
disappointment and fury. Yet =
it is
only my surmise. She might ha=
ve
been made thus inhuman by the force of an invisible purpose. I waited a moment, then, stealthil=
y,
with extreme caution, I opened the door of the so-called Captain Blunt̵=
7;s
room.
The glow of embers
was all but out. It was cold =
and
dark in there; but before I closed the door behind me the dim light from the
hall showed me Doña Rita standing on the very same spot where I had =
left
her, statuesque in her night-dress.
Even after I shut the door she loomed up enormous, indistinctly rigid
and inanimate. I picked up the
candelabra, groped for a candle all over the carpet, found one, and lighted
it. All that time Doña=
Rita
didn’t stir. When I tur=
ned
towards her she seemed to be slowly awakening from a trance. She was deathly pale and by contra=
st the
melted, sapphire-blue of her eyes looked black as coal. They moved a little in my directio=
n,
incurious, recognizing me slowly.
But when they had recognized me completely she raised her hands and =
hid
her face in them. A whole min=
ute or
more passed. Then I said in a=
low
tone: “Look at me,” and she let them fall slowly as if accepting
the inevitable.
“Shall I ma=
ke
up the fire?” . . . I waited.
“Do you hear me?”
She made no sound and with the tip of my finger I touched her bare
shoulder. But for its elastic=
ity it
might have been frozen. At on=
ce I
looked round for the fur coat; it seemed to me that there was not a moment =
to
lose if she was to be saved, as though we had been lost on an Arctic
plain. I had to put her arms =
into
the sleeves, myself, one after another.&nb=
sp;
They were cold, lifeless, but flexible. Then I moved in front of her and
buttoned the thing close round her throat.=
To do that I had actually to raise her chin with my finger, and it s=
ank
slowly down again. I buttoned=
all
the other buttons right down to the ground. It was a very long and splendid fu=
r. Before rising from my kneeling pos=
ition
I felt her feet. Mere ice. The
intimacy of this sort of attendance helped the growth of my authority. “Lie down,” I murmured,
“I shall pile on you every blanket I can find here,” but she on=
ly
shook her head.
Not even in the d=
ays
when she ran “shrill as a cicada and thin as a match” through t=
he
chill mists of her native mountains could she ever have felt so cold, so
wretched, and so desolate. He=
r very
soul, her grave, indignant, and fantastic soul, seemed to drowse like an ex=
hausted
traveller surrendering himself to the sleep of death. But when I asked her again to lie =
down
she managed to answer me, “Not in this room.” The dumb spell was broken. She turned her head from side to s=
ide,
but oh! how cold she was! It =
seemed
to come out of her, numbing me, too; and the very diamonds on the arrow of =
gold
sparkled like hoar frost in the light of the one candle.
“Not in this
room; not here,” she protested, with that peculiar suavity of tone wh=
ich
made her voice unforgettable, irresistible, no matter what she said. “Not after all this! I couldn’t close my eyes in =
this
place. It’s full of corruption and ugliness all round, in me, too,
everywhere except in your heart, which has nothing to do where I breathe. And here you may leave me. But wherever you go remember that =
I am
not evil, I am not evil.”
I said: “I
don’t intend to leave you here.
There is my room upstairs. You have been in it before.”
“Oh, you ha=
ve
heard of that,” she whispered.
The beginning of a wan smile vanished from her lips.
“I also thi=
nk
you can’t stay in this room; and, surely, you needn’t hesitate =
. .
.”
“No. It doesn’t matter now. He has killed me. Rita is dead.”
While we exchanged
these words I had retrieved the quilted, blue slippers and had put them on =
her
feet. She was very tractable.=
Then taking her by the arm I led h=
er
towards the door.
“He has kil=
led
me,” she repeated in a sigh.
“The little joy that was in me.”
“He has tri=
ed
to kill himself out there in the hall,” I said. She put back like a frightened chi=
ld but
she couldn’t be dragged on as a child can be.
I assured her that
the man was no longer there but she only repeated, “I can’t get
through the hall. I can’=
;t
walk. I can’t . . .R=
21;
“Well,̶=
1; I
said, flinging the door open and seizing her suddenly in my arms, “if=
you
can’t walk then you shall be carried,” and I lifted her from the
ground so abruptly that she could not help catching me round the neck as any
child almost will do instinctively when you pick it up.
I ought really to
have put those blue slippers in my pocket.=
One dropped off at the bottom of the stairs as I was stepping over a=
n unpleasant-looking
mess on the marble pavement, and the other was lost a little way up the fli=
ght
when, for some reason (perhaps from a sense of insecurity), she began to
struggle. Though I had an odd=
sense
of being engaged in a sort of nursery adventure she was no child to carry.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I could just do it. But not if she chose to struggle.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I set her down hastily and only
supported her round the waist for the rest of the way. My room, of course, =
was
perfectly dark but I led her straight to the sofa at once and let her fall =
on
it. Then as if I had in sober=
truth
rescued her from an Alpine height or an Arctic floe, I busied myself with
nothing but lighting the gas and starting the fire. I didn’t even pause to lock =
my
door. All the time I was awar=
e of
her presence behind me, nay, of something deeper and more my own—of h=
er
existence itself—of a small blue flame, blue like her eyes, flickering
and clear within her frozen body. When I turned to her she was sitting very
stiff and upright, with her feet posed hieratically on the carpet and her h=
ead
emerging out of the ample fur collar, such as a gem-like flower above the r=
im
of a dark vase. I tore the blankets and the pillows off my bed and piled th=
em
up in readiness in a great heap on the floor near the couch. My reason for this was that the ro=
om was
large, too large for the fireplace, and the couch was nearest to the fire.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She gave no sign but one of her wi=
stful attempts
at a smile. In a most busines=
s-like
way I took the arrow out of her hair and laid it on the centre table. The tawny mass fell loose at once =
about
her shoulders and made her look even more desolate than before. But there was an invincible need of
gaiety in her heart. She said
funnily, looking at the arrow sparkling in the gas light:
“Ah! That poor philistinish ornament!=
8221;
An echo of our ea=
rly
days, not more innocent but so much more youthful, was in her tone; and we
both, as if touched with poignant regret, looked at each other with enlight=
ened
eyes.
“Yes,”=
; I
said, “how far away all this is.&nbs=
p;
And you wouldn’t leave even that object behind when you came l=
ast
in here. Perhaps it is for th=
at reason
it haunted me—mostly at night.
I dreamed of you sometimes as a huntress nymph gleaming white through
the foliage and throwing this arrow like a dart straight at my heart. But it never reached it. It always fell at my feet as I woke
up. The huntress never meant =
to
strike down that particular quarry.”
“The huntre=
ss
was wild but she was not evil. And
she was no nymph, but only a goatherd girl. Dream of her no more, my dear.R=
21;
I had the strengt=
h of
mind to make a sign of assent and busied myself arranging a couple of pillo=
ws
at one end of the sofa. ̶=
0;Upon
my soul, goatherd, you are not responsible,” I said. “You are not! Lay down that uneasy head,” I
continued, forcing a half-playful note into my immense sadness, “that=
has
even dreamed of a crown—but not for itself.”
She lay down
quietly. I covered her up, lo=
oked
once into her eyes and felt the restlessness of fatigue over-power me so th=
at I
wanted to stagger out, walk straight before me, stagger on and on till I
dropped. In the end I lost myself in thought. I woke with a start to her voice s=
aying
positively:
“No. Not even in this room. I can’t close my eyes. Impossible. I have a horror of myself. That voice in my ears. All true. All true.”
She was sitting u=
p,
two masses of tawny hair fell on each side of her tense face. I threw away the pillows from whic=
h she
had risen and sat down behind her on the couch. “Perhaps like this,” I
suggested, drawing her head gently on my breast. She didn’t resist, she
didn’t even sigh, she didn’t look at me or attempt to settle
herself in any way. It was I =
who
settled her after taking up a position which I thought I should be able to =
keep
for hours—for ages. Aft=
er a
time I grew composed enough to become aware of the ticking of the clock, ev=
en
to take pleasure in it. The beat recorded the moments of her rest, while I =
sat,
keeping as still as if my life depended upon it with my eyes fixed idly on =
the
arrow of gold gleaming and glittering dimly on the table under the lowered =
gas-jet. And presently my breathing fell in=
to the
quiet rhythm of the sleep which descended on her at last. My thought was that now nothing ma=
ttered
in the world because I had the world safe resting in my arms—or was i=
t in
my heart?
Suddenly my heart
seemed torn in two within my breast and half of my breath knocked out of
me. It was a tumultuous
awakening. The day had come.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Doña Rita had opened her ey=
es,
found herself in my arms, and instantly had flung herself out of them with =
one
sudden effort. I saw her alre=
ady
standing in the filtered sunshine of the closed shutters, with all the
childlike horror and shame of that night vibrating afresh in the awakened b=
ody
of the woman.
“Daylight,&=
#8221;
she whispered in an appalled voice.
“Don’t look at me, George. I can’t face daylight. No—not with you. Before we set eyes on each other a=
ll that
past was like nothing. I had
crushed it all in my new pride.
Nothing could touch the Rita whose hand was kissed by you. But now!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Never in daylight.”
I sat there stupid
with surprise and grief. This=
was
no longer the adventure of venturesome children in a nursery-book. A grown man’s bitterness,
informed, suspicious, resembling hatred, welled out of my heart.
“All this m=
eans
that you are going to desert me again?” I said with contempt. “All right. I won’t throw stones after y=
ou . .
. Are you going, then?”
She lowered her h=
ead
slowly with a backward gesture of her arm as if to keep me off, for I had
sprung to my feet all at once as if mad.
“Then go
quickly,” I said. ̶=
0;You
are afraid of living flesh and blood. What are you running after? Honesty, as you say, or some
distinguished carcass to feed your vanity on? I know how cold you can be—a=
nd yet
live. What have I done to you? You
go to sleep in my arms, wake up and go away. Is it to impress me? Charlatanism of character, my
dear.”
She stepped forwa=
rd
on her bare feet as firm on that floor which seemed to heave up and down be=
fore
my eyes as she had ever been—goatherd child leaping on the rocks of h=
er
native hills which she was never to see again. I snatched the arrow of gold from =
the
table and threw it after her.
“Don’t
forget this thing,” I cried, “you would never forgive yourself =
for leaving
it behind.”
It struck the bac=
k of
the fur coat and fell on the floor behind her. She never looked round. She walked to the door, opened it
without haste, and on the landing in the diffused light from the ground-gla=
ss
skylight there appeared, rigid, like an implacable and obscure fate, the aw=
ful Therese—waiting
for her sister. The heavy end=
s of a
big black shawl thrown over her head hung massively in biblical folds. With a faint cry of dismay Do&ntil=
de;a
Rita stopped just within my room.
The two women fac=
ed
each other for a few moments silently.&nbs=
p;
Therese spoke first. T=
here
was no austerity in her tone. Her
voice was as usual, pertinacious, unfeeling, with a slight plaint in it;
terrible in its unchanged purpose.
“I have been
standing here before this door all night,” she said. “I don’t know how I li=
ved
through it. I thought I would=
die a
hundred times for shame. So
that’s how you are spending your time? You are worse than shameless. But God may still forgive you. You have a soul. You are my sister. I will never abandon you—til=
l you
die.”
“What is
it?” Doña Rita was heard wistfully, “my soul or this hou=
se
that you won’t abandon.”
“Come out a=
nd
bow your head in humiliation. I am
your sister and I shall help you to pray to God and all the Saints. Come away from that poor young gen=
tleman
who like all the others can have nothing but contempt and disgust for you in
his heart. Come and hide your=
head
where no one will reproach you—but I, your sister. Come out and beat your breast: com=
e, poor
Sinner, and let me kiss you, for you are my sister!”
While Therese was
speaking Doña Rita stepped back a pace and as the other moved forward
still extending the hand of sisterly love, she slammed the door in
Therese’s face. “=
You
abominable girl!” she cried fiercely. Then she turned about and walked t=
owards
me who had not moved. I felt =
hardly
alive but for the cruel pain that possessed my whole being. On the way she stooped to pick up =
the
arrow of gold and then moved on quicker, holding it out to me in her open p=
alm.
“You though=
t I
wouldn’t give it to you.
Amigo, I wanted nothing so much as to give it to you. And now, perhaps—you will ta=
ke
it.”
“Not without
the woman,” I said sombrely.
“Take
it,” she said. “I
haven’t the courage to deliver myself up to Therese. No.
Not even for your sake.
Don’t you think I have been miserable enough yet?”
I snatched the ar=
row
out of her hand then and ridiculously pressed it to my breast; but as I ope=
ned
my lips she who knew what was struggling for utterance in my heart cried in=
a
ringing tone:
“Speak no w=
ords
of love, George! Not yet. Not in this house of ill-luck and
falsehood. Not within a hundr=
ed
miles of this house, where they came clinging to me all profaned from the m=
outh
of that man. Haven’t yo=
u heard
them—the horrible things? And
what can words have to do between you and me?”
Her hands were
stretched out imploringly, I said, childishly disconcerted:
“But, Rita,=
how
can I help using words of love to you?&nbs=
p;
They come of themselves on my lips!”
“They
come! Ah! But I shall seal your lips with the
thing itself,” she said.
“Like this. . . ”
SECOND NOTE
The narrative of our man goes on fo=
r some
six months more, from this, the last night of the Carnival season up to and
beyond the season of roses.
The tone of it is
much less of exultation than might have been expected. Love as is well known
having nothing to do with reason, being insensible to forebodings and even
blind to evidence, the surrender of those two beings to a precarious bliss =
has
nothing very astonishing in itself; and its portrayal, as he attempts it, l=
acks
dramatic interest. The sentim=
ental
interest could only have a fascination for readers themselves actually in
love. The response of a reader
depends on the mood of the moment, so much so that a book may seem extremely
interesting when read late at night, but might appear merely a lot of vapid
verbiage in the morning. My
conviction is that the mood in which the continuation of his story would ap=
pear
sympathetic is very rare. This
consideration has induced me to suppress it—all but the actual facts
which round up the previous events and satisfy such curiosity as might have
been aroused by the foregoing narrative.
It is to be remar=
ked
that this period is characterized more by a deep and joyous tenderness than=
by
sheer passion. All fierceness=
of
spirit seems to have burnt itself out in their preliminary hesitations and
struggles against each other and themselves. Whether love in its entirety has, =
speaking
generally, the same elementary meaning for women as for men, is very
doubtful. Civilization has be=
en at
work there. But the fact is t=
hat
those two display, in every phase of discovery and response, an exact
accord. Both show themselves
amazingly ingenuous in the practice of sentiment. I believe that those who know women
won’t be surprised to hear me say that she was as new to love as he
was. During their retreat in =
the
region of the Maritime Alps, in a small house built of dry stones and embow=
ered
with roses, they appear all through to be less like released lovers than as
companions who had found out each other’s fitness in a specially inte=
nse
way. Upon the whole, I think =
that
there must be some truth in his insistence of there having always been
something childlike in their relation.&nbs=
p;
In the unreserved and instant sharing of all thoughts, all impressio=
ns,
all sensations, we see the naïveness of a children’s foolhardy
adventure. This unreserved
expressed for him the whole truth of the situation. With her it may have been
different. It might have been
assumed; yet nobody is altogether a comedian; and even comedians themselves
have got to believe in the part they play.=
Of the two she appears much the more assured and confident. But if in this she was a comedienn=
e then
it was but a great achievement of her ineradicable honesty. Having once renounced her honourab=
le
scruples she took good care that he should taste no flavour of misgivings i=
n the
cup. Being older it was she w=
ho
imparted its character to the situation.&n=
bsp;
As to the man if he had any superiority of his own it was simply the
superiority of him who loves with the greater self-surrender.
This is what appe=
ars
from the pages I have discreetly suppressed—partly out of regard for =
the
pages themselves. In every, e=
ven
terrestrial, mystery there is as it were a sacred core. A sustained commentary on love is =
not
fit for every eye. A universal
experience is exactly the sort of thing which is most difficult to appraise
justly in a particular instance.
How this particul=
ar
instance affected Rose, who was the only companion of the two hermits in th=
eir
rose-embowered hut of stones, I regret not to be able to report; but I will
venture to say that for reasons on which I need not enlarge, the girl could=
not
have been very reassured by what she saw.&=
nbsp;
It seems to me that her devotion could never be appeased; for the co=
nviction
must have been growing on her that, no matter what happened, Madame could n=
ever
have any friends. It may be t=
hat
Doña Rita had given her a glimpse of the unavoidable end, and that t=
he
girl’s tarnished eyes masked a certain amount of apprehensive, helple=
ss
desolation.
What meantime was
becoming of the fortune of Henry Allègre is another curious
question. We have been told t=
hat it
was too big to be tied up in a sack and thrown into the sea. That part of it represented by the=
fabulous
collections was still being protected by the police. But for the rest, it may be assume=
d that
its power and significance were lost to an interested world for something l=
ike
six months. What is certain i=
s that
the late Henry Allègre’s man of affairs found himself
comparatively idle. The holid=
ay
must have done much good to his harassed brain. He had received a note from Do&nti=
lde;a
Rita saying that she had gone into retreat and that she did not mean to send
him her address, not being in the humour to be worried with letters on any
subject whatever. “It=
8217;s
enough for you”—she wrote—“to know that I am alive.=
” Later, at irregular intervals, he
received scraps of paper bearing the stamps of various post offices and
containing the simple statement: “I am still alive,” signed wit=
h an
enormous, flourished exuberant R. =
span>I
imagine Rose had to travel some distances by rail to post those messages. A thick veil of secrecy had been l=
owered
between the world and the lovers; yet even this veil turned out not altoget=
her
impenetrable.
He—it would=
be
convenient to call him Monsieur George to the end—shared with Do&ntil=
de;a
Rita her perfect detachment from all mundane affairs; but he had to make two
short visits to Marseilles. T=
he
first was prompted by his loyal affection for Dominic. He wanted to discover what had hap=
pened or
was happening to Dominic and to find out whether he could do something for =
that
man. But Dominic was not the =
sort
of person for whom one can do much.
Monsieur George did not even see him. It looked uncommonly as if Dominic=
’s
heart were broken. Monsieur G=
eorge
remained concealed for twenty-four hours in the very house in which Madame
Léonore had her café. He spent most of that time in conversing
with Madame Léonore about Dominic.&=
nbsp;
She was distressed, but her mind was made up. That bright-eyed, nonchalant, and
passionate woman was making arrangements to dispose of her café befo=
re
departing to join Dominic. She
would not say where. Having
ascertained that his assistance was not required Monsieur George, in his own
words, “managed to sneak out of the town without being seen by a sing=
le
soul that mattered.”
The second occasi=
on
was very prosaic and shockingly incongruous with the super-mundane colourin=
g of
these days. He had neither the
fortune of Henry Allègre nor a man of affairs of his own. But some rent had to be paid to so=
mebody
for the stone hut and Rose could not go marketing in the tiny hamlet at the
foot of the hill without a little money.&n=
bsp;
There came a time when Monsieur George had to descend from the heigh=
ts
of his love in order, in his own words, “to get a supply of
cash.” As he had disapp=
eared
very suddenly and completely for a time from the eyes of mankind it was
necessary that he should show himself and sign some papers. That business was transacted in the
office of the banker mentioned in the story. Monsieur George wished to avoid se=
eing the
man himself but in this he did not succeed. The interview was short. The banker naturally asked no ques=
tions,
made no allusions to persons and events, and didn’t even mention the
great Legitimist Principle which presented to him now no interest whatever.=
But for the moment all the world w=
as
talking of the Carlist enterprise.
It had collapsed utterly, leaving behind, as usual, a large crop of
recriminations, charges of incompetency and treachery, and a certain amount=
of
scandalous gossip. The banker (his wife’s salon had been very Carlist
indeed) declared that he had never believed in the success of the cause.
“You left a=
few
of your feathers in it, nevertheless,” the banker concluded with a wo=
oden
face and with the curtness of a man who knows.
Monsieur George o=
ught
to have taken the very next train out of the town but he yielded to the
temptation to discover what had happened to the house in the street of the
Consuls after he and Doña Rita had stolen out of it like two scared =
yet
jubilant children. All he
discovered was a strange, fat woman, a sort of virago, who had, apparently,
been put in as a caretaker by the man of affairs. She made some difficulties to admi=
t that
she had been in charge for the last four months; ever since the person who =
was
there before had eloped with some Spaniard who had been lying in the house =
ill
with fever for more than six weeks.
No, she never saw the person.
Neither had she seen the Spaniard.&=
nbsp;
She had only heard the talk of the street. Of course she didn’t know wh=
ere
these people had gone. She ma=
nifested
some impatience to get rid of Monsieur George and even attempted to push him
towards the door. It was, he =
says,
a very funny experience. He n=
oticed
the feeble flame of the gas-jet in the hall still waiting for extinction in=
the
general collapse of the world.
Then he decided to
have a bit of dinner at the Restaurant de la Gare where he felt pretty cert=
ain
he would not meet any of his friends.
He could not have asked Madame Léonore for hospitality because
Madame Léonore had gone away already. His acquaintances were not the sor=
t of people
likely to happen casually into a restaurant of that kind and moreover he to=
ok
the precaution to seat himself at a small table so as to face the wall. Yet before long he felt a hand laid
gently on his shoulder, and, looking up, saw one of his acquaintances, a me=
mber
of the Royalist club, a young man of a very cheerful disposition but whose =
face
looked down at him with a grave and anxious expression.
Monsieur George w=
as
far from delighted. His surpr=
ise
was extreme when in the course of the first phrases exchanged with him he
learned that this acquaintance had come to the station with the hope of fin=
ding
him there.
“You
haven’t been seen for some time,” he said. “You were perhaps somewhere =
where
the news from the world couldn’t reach you? There have been many changes among=
st our
friends and amongst people one used to hear of so much. There is Madame de Lastaola for
instance, who seems to have vanished from the world which was so much
interested in her. You have n=
o idea
where she may be now?”
Monsieur George
remarked grumpily that he couldn’t say.
The other tried to
appear at ease. Tongues were
wagging about it in Paris. Th=
ere
was a sort of international financier, a fellow with an Italian name, a sha=
dy
personality, who had been looking for her all over Europe and talked in
clubs—astonishing how such fellows get into the best clubs—oh!
Azzolati was his name. But pe=
rhaps
what a fellow like that said did not matter. The funniest thing was that there =
was no
man of any position in the world who had disappeared at the same time. A friend in Paris wrote to him tha=
t a
certain well-known journalist had rushed South to investigate the mystery b=
ut
had returned no wiser than he went.
Monsieur George
remarked more unamiably than before that he really could not help all that.=
“No,”
said the other with extreme gentleness, “only of all the people more =
or
less connected with the Carlist affair you are the only one that had also
disappeared before the final collapse.”
“What!̶=
1; cried
Monsieur George.
“Just
so,” said the other meaningly.
“You know that all my people like you very much, though they h=
old
various opinions as to your discretion. Only the other day Jane, you know my
married sister, and I were talking about you. She was extremely distressed. I assured her that you must be ver=
y far
away or very deeply buried somewhere not to have given a sign of life under
this provocation.”
Naturally Monsieur
George wanted to know what it was all about; and the other appeared greatly
relieved.
“I was sure=
you
couldn’t have heard. I
don’t want to be indiscreet, I don’t want to ask you where you
were. It came to my ears that=
you
had been seen at the bank to-day and I made a special effort to lay hold of=
you
before you vanished again; for, after all, we have been always good friends=
and
all our lot here liked you very much.
Listen. You know a cer=
tain
Captain Blunt, don’t you?”
Monsieur George o=
wned
to knowing Captain Blunt but only very slightly. His friend then informed h=
im
that this Captain Blunt was apparently well acquainted with Madame de Lasta=
ola,
or, at any rate, pretended to be.
He was an honourable man, a member of a good club, he was very Paris=
ian
in a way, and all this, he continued, made all the worse that of which he w=
as under
the painful necessity of warning Monsieur George. This Blunt on three distinct occas=
ions
when the name of Madame de Lastaola came up in conversation in a mixed comp=
any
of men had expressed his regret that she should have become the prey of a y=
oung
adventurer who was exploiting her shamelessly. He talked like a man certain of his
facts and as he mentioned names . . .
“In
fact,” the young man burst out excitedly, “it is your name that=
he mentions. And in order to fix the exact
personality he always takes care to add that you are that young fellow who =
was
known as Monsieur George all over the South amongst the initiated
Carlists.”
How Blunt had got
enough information to base that atrocious calumny upon, Monsieur George
couldn’t imagine. But t=
here it
was. He kept silent in his
indignation till his friend murmured, “I expect you will want him to =
know
that you are here.”
“Yes,”
said Monsieur George, “and I hope you will consent to act for me alto=
gether. First of all, pray, let him know b=
y wire
that I am waiting for him. Th=
is
will be enough to fetch him down here, I can assure you. You may ask him al=
so
to bring two friends with him. I
don’t intend this to be an affair for Parisian journalists to write
paragraphs about.”
“Yes. That sort of thing must be stopped=
at
once,” the other admitted. He assented to Monsieur George’s req=
uest
that the meeting should be arranged for at his elder brother’s country
place where the family stayed very seldom.=
There was a most convenient walled garden there. And then Monsieur George caught his
train promising to be back on the fourth day and leaving all further
arrangements to his friend. He
prided himself on his impenetrability before Doña Rita; on the happi=
ness
without a shadow of those four days.
However, Doña Rita must have had the intuition of there being
something in the wind, because on the evening of the very same day on which=
he
left her again on some pretence or other, she was already ensconced in the
house in the street of the Consuls, with the trustworthy Rose scouting all =
over
the town to gain information.
Of the proceeding=
s in
the walled garden there is no need to speak in detail. They were conventionally correct, =
but an
earnestness of purpose which could be felt in the very air lifted the busin=
ess above
the common run of affairs of honour.
One bit of byplay unnoticed by the seconds, very busy for the moment
with their arrangements, must be mentioned. Disregarding the severe rules of
conduct in such cases Monsieur George approached his adversary and addressed
him directly.
“Captain
Blunt,” he said, “the result of this meeting may go against me.=
In
that case you will recognize publicly that you were wrong. For you are wrong and you know it.=
May I trust your honour?”
In answer to that
appeal Captain Blunt, always correct, didn’t open his lips but only m=
ade
a little bow. For the rest he=
was
perfectly ruthless. If he was utterly incapable of being carried away by lo=
ve
there was nothing equivocal about his jealousy. Such psychology is not very rare a=
nd
really from the point of view of the combat itself one cannot very well bla=
me
him. What happened was this.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Monsieur George fired on the word =
and,
whether luck or skill, managed to hit Captain Blunt in the upper part of the
arm which was holding the pistol.
That gentleman’s arm dropped powerless by his side. But he did not drop his weapon.
When he woke up a=
fter
an hour, or a day, or a month, there was dusk in the room; but he recognize=
d it
perfectly. It was his apartme=
nt in
Doña Rita’s house; those were the familiar surroundings in whi=
ch
he had so often told himself that he must either die or go mad. But now he felt perfectly clear-he=
aded
and the full sensation of being alive came all over him, languidly
delicious. The greatest beaut=
y of
it was that there was no need to move.&nbs=
p;
This gave him a sort of moral satisfaction. Then the first thought independent=
of
personal sensations came into his head. He wondered when Therese would come=
in
and begin talking. He saw vag=
uely a
human figure in the room but that was a man. He was speaking in a deadened voice
which had yet a preternatural distinctness.
“This is the
second case I have had in this house, and I am sure that directly or indire=
ctly
it was connected with that woman.
She will go on like this leaving a track behind her and then some day
there will be really a corpse. This
young fellow might have been it.”
“In this ca=
se,
Doctor,” said another voice, “one can’t blame the woman v=
ery
much. I assure you she made a=
very
determined fight.”
“What do you
mean? That she didn’t w=
ant
to. . . ”
“Yes. A very good fight. I heard all about it. It is easy to blame her, but, as s=
he
asked me despairingly, could she go through life veiled from head to foot o=
r go
out of it altogether into a convent?
No, she isn’t guilty.
She is simply—what she is.”
“And
what’s that?”
“Very much =
of a
woman. Perhaps a little more =
at the
mercy of contradictory impulses than other women. But that’s not her fault.
The voices sank
suddenly to a still lower murmur and presently the shape of the man went ou=
t of
the room. Monsieur George hea=
rd
distinctly the door open and shut.
Then he spoke for the first time, discovering, with a particular
pleasure, that it was quite easy to speak.=
He was even under the impression that he had shouted:
“Who is
here?”
From the shadow of
the room (he recognized at once the characteristic outlines of the bulky sh=
ape)
Mills advanced to the side of the bed.&nbs=
p;
Doña Rita had telegraphed to him on the day of the duel and t=
he
man of books, leaving his retreat, had come as fast as boats and trains cou=
ld
carry him South. For, as he s=
aid
later to Monsieur George, he had become fully awake to his part of
responsibility. And he added:
“It was not of you alone that I was thinking.” But the very first question that
Monsieur George put to him was:
“How long i=
s it
since I saw you last?”
“Something =
like
ten months,” answered Mills’ kindly voice.
“Ah! Is Therese outside the door? She stood there all night, you
know.”
“Yes, I hea=
rd
of it. She is hundreds of mil=
es
away now.”
“Well, then,
ask Rita to come in.”
“I can̵= 7;t do that, my dear boy,” said Mills with affectionate gentleness. He hesitated a moment. “Doña Rita went away yesterday,” he said softly.<= o:p>
“Went
away? Why?” asked Monsi=
eur
George.
“Because, I=
am
thankful to say, your life is no longer in danger. And I have told you that she is go=
ne
because, strange as it may seem, I believe you can stand this news better n=
ow
than later when you get stronger.”
It must be believ=
ed
that Mills was right. Monsieur
George fell asleep before he could feel any pang at that intelligence. A sort of confused surprise was in=
his
mind but nothing else, and then his eyes closed. The awakening was another matter.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But that, too, Mills had foreseen.=
For days he attended the bedside
patiently letting the man in the bed talk to him of Doña Rita but sa=
ying
little himself; till one day he was asked pointedly whether she had ever ta=
lked
to him openly. And then he sa=
id that
she had, on more than one occasion.
“She told me amongst other things,” Mills said, “if
this is any satisfaction to you to know, that till she met you she knew not=
hing
of love. That you were to her=
in
more senses than one a complete revelation.”
“And then s=
he
went away. Ran away from the
revelation,” said the man in the bed bitterly.
“What’=
;s
the good of being angry?” remonstrated Mills, gently. “You know that this world is=
not a
world for lovers, not even for such lovers as you two who have nothing to do
with the world as it is. No, a
world of lovers would be impossible.
It would be a mere ruin of lives which seem to be meant for something
else. What this something is,=
I
don’t know; and I am certain,” he said with playful compassion,
“that she and you will never find out.”
A few days later =
they
were again talking of Doña Rita Mills said:
“Before she
left the house she gave me that arrow she used to wear in her hair to hand =
over
to you as a keepsake and also to prevent you, she said, from dreaming of
her. This message sounds rath=
er
cryptic.”
“Oh, I
understand perfectly,” said Monsieur George. “Don’t give me the thi=
ng
now. Leave it somewhere where=
I can
find it some day when I am alone.
But when you write to her you may tell her that now at last—su=
rer than
Mr. Blunt’s bullet—the arrow has found its mark. There will be no more dreaming.
“I don̵=
7;t
even know where she is,” murmured Mills.
“No, but her
man of affairs knows. . . . Tell me, Mills, what will become of her?”=
“She will be
wasted,” said Mills sadly.
“She is a most unfortunate creature. Not even poverty could save her
now. She cannot go back to her
goats. Yet who can tell? She may find something in life. She has sacrificed that chance to =
the
integrity of your life—heroically.&n=
bsp;
Do you remember telling her once that you meant to live your life
integrally—oh, you lawless young pedant! Well, she is gone; but you may be =
sure
that whatever she finds now in life it will not be peace. You understand me? Not even in a convent.”
“She was
supremely lovable,” said the wounded man, speaking of her as if she w=
ere
lying dead already on his oppressed heart.
“And
elusive,” struck in Mills in a low voice. “Some of them are like that.=
She will never change. Amid all the shames and shadows of=
that life
there will always lie the ray of her perfect honesty. I don’t know about your hone=
sty,
but yours will be the easier lot.
You will always have your . . . other love—you pig-headed
enthusiast of the sea.”
“Then let m=
e go
to it,” cried the enthusiast.
“Let me go to it.”
He went to it as =
soon
as he had strength enough to feel the crushing weight of his loss (or his g=
ain)
fully, and discovered that he could bear it without flinching. After this discovery he was fit to=
face
anything. He tells his correspondent that if he had been more romantic he w=
ould
never have looked at any other woman.
But on the contrary. N=
o face
worthy of attention escaped him. He
looked at them all; and each reminded him of Doña Rita, either by so=
me
profound resemblance or by the startling force of contrast.
The faithful aust=
erity
of the sea protected him from the rumours that fly on the tongues of men. He never heard of her. Even the echoes of the sale of the=
great
Allègre collection failed to reach him. And that event must have made noise
enough in the world. But he n=
ever
heard. He does not know. Then, years later, he was deprived=
even
of the arrow. It was lost to =
him in
a stormy catastrophe; and he confesses that next day he stood on a rocky,
wind-assaulted shore, looking at the seas raging over the very spot of his =
loss
and thought that it was well. It
was not a thing that one could leave behind one for strange hands—for=
the
cold eyes of ignorance. Like =
the
old King of Thule with the gold goblet of his mistress he would have had to
cast it into the sea, before he died.
He says he smiled at the romantic notion. But what else could he have done w=
ith
it?