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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:36:44 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:36:44 -0700 |
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diff --git a/old/11360-h/11360-h.htm b/old/11360-h/11360-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9caf842 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11360-h/11360-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9683 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Sacred and Profane Love, by Arnold Bennett + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> + <pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Sacred And Profane Love , by E. Arnold Bennett + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Sacred And Profane Love + +Author: E. Arnold Bennett + +Release Date: February 28, 2004 [eBook #11360] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE *** + + +E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE + </h1> + <h3> + A Novel In Three Episodes + </h3> + <h2> + By Arnold Bennett + </h2> + <h3> + 1905 + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + TO MY FRIEND EDEN PHILLPOTTS + </h3> + <p> + The Novelist For Whom Man And Nature Are Inseparable With Profound Respect + For The Classical Dignity Of His Aim And Equal Admiration For The Austere + Splendour Of His Performance + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> PART I — IN THE NIGHT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> PART II — THREE HUMAN HEARTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> PART III — THE VICTORY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> VI </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + <i>‘How I have wept, the long night through, over the poor women + of the <br /> past, so beautiful, so tender, so sweet, whose arms have + opened for the <br /> kiss, and who are dead! The kiss—it is + immortal! It passes from lip to <br /> lip, from century to century, from + age to age. Men gather it, give it <br /> back, and die.‘</i>—GUY + DE MAUPASSANT. <br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART I — IN THE NIGHT + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + For years I had been preoccupied with thoughts of love—and by love I + mean a noble and sensuous passion, absorbing the energies of the soul, + fulfilling destiny, and reducing all that has gone before it to the level + of a mere prelude. And that afternoon in autumn, the eve of my + twenty-first birthday, I was more deeply than ever immersed in amorous + dreams. + </p> + <p> + I, in my modern costume, sat down between two pairs of candles to the + piano in the decaying drawing-room, which like a spinster strove to + conceal its age. A generous fire flamed in the wide grate behind me: + warmth has always been to me the first necessary of life. I turned round + on the revolving stool and faced the fire, and felt it on my cheeks, and I + asked myself: ‘Why am I affected like this? Why am I what I am?’ + For even before beginning to play the Fantasia of Chopin, I was moved, and + the tears had come into my eyes, and the shudder to my spine. I gazed at + the room inquiringly, and of course I found no answer. It was one of those + rooms whose spacious and consistent ugliness grows old into a sort of + beauty, formidable and repellent, but impressive; an early Victorian room, + large and stately and symmetrical, full—but not too full—of + twisted and tortured mahogany, green rep, lustres, valances, fringes, gilt + tassels. The green and gold drapery of the two high windows, and here and + there a fine curve in a piece of furniture, recalled the Empire period and + the deserted Napoleonic palaces of France. The expanse of yellow and green + carpet had been married to the floor by two generations of decorous feet, + and the meaning of its tints was long since explained away. Never have I + seen a carpet with less individuality of its own than that carpet; it was + so sweetly faded, amiable, and flat, that its sole mission in the world + seemed to be to make things smooth for the chairs. The wall-paper looked + like pale green silk, and the candles were reflected in it as they were + reflected in the crystals of the chandelier. The grand piano, a Collard + and Collard, made a vast mass of walnut in the chamber, incongruous, + perhaps, but still there was something in its mild and indecisive tone + that responded to the furniture. It, too, spoke of Evangelicalism, the + Christian Year, and a dignified reserved confidence in Christ’s + blood. It, too, defied the assault of time and the invasion of ideas. It, + too, protested against Chopin and romance, and demanded Thalberg’s + variations on ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ + </p> + <p> + My great-grandfather, the famous potter—second in renown only to + Wedgwood—had built that Georgian house, and my grandfather had + furnished it; and my parents, long since dead, had placidly accepted it + and the ideal that it stood for; and it had devolved upon my Aunt + Constance, and ultimately it would devolve on me, the scarlet woman in a + dress of virginal white, the inexplicable offspring of two changeless and + blameless families, the secret revolutionary, the living lie! How had I + come there? + </p> + <p> + I went to the window, and, pulling the curtain aside, looked vaguely out + into the damp, black garden, from which the last light was fading. The + red, rectangular house stood in the midst of the garden, and the garden + was surrounded by four brick walls, which preserved it from four streets + where dwelt artisans of the upper class. The occasional rattling of a cart + was all we caught of the peaceable rumour of the town; but on clear nights + the furnaces of Cauldon Bar Ironworks lit the valley for us, and we were + reminded that our refined and inviolate calm was hemmed in by rude + activities. On the east border of the garden was a row of poplars, and + from the window I could see the naked branches of the endmost. A gas-lamp + suddenly blazed behind it in Acre Lane, and I descried a bird in the tree. + And as the tree waved its plume in the night-wind, and the bird swayed on + the moving twig, and the gas-lamp burned meekly and patiently beyond, I + seemed to catch in these simple things a glimpse of the secret meaning of + human existence, such as one gets sometimes, startlingly, in a mood of + idle receptiveness. And it was so sad and so beautiful, so full of an + ecstatic melancholy, that I dropped the curtain. And my thought ranged + lovingly over our household—prim, regular, and perfect: my old aunt + embroidering in the breakfast-room, and Rebecca and Lucy ironing in the + impeachable kitchen, and not one of them with the least suspicion that + Adam had not really waked up one morning minus a rib. I wandered in fancy + all over the house—the attics, my aunt’s bedroom so + miraculously neat, and mine so unkempt, and the dark places in the + corridors where clocks ticked. + </p> + <p> + I had the sense of the curious compact organism of which my aunt was the + head, and into which my soul had strayed by some caprice of fate. What I + felt was that the organism was suspended in a sort of enchantment, + lifelessly alive, unconsciously expectant of the magic touch which would + break the spell, and I wondered how long I must wait before I began to + live. I know now that I was happy in those serene preliminary years, but + nevertheless I had the illusion of spiritual woe. I sighed grievously as I + went back to the piano, and opened the volume of Mikuli’s Chopin. + </p> + <p> + Just as I was beginning to play, Rebecca came into the room. She was a + maid of forty years, and stout; absolutely certain of a few things, and + quite satisfied in her ignorance of all else; an important person in our + house, and therefore an important person in the created universe, of which + our house was for her the centre. She wore the white cap with distinction, + and when an apron was suspended round her immense waist it ceased to be an + apron, and became a symbol, like the apron of a Freemason. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, Rebecca?’ I said, without turning my head. + </p> + <p> + I guessed urgency, otherwise Rebecca would have delegated Lucy. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you please, Miss Carlotta, your aunt is not feeling well, and she will + not be able to go to the concert to-night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not be able to go to the concert!’ I repeated mechanically. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, miss.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will come downstairs.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I were you, I shouldn’t, miss. She’s dozing a bit just + now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well.’ + </p> + <p> + I went on playing. But Chopin, who was the chief factor in my emotional + life; who had taught me nearly all I knew of grace, wit, and tenderness; + who had discovered for me the beauty that lay in everything, in sensuous + exaltation as well as in asceticism, in grief as well as in joy; who had + shown me that each moment of life, no matter what its import, should be + lived intensely and fully; who had carried me with him to the dizziest + heights of which passion is capable; whose music I spiritually + comprehended to a degree which I felt to be extraordinary—Chopin had + almost no significance for me as I played then the most glorious of his + compositions. His message was only a blurred sound in my ears. And + gradually I perceived, as the soldier gradually perceives who has been hit + by a bullet, that I was wounded. + </p> + <p> + The shock was of such severity that at first I had scarcely noticed it. + What? My aunt not going to the concert? That meant that I could not go. + But it was impossible that I should not go. I could not conceive my + absence from the concert—the concert which I had been anticipating + and preparing for during many weeks. We went out but little, Aunt + Constance and I. An oratorio, an amateur operatic performance, a ballad + concert in the Bursley Town Hall—no more than that; never the + Hanbridge Theatre. And now Diaz was coming down to give a pianoforte + recital in the Jubilee Hall at Hanbridge; Diaz, the darling of European + capitals; Diaz, whose name in seven years had grown legendary; Diaz, the + Liszt and the Rubenstein of my generation, and the greatest interpreter of + Chopin since Chopin died—Diaz! Diaz! No such concert had ever been + announced in the Five Towns, and I was to miss it! Our tickets had been + taken, and they were not to be used! Unthinkable! A photograph of Diaz + stood in a silver frame on the piano; I gazed at it fervently. I said: + ‘I will hear you play the Fantasia this night, if I am cut in pieces + for it to-morrow!’ Diaz represented for me, then, all that I desired + of men. All my dreams of love and freedom crystallized suddenly into Diaz. + </p> + <p> + I ran downstairs to the breakfast-room. + </p> + <p> + ‘You aren’t going to the concert, auntie?’ I almost sobbed. + </p> + <p> + She sat in her rocking-chair, and the gray woollen shawl thrown round her + shoulders mingled with her gray hair. Her long, handsome face was a little + pale, and her dark eyes darker than usual. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t feel well enough,’ she replied calmly. + </p> + <p> + She had not observed the tremor in my voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘But what’s the matter?’ I insisted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing in particular, my dear. I do not feel equal to the exertion.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, auntie—then I can’t go, either.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very sorry, dear,’ she said. ‘We will go to the + next concert.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Diaz will never come again!’ I exclaimed passionately. ‘And + the tickets will be wasted.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear,’ my Aunt Constance repeated, ‘I am not equal to it. + And you cannot go alone.’ + </p> + <p> + I was utterly selfish in that moment. I cared nothing whatever for my aunt’s + indisposition. Indeed, I secretly accused her of maliciously choosing that + night of all nights for her mysterious fatigue. + </p> + <p> + ‘But, auntie,’ I said, controlling myself, ‘I must go, really. + I shall send Lucy over with a note to Ethel Ryley to ask her to go with + me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do,’ said my aunt, after a considerable pause, ‘if you are + bent on going.’ + </p> + <p> + I have often thought since that during that pause, while we faced each + other, my aunt had for the first time fully realized how little she knew + of me; she must surely have detected in my glance a strangeness, a + contemptuous indifference, an implacable obstinacy, which she had never + seen in it before. And, indeed, these things were in my glance. Yet I + loved my aunt with a deep affection. I had only one grievance against her. + Although excessively proud, she would always, in conversation with men, + admit her mental and imaginative inferiority, and that of her sex. She + would admit, without being asked, that being a woman she could not see + far, that her feminine brain could not carry an argument to the end, and + that her feminine purpose was too infirm for any great enterprise. She + seemed to find a morbid pleasure in such confessions. As regards herself, + they were accurate enough; the dear creature was a singularly good judge + of her own character. What I objected to was her assumption, so calm and + gratuitous, that her individuality, with all its confessed limitations, + was, of course, superior—stronger, wiser, subtler than mine. She + never allowed me to argue with her; or if she did, she treated my remarks + with a high, amused tolerance. ‘Wait till you grow older,’ she + would observe, magnificently ignorant of the fact that my soul was already + far older than hers. This attitude naturally made me secretive in all + affairs of the mind, and most affairs of the heart. + </p> + <p> + We took in the county paper, the <i>Staffordshire Recorder,</i> and the <i>Rock</i> + and the <i>Quiver</i>. With the help of these organs of thought, which I + detested and despised, I was supposed to be able to keep discreetly and + sufficiently abreast of the times. But I had other aids. I went to the + Girls’ High School at Oldcastle till I was nearly eighteen. One of + the mistresses there used to read continually a red book covered with + brown paper. I knew it to be a red book because the paper was gone at the + corners. I admired the woman immensely, and her extraordinary interest in + the book—she would pick it up at every spare moment—excited in + me an ardent curiosity. One day I got a chance to open it, and I read on + the title-page, <i>Introduction to the Study of Sociology</i>, by Herbert + Spencer. Turning the pages, I encountered some remarks on Napoleon that + astonished and charmed me. I said: ‘Why are not our school histories + like this?’ The owner of the book caught me. I asked her to lend it + to me, but she would not, nor would she give me any reason for declining. + Soon afterwards I left school. I persuaded my aunt to let me join the Free + Library at the Wedgwood Institution. But the book was not in the + catalogue. (How often, in exchanging volumes, did I not gaze into the + reading-room, where men read the daily papers and the magazines, without + daring to enter!) At length I audaciously decided to buy the book. I + ordered it, not at our regular stationer’s in Oldcastle Street, but + at a little shop of the same kind in Trafalgar Road. In three days it + arrived. I called for it, and took it home secretly in a cardboard + envelope-box. I went to bed early, and I began to read. I read all night, + thirteen hours. O book with the misleading title—for you have + nothing to do with sociology, and you ought to have been called <i>How to + Think Honestly</i>—my face flushed again and again as I perused your + ugly yellowish pages! Again and again I exclaimed: ‘But this is + marvellous!’ I had not guessed that anything so honest, and so + courageous, and so simple, and so convincing had ever been written. I am + capable now of suspecting that Spencer was not a supreme genius; but he + taught me intellectual courage; he taught me that nothing is sacred that + will not bear inspection; and I adore his memory. The next morning after + breakfast I fell asleep in a chair. ‘My dear!’ protested Aunt + Constance. ‘Ah,’ I thought, ‘if you knew, Aunt + Constance, if you had the least suspicion, of the ideas that are surging + and shining in my head, you would go mad—go simply mad!’ I did + not care much for deception, but I positively hated clumsy concealment, + and the red book was in the house; at any moment it might be seized. On a + shelf of books in my bedroom was a novel called <i>The Old Helmet</i>, + probably the silliest novel in the world. I tore the pages from the + binding and burnt them; I tore the binding from Spencer and burnt it; and + I put my treasure in the covers of <i>The Old Helmet</i>. Once Rebecca, a + person privileged, took the thing away to read; but she soon brought it + back. She told me she had always understood that <i>The Old Helmet</i> was + more, interesting than that. + </p> + <p> + Later, I discovered <i>The Origin of Species</i> in the Free Library. It + finished the work of corruption. Spencer had shown me how to think; Darwin + told me what to think. The whole of my upbringing went for naught + thenceforward. I lived a double life. I said nothing to my aunt of the + miracle wrought within me, and she suspected nothing. Strange and uncanny, + is it not, that such miracles can escape the observation of a loving + heart? I loved her as much as ever, perhaps more than ever. Thank Heaven + that love can laugh at reason! + </p> + <p> + So much for my intellectual inner life. My emotional inner life is less + easy to indicate. I became a woman at fifteen—years, interminable + years, before I left school. I guessed even then, vaguely, that my nature + was extremely emotional and passionate. And I had nothing literary on + which to feed my dreams, save a few novels which I despised, and the Bible + and the plays and poems of Shakespeare. It is wonderful, though, what good + I managed to find in those two use-worn volumes. I knew most of the Song + of Solomon by heart, and many of the sonnets; and I will not mince the + fact that my favourite play was <i>Measure for Measure</i>. I was an + innocent virgin, in the restricted sense in which most girls of my class + and age are innocent, but I obtained from these works many a lofty pang of + thrilling pleasure. They illustrated Chopin for me, giving precision and + particularity to his messages. And I was ashamed of myself. Yes; at the + bottom of my heart I was ashamed of myself because my sensuous being + responded to the call of these masterpieces. In my ignorance I thought I + was lapsing from a sane and proper ideal. And then—the second + miracle in my career, which has been full of miracles—I came across + a casual reference, in the <i>Staffordshire Recorder</i>, of all places, + to the <i>Mademoiselle de Maupin</i> of Théophile Gautier. Something in + the reference, I no longer remember what, caused me to guess that the book + was a revelation of matters hidden from me. I bought it. With the + assistance of a dictionary, I read it, nightly, in about a week. Except <i>Picciola</i>, + it was the first French novel I had ever read. It held me throughout; it + revealed something on nearly every page. But the climax dazzled and + blinded me. It was exquisite, so high and pure, so startling, so bold, + that it made me ill. When I recovered I had fast in my heart’s + keeping the new truth that in the body, and the instincts of the body, + there should be no shame, but rather a frank, joyous pride. From that + moment I ceased to be ashamed of anything that I honestly liked. But I + dared not keep the book. The knowledge of its contents would have killed + my aunt. I read it again; I read the last pages several times, and then I + burnt it and breathed freely. + </p> + <p> + Such was I, as I forced my will on my aunt in the affair of the concert. + And I say that she who had never suspected the existence of the real me, + suspected it then, when we glanced at each other across the + breakfast-room. Upon these apparent trifles life swings, as upon a pivot, + into new directions. + </p> + <p> + I sat with my aunt while Lucy went with the note. She returned soon with + the reply, and the reply was: + </p> + <p> + ‘So sorry I can’t accept your kind invitation. I should have liked + to go awfully. But Fred has got the toothache, and I must not leave him.’ + </p> + <p> + The toothache! And my very life, so it seemed to me, hung in the balance. + </p> + <p> + I did not hesitate one second. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hurrah!’ I cried. ‘She can go. I am to call for her in the + cab.’ + </p> + <p> + And I crushed the note cruelly, and threw it in the fire. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell him to call at Ryleys’,’ I said to Rebecca as she was + putting me and my dress into the cab. + </p> + <p> + And she told the cabman with that sharp voice of hers, always arrogant + towards inferiors, to call at Ryleys.’ + </p> + <p> + I put my head out of the cab window as soon as we were in Oldcastle + Street. + </p> + <p> + ‘Drive straight to Hanbridge,’ I ordered. + </p> + <p> + The thing was done. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + He was like his photograph, but the photograph had given me only the most + inadequate idea of him. The photograph could not render his extraordinary + fairness, nor the rich gold of his hair, nor the blue of his dazzling + eyes. The first impression was that he was too beautiful for a man, that + he had a woman’s beauty, that he had the waxen beauty of a doll; but + the firm, decisive lines of the mouth and chin, the overhanging brows, and + the luxuriance of his amber moustache, spoke more sternly. Gradually one + perceived that beneath the girlish mask, beneath the contours and the + complexion incomparably delicate, there was an individuality intensely and + provocatively male. His body was rather less than tall, and it was + muscular and springy. He walked on to the platform as an unspoilt man + should walk, and he bowed to the applause as if bowing chivalrously to a + woman whom he respected but did not love. Diaz was twenty-six that year; + he had recently returned from a tour round the world; he was filled full + of triumph, renown, and adoration. As I have said, he was already + legendary. He had become so great and so marvellous that those who had + never seen him were in danger of forgetting that he was a living human + being, obliged to eat and drink, and practise scales, and visit his tailor’s. + Thus it had happened to me. During the first moments I found myself + thinking, ‘This cannot be Diaz. It is not true that at last I see + him. There must be some mistake.’ Then he sat down leisurely to the + piano; his gaze ranged across the hall, and I fancied that, for a second, + it met mine. My two seats were in the first row of the stalls, and I could + see every slightest change of his face. So that at length I felt that Diaz + was real, and that he was really there close in front of me, a seraph and + yet very human. He was all alone on the great platform, and the ebonized + piano seemed enormous and formidable before him. And all around was the + careless public—ignorant, unsympathetic, exigent, impatient, even + inimical—two thousand persons who would get value for their money or + know the reason why. The electric light and the inclement gaze of society + rained down cruelly upon that defenceless head. I wanted to protect it. + The tears rose to my eyes, and I stretched out towards Diaz the hands of + my soul. My passionate sympathy must have reached him like a beneficent + influence, of which, despite the perfect self-possession and + self-confidence of his demeanour, it seemed to me that he had need. + </p> + <p> + I had risked much that night. I had committed an enormity. No one but a + grown woman who still vividly remembers her girlhood can appreciate my + feelings as I drove from Bursley to Hanbridge in the cab, and as I got out + of the cab in the crowd, and gave up my ticket, and entered the glittering + auditorium of the Jubilee Hall. I was alone, at night, in the public + places, under the eye of the world. And I was guiltily alone. Every fibre + of my body throbbed with the daring and the danger and the romance of the + adventure. The horror of revealing the truth to Aunt Constance, as I was + bound to do—of telling her that I had lied, and that I had left my + maiden’s modesty behind in my bedroom, gripped me at intervals like + some appalling and exquisite instrument of torture. And yet, ere Diaz had + touched the piano with his broad white hand, I was content, I was + rewarded, and I was justified. + </p> + <p> + The programme began with Chopin’s first Ballade. + </p> + <p> + There was an imperative summons, briefly sustained, which developed into + an appeal and an invocation, ascending, falling, and still higher + ascending, till it faded and expired, and then, after a little pause, was + revived; then silence, and two chords, defining and clarifying the + vagueness of the appeal and the invocation. And then, almost before I was + aware of it, there stole forth from under the fingers of Diaz the song of + the soul of man, timid, questioning, plaintive, neither sad nor joyous, + but simply human, seeking what it might find on earth. The song changed + subtly from mood to mood, expressing that which nothing but itself could + express; and presently there was a low and gentle menace, thrice repeated + under the melody of the song, and the reply of the song was a proud cry, a + haughty contempt of these furtive warnings, and a sudden winged leap into + the empyrean towards the Eternal Spirit. And then the melody was lost in a + depth, and the song became turgid and wild and wilder, hysteric, + irresolute, frantically groping, until at last it found its peace and its + salvation. And the treasure was veiled in a mist of arpeggios, but one by + one these were torn away, and there was a hush, a pause, and a + preparation; and the soul of man broke into a new song of what it had + found on earth—the magic of the tenderness of love—an air so + caressing and so sweet, so calmly happy and so mournfully sane, so bereft + of illusions and so naïve, that it seemed to reveal in a few miraculous + phrases the secret intentions of God. It was too beautiful; it told me too + much about myself; it vibrated my nerves to such an unbearable spasm of + pleasure that I might have died had I not willed to live.... It gave place + momentarily to the song of the question and the search, but only to + return, and to return again, with a more thrilling and glorious assurance. + It was drowned in doubt, but it emerged triumphantly, covered with noble + and delicious ornaments, and swimming strongly on mysterious waves. And + finally, with speed and with fire, it was transformed and caught up into + the last ecstasy, the ultimate passion. The soul swept madly between earth + and heaven, fell, rose; and there was a dreadful halt. Then a loud blast, + a distortion of the magic, an upward rush, another and a louder blast, and + a thunderous fall, followed by two massive and terrifying chords.... + </p> + <p> + Diaz was standing up and bowing to his public. What did they understand? + Did they understand anything? I cannot tell. But I know that they felt. A + shudder of feeling had gone through the hall. It was in vain that people + tried to emancipate themselves from the spell by the violence of their + applause. They could not. We were all together under the enchantment. Some + may have seen clearly, some darkly, but we were equal before the throne of + that mighty enchanter. And the enchanter bowed and bowed with a grave, + sympathetic smile, and then disappeared. I had not clapped my hands; I had + not moved. Only my full eyes had followed him as he left the platform; and + when he returned—because the applause would not cease—my eyes + watched over him as he came back to the centre of the platform. He stood + directly in front of me, smiling more gaily now. And suddenly our glances + met! Yes; I could not be mistaken. They met, and mine held his for several + seconds.... Diaz had looked at me. Diaz had singled me out from the crowd. + I blushed hotly, and I was conscious of a surpassing joy. My spirit was + transfigured. I knew that such a man was above kings. I knew that the + world and everything of loveliness that it contained was his. I knew that + he moved like a beautiful god through the groves of delight, and that what + he did was right, and whom he beckoned came, and whom he touched was + blessed. And my eyes had held his eyes for a little space. + </p> + <p> + The enchantment deepened. I had read that the secret of playing Chopin had + died with Chopin; but I felt sure that evening, as I have felt sure since, + that Chopin himself, aristocrat of the soul as he was, would have received + Diaz as an equal, might even have acknowledged in him a superior. For Diaz + had a physique, and he had a mastery, a tyranny, of the keyboard that + Chopin could not have possessed. Diaz had come to the front in a + generation of pianists who had lifted technique to a plane of which + neither Liszt nor Rubinstein dreamed. He had succeeded primarily by his + gigantic and incredible technique. And then, when his technique had + astounded the world, he had invited the world to forget it, as the glass + is forgotten through which is seen beauty. And Diaz’s gift was now + such that there appeared to intervene nothing between his conception of + the music and the strings of the piano, so perfected was the mechanism. + Difficulties had ceased to exist. + </p> + <p> + The performance of some pianists is so wonderful that it seems as if they + were crossing Niagara on a tight-rope, and you tremble lest they should + fall off. It was not so with Diaz. When Diaz played you experienced the + pure emotions caused by the unblurred contemplation of that beauty which + the great masters had created, and which Diaz had tinted with the rare + dyes of his personality. You forgot all but beauty. The piano was not a + piano; it was an Arabian magic beyond physical laws, and it, too, had a + soul. + </p> + <p> + So Diaz laid upon us the enchantment of Chopin and of himself. Mazurkas, + nocturnes, waltzes, scherzos, polonaises, preludes, he exhibited to us in + groups those manifestations of that supreme spirit—that spirit at + once stern and tender, not more sad than joyous, and always sane, always + perfectly balanced, always preoccupied with beauty. The singular myth of a + Chopin decadent, weary, erratic, mournful, hysterical, at odds with fate, + was completely dissipated; and we perceived instead the grave artist + nourished on Bach and studious in form, and the strong soul that had dared + to look on life as it is, and had found beauty everywhere. Ah! how the air + trembled and glittered with visions! How melody and harmony filled every + corner of the hall with the silver and gold of sound! How the world was + changed out of recognition! How that which had seemed unreal became real, + and that which had seemed real receded to a horizon remote and + fantastic!... + </p> + <p> + He was playing the fifteenth Prelude in D flat now, and the water was + dropping, dropping ceaselessly on the dead body, and the beautiful calm + song rose serenely in the dream, and then lost itself amid the presaging + chords of some sinister fate, and came again, exquisite and fresh as ever, + and then was interrupted by a high note like a clarion; and while Diaz + held that imperious, compelling note, he turned his face slightly from the + piano and gazed at me. Several times since the first time our eyes had + met, by accident as I thought. But this was a deliberate seeking on his + part. Again I flushed hotly. Again I had the terrible shudder of joy. I + feared for a moment lest all the Five Towns was staring at me, thus + singled out by Diaz; but it was not so: I had the wit to perceive that no + one could remark me as the recipient of that hurried and burning glance. + He had half a dozen bars to play, yet his eyes did not leave mine, and I + would not let mine leave his. He remained moveless while the last chord + expired, and then it seemed to me that his gaze had gone further, had + passed through me into some unknown. The applause startled him to his + feet. + </p> + <p> + My thought was: ‘What can he be thinking of me?... But hundreds of + women must have loved him!’ + </p> + <p> + In the interval an attendant came on to the platform and altered the + position of the piano. Everybody asked: ‘What’s that for?’ + For the new position was quite an unusual one; it brought the tail of the + piano nearer to the audience, and gave a better view of the keyboard to + the occupants of the seats in the orchestra behind the platform. ‘It’s + a question of the acoustics, that’s what it is,’ observed a + man near me, and a woman replied: ‘Oh, I see!’ + </p> + <p> + When Diaz returned and seated himself to play the Berceuse, I saw that he + could look at me without turning his head. And now, instead of flushing, I + went cold. My spine gave way suddenly. I began to be afraid; but of what I + was afraid I had not the least idea. I fixed my eyes on my programme as he + launched into the Berceuse. Twice I glanced up, without, however, moving + my head, and each time his burning blue eyes met mine. (But why did I + choose moments when the playing of the piece demanded less than all his + attention?) The Berceuse was a favourite. In sentiment it was simpler than + the great pieces that had preceded it. Its excessive delicacy attracted; + the finesse of its embroidery swayed and enraptured the audience; and the + applause at the close was mad, deafening, and peremptory. But Diaz was + notorious as a refuser of encores. It had been said that he would see a + hall wrecked by an angry mob before he would enlarge his programme. Four + times he came forward and acknowledged the tribute, and four times he went + back. At the fifth response he halted directly in front of me, and in his + bold, grave eyes I saw a question. I saw it, and I would not answer. If he + had spoken aloud to me I could not have more clearly understood. But I + would not answer. And then some power within myself, hitherto unsuspected + by me, some natural force, took possession of me, and I nodded my head.... + Diaz went to the piano. + </p> + <p> + He hesitated, brushing lightly the keys. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Prelude in F sharp,’ my thought ran. ‘If he would play + that!’ + </p> + <p> + And instantly he broke into that sweet air, with its fateful hushed + accompaniment—the trifle which Chopin threw off in a moment of his + highest inspiration. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is the thirteenth Prelude,’ I reflected. I was disturbed, + profoundly troubled. + </p> + <p> + The next piece was the last, and it was the Fantasia, the masterpiece of + Chopin. + </p> + <p> + In the Fantasia there speaks the voice of a spirit which has attained all + that humanity may attain: of wisdom, of power, of pride and glory. And now + it is like the roll of an army marching slowly through terrific defiles; + and now it is like the quiet song of royal wanderers meditating in vast + garden landscapes, with mossy masonry and long pools and cypresses, and a + sapphire star shining in the purple sky on the shoulder of a cypress; and + now it is like the cry of a lost traveller, who, plunging heavily through + a virgin forest, comes suddenly upon a green circular sward, smooth as a + carpet, with an antique statue of a beautiful nude girl in the midst; and + now it is like the oratory of richly-gowned philosophers awaiting death in + gorgeous and gloomy palaces; and now it is like the upward rush of winged + things that are determined to achieve, knowing well the while that the + ecstasy of longing is better than the assuaging of desire. And though the + voice of this spirit speaking in the music disguises itself so variously, + it is always the same. For it cannot, and it would not, hide the strange + and rare timbre which distinguishes it from all others—that quality + which springs from a pure and calm vision, of life. The voice of this + spirit says that it has lost every illusion about life, and that life + seems only the more beautiful. It says that activity is but another form + of contemplation, pain but another form of pleasure, power but another + form of weakness, hate but another form of love, and that it is well these + things should be so. It says there is no end, only a means; and that the + highest joy is to suffer, and the supreme wisdom is to exist. If you will + but live, it cries, that grave but yet passionate voice—if you will + but live! Were there a heaven, and you reached it, you could do no more + than live. The true heaven is here where you live, where you strive and + lose, and weep and laugh. And the true hell is here, where you forget to + live, and blind your eyes to the omnipresent and terrible beauty of + existence.... + </p> + <p> + No, no; I cannot—I cannot describe further the experiences of my + soul while Diaz played. When words cease, music has scarcely begun. I know + now—I did not know it then—that Diaz was playing as perhaps he + had never played before. The very air was charged with exquisite emotion, + which went in waves across the hall, changing and blanching faces, + troubling hearts, and moistening eyes.... And then he finished. It was + over. In every trembling breast was a pang of regret that this spell, this + miracle, this divine revolution, could not last into eternity.... He stood + bowing, one hand touching the piano. And as the revolution he had + accomplished in us was divine, so was he divine. I felt, and many another + woman in the audience felt, that no reward could be too great for the + beautiful and gifted creature who had entranced us and forced us to see + what alone in life was worth seeing: that the whole world should be his + absolute dominion; that his happiness should be the first concern of + mankind; that if a thousand suffered in order to make him happy for a + moment, it mattered not; that laws were not for him; that if he sinned, + his sin must not be called a sin, and that he must be excused from remorse + and from any manner of woe. + </p> + <p> + The applauding multitude stood up, and moved slightly towards the exits, + and then stopped, as if ashamed of this readiness to desert the sacred + temple. Diaz came forward three times, and each time the applause + increased to a tempest; but he only smiled—smiled gravely. I could + not see distinctly whether his eyes had sought mine, for mine were full of + tears. No persuasions could induce him to show himself a fourth time, and + at length a middle-aged man appeared and stated that Diaz was extremely + gratified by his reception, but that he was also extremely exhausted and + had left the hall. + </p> + <p> + We departed, we mortals; and I was among the last to leave the auditorium. + As I left the lights were being extinguished over the platform, and an + attendant was closing the piano. The foyer was crowded with people waiting + to get out. The word passed that it was raining heavily. I wondered how I + should find my cab. I felt very lonely and unknown; I was overcome with + sadness—with a sense of the futility and frustration of my life. + Such is the logic of the soul, and such the force of reaction. Gradually + the foyer emptied. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + ‘You think I am happy,’ said Diaz, gazing at me with a smile + suddenly grave; ‘but I am not. I seek something which I cannot find. + And my playing is only a relief from the fruitless search; only that. I am + forlorn.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You!’ I exclaimed, and my eyes rested on his, long. + </p> + <p> + Yes, we had met. Perhaps it had been inevitable since the beginning of + time that we should meet; but it was none the less amazing. Perhaps I had + inwardly known that we should meet; but, none the less, I was astounded + when a coated and muffled figure came up swiftly to me in the emptying + foyer, and said: ‘Ah! you are here! I cannot leave without thanking + you for your sympathy. I have never before felt such sympathy while + playing.’ It was a golden voice, pitched low, and the words were + uttered with a very slight foreign accent, which gave them piquancy. I + could not reply; something rose in my throat, and the caressing voice + continued: ‘You are pale. Do you feel ill? What can I do? Come with + me to the artists’ room; my secretary is there.’ I put out a + hand gropingly, for I could not see clearly, and I thought I should reel + and fall. It touched his shoulder. He took my arm, and we went; no one had + noticed us, and I had not spoken a word. In the room to which he guided + me, through a long and sombre corridor, there was no sign of a secretary. + I drank some water. ‘There, you are better!’ he cried. ‘Thank + you,’ I said, but scarcely whispering. ‘How fortunate I ventured to + come to you just at that moment! You might have fallen’; and he + smiled again. I shook my head. I said: ‘It was your coming—that—that—made + me dizzy!’ ‘I profoundly regret—’ he began. ‘No, + no,’ I interrupted him; and in that instant I knew I was about to + say something which society would, justifiably, deem unpardonable in a + girl situated as I was. ‘I am so glad you came’; and I smiled, + courageous and encouraging. For once in my life—for the first time + in my adult life—I determined to be my honest self to another. + ‘Your voice is exquisitely beautiful,’ he murmured. I + thrilled. + </p> + <p> + Of what use to chronicle the steps, now halting, now only too hasty, by + which our intimacy progressed in that gaunt and echoing room? He asked me + no questions as to my identity. He just said that he would like to play to + me in private if that would give me pleasure, and that possibly I could + spare an hour and would go with him.... Afterwards his brougham would be + at my disposal. His tone was the perfection of deferential courtesy. Once + the secretary came in—a young man rather like himself—and they + talked together in a foreign language that was not French nor German; then + the secretary bowed and retired.... We were alone.... There can be no sort + of doubt that unless I was prepared to flout the wisdom of the ages, I + ought to have refused his suggestion. But is not the wisdom of the ages a + medicine for majorities? And, indeed, I was prepared to flout it, as in + our highest and our lowest moments we often are. Moreover, how many women + in my place, confronted by that divine creature, wooed by that wondrous + personality, intoxicated by that smile and that voice, allured by the + appeal of those marvellous hands, would have found the strength to resist? + I did not resist, I yielded; I accepted. I was already in disgrace with + Aunt Constance—as well be drowned in twelve feet of water as in six! + </p> + <p> + So we drove rapidly away in the brougham, through the miry, + light-reflecting streets of Hanbridge in the direction of Knype. And the + raindrops ran down the windows of the brougham, and in the cushioned + interior we could see each other darkly. He did his best to be at ease, + and he almost succeeded. My feeling towards him, as regards the external + management, the social guidance, of the affair, was as though we were at + sea in a dangerous storm, and he was on the bridge and I was a mere + passenger, and could take no responsibility. Who knew through what + difficult channels we might not have to steer, and from what lee-shores we + might not have to beat away? I saw that he perceived this. When I offered + him some awkward compliment about his good English, he seized the chance + of a narrative, and told me about his parentage: how his mother was + Scotch, and his father Danish, and how, after his father’s death, + his mother had married Emilio Diaz, a Spanish teacher of music in + Edinburgh, and how he had taken, by force of early habit, the name of his + stepfather. The whole world was familiar with these facts, and I was + familiar with them; but their recital served our turn in the brougham, + and, of course, Diaz could add touches which had escaped the <i>Staffordshire + Recorder</i>, and perhaps all other papers. He was explaining to me that + his secretary was his stepfather’s son by another wife, when we + arrived at the Five Towns Hotel, opposite Knype Railway Station. I might + have foreseen that that would be our destination. I hooded myself as well + as I could, and followed him quickly to the first-floor. I sank down into + a chair nearly breathless in his sitting-room, and he took my cloak, and + then poked the bright fire that was burning. On a small table were some + glasses and a decanter, and a few sandwiches. I surmised that the + secretary had been before us and arranged things, and discreetly departed. + My adventure appeared to me suddenly and over-poweringly in its full + enormity. ‘Oh,’ I sighed, ‘if I were a man like you!’ + Then it was that, gazing up at me from the fire, Diaz had said that he was + not happy, that he was forlorn. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he proceeded, sitting down and crossing his legs; ‘I am + profoundly dissatisfied. What is my life? Eight or nine months in the year + it is a homeless life of hotels and strange faces and strange pianos. You + do not know how I hate a strange piano. That one’—he pointed + to a huge instrument which had evidently been placed in the room specially + for him—‘is not very bad; but I made its acquaintance only + yesterday, and after to-morrow I shall never see it again. I wander across + the world, and everybody I meet looks at me as if I ought to be in a + museum, and bids me make acquaintance with a strange piano.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But have you no friends?’ I ventured. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who can tell?’ he replied. ‘If I have, I scarcely ever see + them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And no home?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have a home on the edge of the forest of Fontainebleau, and I loathe + it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why do you loathe it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! For what it has witnessed—for what it has witnessed.’ He + sighed. ‘Suppose we discuss something else.’ + </p> + <p> + You must remember my youth, my inexperience, my lack of adroitness in + social intercourse. I talked quietly and slowly, like my aunt, and I know + that I had a tremendous air of sagacity and self-possession; but beneath + that my brain and heart were whirling, bewildered in a delicious, dazzling + haze of novel sensations. It was not I who spoke, but a new being, + excessively perturbed into a consciousness of new powers. I said: + </p> + <p> + ‘You say you are friendless, but I wonder how many women are dying for + love of you.’ + </p> + <p> + He started. There was a pause. I felt myself blushing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me guess at your history,’ he said. ‘You have lived much + alone with your thoughts, and you have read a great deal of the finest + romantic poetry, and you have been silent, especially with men. You have + seen little of men.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I understand them,’ I answered boldly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe you do,’ he admitted; and he laughed. ‘So I needn’t + explain to you that a thousand women dying of love for one man will not + help that man to happiness, unless he is dying of love for the thousand + and first.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And have you never loved?’ + </p> + <p> + The words came of themselves out of my mouth. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have deceived myself—in my quest of sympathy,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you be sure that, in your quest of sympathy, you are not deceiving + yourself tonight?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he cried quickly, ‘I can.’ And he sprang up and + almost ran to the piano. ‘You remember the D flat Prelude?’ he + said, breaking into the latter part of the air, and looking at me the + while. ‘When I came to that note and caught your gaze’—he + struck the B flat and held it—‘I knew that I had found + sympathy. I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! Do you remember?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Remember what?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The way we looked at each other.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I breathed, ‘I remember.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can I thank you? How can I thank you?’ + </p> + <p> + He seemed to be meditating. His simplicity, his humility, his kindliness + were more than I could bear. + </p> + <p> + ‘Please do not speak like that,’ I entreated him, pained. ‘You + are the greatest artist in the world, and I am nobody—nobody at all. + I do not know why I am here. I cannot imagine what you have seen in me. + Everything is a mystery. All I feel is that I am in your presence, and + that I am not worthy to be. No matter how long I live, I shall never + experience again the joy that I have now. But if you talk about thanking + me, I must run away, because I cannot stand it—and—and—you + haven’t played for me, and you said you would.’ + </p> + <p> + He approached me, and bent his head towards mine, and I glanced up through + a mist and saw his eyes and the short, curly auburn locks on his forehead. + </p> + <p> + ‘The most beautiful things, and the most vital things, and the most + lasting things,’ he said softly, ‘are often mysterious and + inexplicable and sudden. And let me tell you that you do not know how + lovely you are. You do not know the magic of your voice, nor the grace of + your gestures. But time and man will teach you. What shall I play?’ + </p> + <p> + He was very close to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Bach,’ I ejaculated, pointing impatiently to the piano. + </p> + <p> + I fancied that Bach would spread peace abroad in my soul. + </p> + <p> + He resumed his place at the piano, and touched the keys. + </p> + <p> + ‘Another thing that makes me more sure that I am not deceiving myself + to-night,’ he said, taking his fingers off the keys, but staring at + the keyboard, ‘is that you have not regretted coming here. You have + not called yourself a wicked woman. You have not even accused me of taking + advantage of your innocence.’ + </p> + <p> + And ere I could say a word he had begun the Chromatic Fantasia, smiling + faintly. + </p> + <p> + And I had hoped for peace from Bach! I had often suspected that deep + passion was concealed almost everywhere within the restraint and the + apparent calm of Bach’s music, but the full force of it had not been + shown to me till this glorious night. Diaz’ playing was tenfold more + impressive, more effective, more revealing in the hotel parlour than in + the great hall. The Chromatic Fantasia seemed as full of the magnificence + of life as that other Fantasia which he had given an hour or so earlier. + Instead of peace I had the whirlwind; instead of tranquillity a riot; + instead of the poppy an alarming potion. The rendering was masterly to the + extreme of masterliness. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished I rose and passed to the fireplace in silence; he did + not stir. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you always play like that?’ I asked at length. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ he said; ‘only when you are there. I have never played + the Chopin Fantasia as I played it to-night. The Chopin was all right; but + do not be under any illusion: what you have just heard is Bach played by a + Chopin player.’ + </p> + <p> + Then he left the piano and went to the small table where the glasses were. + </p> + <p> + ‘You must be in need of refreshment,’ he whispered gaily. ‘Nothing + is more exhausting than listening to the finest music.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is you who ought to be tired,’ I replied; ‘after that long + concert, to be playing now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have the physique of a camel,’ he said. ‘I am never tired + so long as I am sure of my listeners. I would play for you till breakfast + to-morrow.’ + </p> + <p> + The decanter contained a fluid of a pleasant green tint. He poured very + carefully this fluid to the depth of half an inch in one glass and + three-quarters of an inch in another glass. Then he filled both glasses to + the brim with water, accomplishing the feat with infinite pains and + enjoyment, as though it had been part of a ritual. + </p> + <p> + ‘There!’ he said, offering me in his steady hand the glass which had + received the smaller quantity of the green fluid. ‘Taste.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what is it?’ I demanded. + </p> + <p> + ‘Taste,’ he repeated, and he himself tasted. + </p> + <p> + I obeyed. At the first mouthful I thought the liquid was somewhat sinister + and disagreeable, but immediately afterwards I changed my opinion, and + found it ingratiating, enticing, and stimulating, and yet not strong. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you like it?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + I nodded, and drank again. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is wonderful,’ I answered. ‘What do you call it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Men call it absinthe,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘But—’ + </p> + <p> + I put the glass on the mantelpiece and picked it up again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he soothed me. ‘I know what you + were going to say. You have always heard that absinthe is the deadliest of + all poisons, that it is the curse of Paris, and that it makes the most + terrible of all drunkards. So it is; so it does. But not as we are + drinking it; not as I invariably drink it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course,’ I said, proudly confident in him. ‘You would not + have offered it to me otherwise.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I should not,’ he agreed. ‘I give you my word that + a few drops of absinthe in a tumbler of water make the most effective and + the least harmful stimulant in the world.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am sure of it,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘But drink slowly,’ he advised me. + </p> + <p> + I refused the sandwiches. I had no need of them. I felt sufficient unto + myself. I no longer had any apprehension. My body, my brain, and my soul + seemed to be at the highest pitch of efficiency. The fear of being + maladroit departed from me. Ideas—delicate and subtle ideas—welled + up in me one after another; I was bound to give utterance to them. I began + to talk about my idol Chopin, and I explained to Diaz my esoteric + interpretation of the Fantasia. He was sitting down now, but I still stood + by the fire. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, he said, ‘that is very interesting.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What does the Fantasia mean to you?’ I asked him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing, in the sense you wish to convey. Everything, in another sense. + You can attach any ideas you please to music, but music, if you will + forgive me saying so, rejects them all equally. Art has to do with + emotions, not with ideas, and the great defect of literature is that it + can only express emotions by means of ideas. What makes music the greatest + of all the arts is that it can express emotions without ideas. Literature + can appeal to the soul only through the mind. Music goes direct. Its + language is a language which the soul alone understands, but which the + soul can never translate. Therefore all I can say of the Fantasia is that + it moves me profoundly. I <i>know how</i> it moves me, but I cannot tell + you; I cannot even tell myself.’ + </p> + <p> + Vistas of comprehension opened out before me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, do go on,’ I entreated him. ‘Tell me more about music. Do + you not think Chopin the greatest composer that ever lived? You must do, + since you always play him.’ + </p> + <p> + He smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ he said, ‘I do not. For me there is no supremacy in art. + When fifty artists have contrived to be supreme, supremacy becomes + impossible. Take a little song by Grieg. It is perfect, it is supreme. No + one could be greater than Grieg was great when he wrote that song. The + whole last act of <i>The Twilight of the Gods</i> is not greater than a + little song of Grieg’s.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I see,’ I murmured humbly. ‘<i>The Twilight of the Gods</i>—that + is Wagner, isn’t it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Don’t you know your Wagner?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t know <i>Tristan</i>?’ + </p> + <p> + He jumped up, excited. + </p> + <p> + ‘How could I know it?’ I expostulated. ‘I have never seen any + opera. I know the marches from <i>Tannhäuser</i> and <i>Lohengrin</i>, and + “O Star of Eve!”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But it is impossible that you don’t know <i>Tristan</i>!’ he + exclaimed. ‘The second act of <i>Tristan</i> is the greatest piece + of love-music—No, it isn’t.’ He laughed. ‘I must + not contradict myself. But it is marvellous—marvellous! You know the + story?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Play me some of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will play the Prelude,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + I gulped down the remaining drops in my glass and crossed the room to a + chair where I could see his face. And he played the Prelude to the most + passionately voluptuous opera ever written. It was my first real + introduction to Wagner, my first glimpse of that enchanted field. I was + ravished, rapt away. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wagner was a great artist in spite of himself,’ said Diaz, when he + had finished. ‘He assigned definite and precise ideas to all those + melodies. Nothing could be more futile. I shall not label them for you. + But perhaps you can guess the love-motive for yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I can,’ I said positively. ‘It is this.’ + </p> + <p> + I tried to hum the theme, but my voice refused obedience. So I came to the + piano, and played the theme high up in the treble, while Diaz was still + sitting on the piano-stool. I trembled even to touch the piano in his + presence; but I did it. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have guessed right,’ he said; and then he asked me in a casual + tone: ‘Do you ever play pianoforte duets?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Often,’ I replied unsuspectingly, ‘with my aunt. We play the + symphonies of Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert, Haydn, and overtures, and so + on.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Awfully good fun, isn’t it?’ he smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Splendid!’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve got <i>Tristan</i> here arranged for pianoforte duet,’ + he said. ‘Tony, my secretary, enjoys playing it. You shall play part of + the second act with me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Me! With you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Impossible! I should never dare! How do you know I can play at all?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have just proved it to me,’ said he. ‘Come; you will not + refuse me this!’ + </p> + <p> + I wanted to leave the vicinity of the piano. I felt that, once out of the + immediate circle of his tremendous physical influence, I might manage to + escape the ordeal which he had suggested. But I could not go away. The + silken nets of his personality had been cast, and I was enmeshed. And if I + was happy, it was with a dreadful happiness. + </p> + <p> + ‘But, really, I can’t play with you,’ I said weakly. + </p> + <p> + His response was merely to look up at me over his shoulder. His beautiful + face was so close to mine, and it expressed such a naïve and strong + yearning for my active and intimate sympathy, and such divine frankness, + and such perfect kindliness, that I had no more will to resist. I knew I + should suffer horribly in spoiling by my coarse amateurishness the + miraculous finesse of his performance, but I resigned myself to suffering. + I felt towards him as I had felt during the concert: that he must have his + way at no matter what cost, that he had already earned the infinite + gratitude of the entire world—in short, I raised him in my soul to a + god’s throne; and I accepted humbly the great, the incredible honour + he did me. And I was right—a thousand times right. + </p> + <p> + And in the same moment he was like a charming child to me: such is always + in some wise the relation between the creature born to enjoy and the + creature born to suffer. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll try,’ I said; ‘but it will be appalling.’ + </p> + <p> + I laughed and shook my head. + </p> + <p> + ‘We shall see how appalling it will be,’ he murmured, as he got the + volume of music. + </p> + <p> + He fetched a chair for me, and we sat down side by side, he on the stool + and I on the chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid my chair is too low,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘And I’m sure this stool is too high,’ he said. ‘Suppose + we exchange.’ + </p> + <p> + So we both rose to change the positions of the chair and the stool, and + our garments touched and almost our faces, and at that very moment there + was a loud rap at the door. + </p> + <p> + I darted away from him. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s that?’ I cried, low in a fit of terror. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who’s there?’ he called quietly; but he did not stir. + </p> + <p> + We gazed at each other. + </p> + <p> + The knock was repeated, sharply and firmly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who’s there?’ Diaz demanded again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Go to the door,’ I whispered. + </p> + <p> + He hesitated, and then we heard footsteps receding down the corridor. Diaz + went slowly to the door, opened it wide, slipped out into the corridor, + and looked into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Curious!’ he commented tranquilly. ‘I see no one.’ + </p> + <p> + He came back into the room and shut the door softly, and seemed thereby to + shut us in, to enclose us against the world in a sweet domesticity of our + own. The fire was burning brightly, the glasses and the decanter on the + small table spoke of cheer, the curtains were drawn, and through a + half-open door behind the piano one had a hint of a mysterious other room; + one could see nothing within it save a large brass knob or ball, which + caught the light of the candle on the piano. + </p> + <p> + ‘You were startled,’ he said. ‘You must have a little more of + our cordial—just a spoonful.’ + </p> + <p> + He poured out for me an infinitesimal quantity, and the same for himself. + </p> + <p> + I sighed with relief as I drank. My terror left me. But the trifling + incident had given me the clearest perception of what I was doing, and + that did not leave me. + </p> + <p> + We sat down a second time to the piano. + </p> + <p> + ‘You understand,’ he explained, staring absently at the double page + of music, ‘this is the garden scene. When the curtain goes up it is + dark in the garden, and Isolda is there with her maid Brangaena. The king, + her husband, has just gone off hunting—you will hear the horns dying + in the distance—and Isolda is expecting her lover, Tristan. A torch + is burning in the wall of the castle, and as soon as she gives him the + signal by extinguishing it he comes to her. You will know the exact moment + when they meet. Then there is the love-scene. Oh! when we arrive at that + you will be astounded. You will hear the very heart-beats of the lovers. + Are you ready?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + We began to play. But it was ridiculous. I knew it would be ridiculous. I + was too dazed, and artistically too intimidated, to read the notes. The + notes danced and pranced before me. All I could see on my page was the big + black letters at the top, ‘Zweiter Aufzug.’ And furthermore, + on that first page both the theme and the accompaniment were in the bass + of the piano. Diaz had scarcely anything to do. I threw up my hands and + closed my eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t,’ I whispered, ‘I can’t. I would if I + could.’ + </p> + <p> + He gently took my hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear companion,’ he said, ‘tell me your name.’ + </p> + <p> + I was surprised. Memories of the Bible, for some inexplicable reason, + flashed through my mind. + </p> + <p> + ‘Magdalen,’ I replied, and my voice was so deceptively quiet and + sincere that he believed it. + </p> + <p> + I could see that he was taken aback. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is a holy name and a good name,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Magda, + you are perfectly capable of reading this music with me, and you will read + it, won’t you? Let us begin afresh. Leave the accompaniment with me, + and play the theme only. Further on it gets easier.’ + </p> + <p> + And in another moment we were launched on that sea so strange to me. The + influence of Diaz over me was complete. Inspired by his will, I had + resolved intensely to read the music correctly and sympathetically, and + lo! I was succeeding! He turned the page with the incredible rapidity and + dexterity of which only great pianists seem to have the secret, and in + conjunction with my air in the bass he was suddenly, magically, drawing + out from the upper notes the sweetest and most intoxicating melody I had + ever heard. The exceeding beauty of the thing laid hold on me, and I + abandoned myself to it. I felt sure now that, at any rate, I should not + disgrace myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Unless it was Chopin,’ whispered Diaz. ‘No one could ever see + two things at once as well as Wagner.’ + </p> + <p> + We surged on through the second page. Again the lightning turn of the + page, and then the hunters’ horns were heard departing from the + garden of love, receding, receding, until they subsided into a + scarce-heard drone, out of which rose another air. And as the sound of the + horns died away, so died away all my past and all my solicitudes for the + future. I surrendered utterly and passionately to the spell of the beauty + which we were opening like a long scroll. I had ceased to suffer. + </p> + <p> + The absinthe and Diaz had conjured a spirit in me which was at once + feverish and calm. I was reading at sight difficult music full of + modulations and of colour, and I was reading it with calm assurance of + heart and brain. Deeper down the fever raged, but so separately that I + might have had two individualities. Enchanted as I was by the rich and + complex concourse of melodies which ascended from the piano and swam about + our heads, this fluctuating tempest of sound was after all only a + background for the emotions to which it gave birth in me. Naturally they + were the emotions of love—the sense of the splendour of love, the + headlong passion of love, the transcendent carelessness of love, the + finality of love. I saw in love the sole and sacred purpose of the + universe, and my heart whispered, with a new import: ‘Where love is, + there is God also.’ + </p> + <p> + The fever of the music increased, and with it my fever. We seemed to be + approaching some mighty climax. I thought I might faint with ecstasy, but + I held on, and the climax arrived—a climax which touched the limits + of expression in expressing all that two souls could feel in coming + together. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tristan has come into the garden,’ I muttered. + </p> + <p> + And Diaz, turning his face towards me, nodded. + </p> + <p> + We plunged forward into the love-scene itself—the scene in which the + miracle of love is solemnized and celebrated. I thought that of all + miracles, the miracle which had occurred that night, and was even then + occurring, might be counted among the most wondrous. What occult forces, + what secret influences of soul on soul, what courage on his part, what + sublime immodesty and unworldliness on mine had brought it about! In what + dreadful disaster would it not end! ... I cared not in that marvellous + hectic hour how it would end. I knew I had been blessed beyond the common + lot of women. I knew that I was living more intensely and more fully than + I could have hoped to live. I knew that my experience was a supreme + experience, and that another such could not be contained in my life.... + And Diaz was so close, so at one with me.... A hush descended on the + music, and I found myself playing strange disturbing chords with the left + hand, irregularly repeated, opposing the normal accent of the bar, and + becoming stranger and more disturbing. And Diaz was playing an air + fragmentary and poignant. The lovers were waiting; the very atmosphere of + the garden was drenched with an agonizing and exquisite anticipation. The + whole world stood still, expectant, while the strange chords fought gently + and persistently against the rhythm. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hear the beating of their hearts,’ Diaz’ whisper floated over + the chords. + </p> + <p> + It was too much. The obsession of his presence, reinforced by the + vibrating of his wistful, sensuous voice, overcame me suddenly. My hands + fell from the keyboard. He looked at me—and with what a glance! + </p> + <p> + ‘I can bear no more,’ I cried wildly. ‘It is too beautiful, + too beautiful!’ + </p> + <p> + And I rushed from the piano, and sat down in an easy-chair, and hid my + face in my hands. + </p> + <p> + He came to me, and bent over me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Magda,’ he whispered, ‘show me your face.’ With his + hands he delicately persuaded my hands away from my face, and forced me to + look on him. ‘How dark and splendid you are, Magda!’ he said, + still holding my hands. ‘How humid and flashing your eyes! And those + eyelashes, and that hair—dark, dark! And that bosom, with its rise + and fall! And that low, rich voice, that is like dark wine! And that dress—dark, + and full of mysterious shadows, like our souls! Magda, we must have known + each other in a previous life. There can be no other explanation. And this + moment is the fulfilment of that other life, which was not aroused. You + were to be mine. You are mine, Magda!’ + </p> + <p> + There is a fatalism in love. I felt it then. I had been called by destiny + to give happiness, perhaps for a lifetime, but perhaps only for a brief + instant, to this noble and glorious creature, on whom the gods had + showered all gifts. Could I shrink back from my fate? And had he not + already given me far more than I could ever return? The conventions of + society seemed then like sand, foolishly raised to imprison the resistless + tide of ocean. Nature, after all, is eternal and unchangeable, and + everywhere the same. The great and solemn fact for me was that we were + together, and he held me while our burning pulses throbbed in contact. He + held me; he clasped me, and, despite my innocence, I knew at once that + those hands were as expert to caress as to make music. I was proud and + glad that he was not clumsy, that he was a master. And at that point I + ceased to have volition.... + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + When I woke up, perplexed at first, but gradually remembering where I was, + and what had occurred to me, the realistic and uncompromising light of + dawn had commenced its pitiless inquiry, and it fell on the brass knob, + which I had noticed a few hours before, from the other room, and on + another brass knob a few feet away. My eyes smarted; I had disconcerting + sensations at the back of my head; my hair was brittle, and as though + charged with a dull electricity; I was conscious of actual pain, and an + incubus, crushing but intangible, lay heavily, like a physical weight, on + my heart. After the crest of the wave the trough—it must be so; but + how profound the instinct which complains! I listened. I could hear his + faint, regular breathing. I raised myself carefully on one elbow and + looked at him. He was as beautiful in sleep as in consciousness; his lips + were slightly parted, his cheek exquisitely flushed, and nothing could + disarrange that short, curly hair. He slept with the calmness of the + natural innocent man, to whom the assuaging of desires brings only + content. + </p> + <p> + I felt that I must go, and hastily, frantically. I could not face him when + he woke; I should not have known what to say; I should have been abashed, + timid, clumsy, unequal to myself. And, moreover, I had the egoist’s + deep need to be alone, to examine my soul, to understand it intimately and + utterly. And, lastly, I wanted to pay the bill of pleasure at once. I + could never tolerate credit; I was like my aunt in that. Therefore, I must + go home and settle the account in some way. I knew not how; I knew only + that the thing must be done. Diaz had nothing to do with that; it was not + his affair, and I should have resented his interference. Ah! when I was in + the bill-paying mood, how hard I could be, how stony, how blind! And that + morning I was like a Malay running amok. + </p> + <p> + Think not that when I was ready to depart I stopped and stooped to give + him a final tender kiss. I did not even scribble a word of adieu or of + explanation. I stole away on tiptoe, without looking at him. This sounds + brutal, but it is a truth of my life, and I am writing my life—at + least, I am writing those brief hours of my existence during which I + lived. I had always a sort of fierce courage; and as I had proved the + courage of my passion in the night, so I proved the courage of my—not + my remorse, not my compunction, not my regret—but of my intellectual + honesty in the morning. Proud and vain words, perhaps. Who can tell? No + matter what sympathies I alienate, I am bound to say plainly that, though + I am passionate, I am not sentimental. I came to him out of the void, and + I went from him into the void. He found me, and he lost me. Between the + autumn sunset and the autumn sunrise he had learnt to know me well, but he + did not know my name nor my history; he had no clue, no cord to pull me + back. + </p> + <p> + I passed into the sitting-room, dimly lighted through the drawn curtains, + and there was the score of <i>Tristan</i> open on the piano. Yes; and if I + were the ordinary woman I would add that there also were the ashes in the + cold grate, and so symbolize the bitterness of memory and bring about a + pang. But I have never regretted what is past. The cinders of that fire + were to me cinders of a fire and nothing more. + </p> + <p> + In the doorway I halted. To go into the corridor was like braving the + blast of the world, and I hesitated. Possibly I hesitated for a very + little thing. Only the women among you will guess it. My dress was dark + and severe. I had a simple, dark cloak. But I had no hat. I had no hat, + and the most important fact in the universe for me then was that I had no + hat. My whole life was changed; my heart and mind were in the throes of a + revolution. I dared not imagine what would happen between my aunt and me; + but this deficiency in my attire distressed me more than all else. At the + other end of the obscure corridor was a chambermaid kneeling down and + washing the linoleum. Ah, maid! Would I not have exchanged fates with you, + then! I walked boldly up to her. She seemed to be surprised, but she + continued to wring out a cloth in her pail as she looked at me. + </p> + <p> + ‘What time is it, please?’ I asked her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Better than half-past six, ma’am,’ said she. + </p> + <p> + She was young and emaciated. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you got a hat you can lend me? Or I’ll buy it from you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A hat, ma’am?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, a hat,’ I repeated impatiently. And I flushed. ‘I must + go out at once, and I’ve—I’ve no hat And I can’t—’ + </p> + <p> + It is extraordinary how in a crisis one’s organism surprises one. I + had thought I was calm and full of self-control, but I had almost no + command over my voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve got a boat-shaped straw, ma’am, if that’s any use + to you,’ said the girl kindly. + </p> + <p> + What she surmised or what she knew I could not say. But I have found out + since in my travels, that hotel chambermaids lose their illusions early. + At any rate her tone was kindly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Get it me, there’s a good girl,’ I entreated her. + </p> + <p> + And when she brought it, I drew out the imitation pearl pins and put them + between my teeth, and jammed the hat on my head and skewered it savagely + with the pins. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is that right?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It suits you better than it does me, ma’am, I do declare,’ + she said. ‘Oh, ma’am, this is too much—I really couldn’t!’ + </p> + <p> + I had given her five shillings. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense! I am very much obliged to you,’ I whispered hurriedly, + and ran off. + </p> + <p> + She was a good girl. I hope she has never suffered. And yet I would not + like to think she had died of consumption before she knew what life meant. + </p> + <p> + I hastened from the hotel. A man in a blue waistcoat with shining black + sleeves was moving a large cocoa-nut mat in the hall, and the pattern of + the mat was shown in dust on the tiles where the mat had been. He glanced + at me absently as I flitted past; I encountered no other person. The + square between the hotel and the station was bathed in pure sunshine—such + sunshine as reaches the Five Towns only after a rain-storm has washed the + soot out of the air. I felt, for a moment, obscene in that sunshine; but I + had another and a stronger feeling. Although there was not a soul in the + square, I felt as if I was regarding the world and mankind with different + eyes from those of yesterday. Then I knew nothing; to-day I knew + everything—so it seemed to me. It seemed to me that I understood all + sorts of vague, subtle things that I had not understood before; that I had + been blind and now saw; that I had become kinder, more sympathetic, more + human. What these things were that I understood, or thought I understood, + I could not have explained. All I felt was that a radical change of + attitude had occurred in me. ‘Poor world! + </p> + <p> + Poor humanity! My heart melts for you!’ Thus spoke my soul, pouring + itself out. The very stone facings of the station and the hotel seemed + somehow to be humanized and to need my compassion. + </p> + <p> + I walked with eyes downcast into the station. I had determined to take the + train from Knype to Shawport, a distance of three miles, and then to walk + up the hill from Shawport through Oldcastle Street to Bursley. I hoped + that by such a route at such an hour, I should be unlikely to meet + acquaintances, of whom, in any case, I had few. My hopes appeared to be + well founded, for the large booking-hall at the station was thronged with + a multitude entirely strange to me—workmen and workwomen and + workgirls crowded the place. The first-class and second-class + booking-windows were shut, and a long tail of muscular men, pale men, + stout women, and thin women pushed to take tickets at the other window. I + was obliged to join them, and to wait my turn amid the odour of corduroy + and shawl, and the strong odour of humanity; my nostrils were peculiarly + sensitive that morning. Some of the men had herculean arms and necks, and + it was these who wore pieces of string tied round their trousers below the + knee, disclosing the lines of their formidable calves. The women were + mostly pallid and quiet. All carried cans, or satchels, or baskets; here + and there a man swung lightly on his shoulder a huge bag of tools, which I + could scarcely have raised from the ground. Everybody was natural, direct, + and eager; and no one attempted to be genteel or refined; no one pretended + that he did not toil with his hands for dear life. I anticipated that I + should excite curiosity, but I did not. The people had a preoccupied, + hurried air. Only at the window itself, when the ticket-clerk, having made + me repeat my demand, went to a distant part of his lair to get my ticket, + did I detect behind me a wave of impatient and inimical interest in this + drone who caused delay to busy people. + </p> + <p> + It was the same on the up-platform, the same in the subway, and the same + on the down-platform. I was plunged in a sea of real, raw life; but I + could not mingle with it; I was a bit of manufactured lace on that full + tide of nature. The porters cried in a different tone from what they + employed when the London and Manchester expresses, and the polite trains + generally, were alongside. They cried fraternally, rudely; they were at + one with the passengers. I alone was a stranger. + </p> + <p> + ‘These are the folk! These are the basis of society, and the fountain of + <i>our</i> wealth and luxury!’ I thought; for I was just beginning, + at that period, to be interested in the disquieting aspects of the social + organism, and my ideas were hot and crude. I was aware of these people on + paper, but now, for the first time, I realized the immense rush and sweep + of their existence, their nearness to Nature, their formidable directness. + They frightened me with their vivid humanity. + </p> + <p> + I could find no first-class carriage on the train, and I got into a + compartment where there were several girls and one young man. The girls + were evidently employed in the earthenware manufacture. Each had her + dinner-basket. Most of them were extremely neat; one or two wore gloves. + From the young man’s soiled white jacket under his black coat, I + gathered that he was an engineer. The train moved out of the station and + left the platform nearly empty. I pictured the train, a long procession of + compartments like ours, full of rough, natural, ungenteel people. None of + my companions spoke; none gave me more than a passing glance. It was + uncanny. + </p> + <p> + Still, the fundamental, cardinal quality of my adventure remained + prominent in my being, and it gave me countenance among these taciturn, + musing workgirls, who were always at grips with the realities of life. + ‘Ah,’ I thought, ‘you little know what I know! I may appear a + butterfly, but I have learnt the secret meaning of existence. I am above + you, beyond you, by my experience, and by my terrible situation, and by + the turmoil in my heart!’ And then, quite suddenly, I reflected that + they probably knew all that I knew, that some of them might have forgotten + more than I had ever learnt. I remembered an absorbing correspondence + about the manners of the Five Towns in the columns of the <i>Staffordshire + Recorder</i>—a correspondence which had driven Aunt Constance to + conceal the paper after the second week. I guessed that they might smile + at the simplicity of my heart could they see it. Meaning of existence! + Why, they were reared in it! The naturalness of natural people and of + natural acts struck me like a blow, and I withdrew, whipped, into myself. + My adventure grew smaller. But I recalled its ecstasies. I dwelt on the + romantic perfection of Diaz. It seemed to me amazing, incredible, that + Diaz, the glorious and incomparable Diaz, had loved me—<i>me</i>! + out of all the ardent, worshipping women that the world contained. I + wondered if he had wakened up, and I felt sorry for him. So far, I had not + decided how soon, if at all, I should communicate with him. My mind was + incapable of reaching past the next few hours—the next hour. + </p> + <p> + We stopped at a station surrounded by the evidences of that tireless, + unceasing, and tremendous manufacturing industry which distinguishes the + Five Towns, and I was left alone in the compartment. The train rumbled on + through a landscape of fiery furnaces, and burning slag-heaps, and foul + canals reflecting great smoking chimneys, all steeped in the mild + sunshine. Could the toil-worn agents of this never-ending and gigantic + productiveness find time for love? Perhaps they loved quickly and forgot, + like animals. Thoughts such as these lurked sinister and carnal, strange + beasts in the jungle of my poor brain. Then the train arrived at Shawport, + and I was obliged to get out. I say ‘obliged,’ because I + violently wished not to get out. I wished to travel on in that train to + some impossible place, where things were arranged differently. + </p> + <p> + The station clock showed only five minutes to seven. I was astounded. It + seemed to me that all the real world had been astir and busy for hours. + And this extraordinary activity went on every morning while Aunt Constance + and I lay in our beds and thought well of ourselves. + </p> + <p> + I shivered, and walked quickly up the street. I had positively not noticed + that I was cold. I had scarcely left the station before Fred Ryley + appeared in front of me. I saw that his face was swollen. My heart + stopped. Of course, he would tell Ethel.... He passed me sheepishly + without stopping, merely raising his hat, and murmuring the singular + words: + </p> + <p> + ‘We’re both very, very sorry.’ + </p> + <p> + What in the name of Heaven could they possibly know, he and Ethel? And + what right had he to ...? Did he smile furtively? Fred Ryley had sometimes + a strange smile. I reddened, angry and frightened. + </p> + <p> + The distance between the station and our house proved horribly short. And + when I arrived in front of the green gates, and put my hand on the latch, + I knew that I had formed no plan whatever. I opened the right-hand gate + and entered the garden. The blinds were still down, and the house looked + so decorous and innocent in its age. My poor aunt! What a night she must + have been through! It was inconceivable that I should tell her what had + happened to me. Indeed, under the windows of that house it seemed + inconceivable that the thing had happened which had happened. + Inconceivable! Grotesque! Monstrous! + </p> + <p> + But could I lie? Could I rise to the height of some sufficient and kindly + lie? + </p> + <p> + A hand drew slightly aside the blind of the window over the porch. I + sighed, and went wearily, in my boat-shaped straw, up the gravelled path + to the door. + </p> + <p> + Rebecca met me at the door. It was so early that she had not yet put on an + apron. She looked tired, as if she had not slept. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come in, miss,’ she said weakly, holding open the door. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to me that I did not need this invitation from a servant. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose you’ve all been fearfully upset, wondering where I was,’ + I began, entering the hall. + </p> + <p> + My adventure appeared fantastically unreal to me in the presence of this + buxom creature, whom I knew to be incapable of imagining anything one + hundredth part so dreadful. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, miss; I wasn’t upset on account of you. You’re always so + sensible like. You always know what to do. I knew as you must have stopped + the night with friends in Hanbridge on account of the heavy rain, and + perhaps that there silly cabman not turning up, and them tramcars all + crowded; and, of course, you couldn’t telegraph.’ + </p> + <p> + This view that I was specially sagacious and equal to emergencies rather + surprised me. + </p> + <p> + ‘But auntie?’ I demanded, trembling. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, miss!’ cried Rebecca, glancing timidly over her shoulder, + ‘I want you to come with me into the dining-room before you go + upstairs.’ + </p> + <p> + She snuffled. + </p> + <p> + In the dining-room I went at once to the window to draw up the blinds. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not that, not that!’ Rebecca appealed, weeping. ‘For pity’s + sake!’ And she caught my hand. + </p> + <p> + I then noticed that Lucy was standing in the doorway, also weeping. + Rebecca noticed this too. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lucy, you go to your kitchen this minute,’ she said sharply, and + then turned to me and began to cry again. ‘Miss Peel—how can I + tell you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why do you call me Miss Peel?’ I asked her. + </p> + <p> + But I knew why. The thing flashed over me instantly. My dear aunt was + dead. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve got no aunt,’ said Rebecca. ‘My poor dear! And + you at the concert!’ + </p> + <p> + I dropped my head and my bosom on the bare mahogany table and cried. Never + before, and never since, have I spilt such tears—hot, painful drops, + distilled plenteously from a heart too crushed and torn. + </p> + <p> + ‘There, there!’ muttered Rebecca. ‘I wish I could have told + you different—less cruel; but it wasn’t in me to do it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And she’s lying upstairs this very moment all cold and stiff,’ + a wailing voice broke in. + </p> + <p> + It was Lucy, who could not keep herself away from us. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you go to your kitchen, my girl!’ + </p> + <p> + Rebecca drove her off. ‘And the poor thing’s not stiff either. + Her poor body’s as soft as if she was only asleep, and doctor says + it will be for a day or two. It’s like that when they’re took + off like that, he says. Oh, Miss Carlotta—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell me all about it before I go upstairs,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + I had recovered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your poor aunt went to bed just as soon as you were gone, miss,’ + said Rebecca. ‘She would have it she was quite well, only tired. I + took her up a cup of cocoa at ten o’clock, and she seemed all right, + and then I sends Lucy to bed, and I sits up in the kitchen to wait for + you. Not a sound from your poor aunt. I must have dropped asleep, miss, in + my chair, and I woke up with a start like, and the kitchen clock was near + on one. Thinks I, perhaps Miss Carlotta’s been knocking and ringing + all this time and me not heard, and I rushes to the front door. But of + course you weren’t there. The porch was nothing but a pool o’ + water. I says to myself she’s stopping somewhere, I says. And I felt + it was my duty to go and tell your aunt, whether she was asleep or whether + she wasn’t asleep.... Well, and there she was, miss, with her eyes + closed, and as soft as a child. I spoke to her, loud, more than once. + “Miss Carlotta a’n’t come,” I says. “Miss + Carlotta a’n’t come, ma’am,” I says. She never + stirred. Thinks I, this is queer this is. And I goes up to her and touches + her. Chilly! Then I takes the liberty of pushing back your poor aunt’s + eyelids, and I could but see the whites of her eyes; the eyeballs was gone + up, and a bit outwards. Yes; and her poor dear chin was dropped. Thinks I, + here’s trouble, and Miss Carlotta at the concert. I runs to our + bedroom, and I tells Lucy to put a cloak on and fetch Dr. Roycroft. + “Who for?” she says. “Never you mind who for!” I + says, says I. “You up and quick. But you can tell the doctor it’s + missis as is took.” And in ten minutes he was here, miss. But it’s + only across the garden, like. “Yes,” he said, “she’s + been dead an hour or more. Failure of the heart’s action,” he + said. “She died in her sleep,” he said. “Thank God she + died in her sleep if she was to die, the pure angel!” I says. I told + the doctor as you were away for the night, miss. And I laid her out, miss, + and your poor auntie wasn’t my first, either. I’ve seen + trouble—I’ve—’ + </p> + <p> + And Rebecca’s tears overcame her voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll go upstairs with you, miss,’ she struggled out. + </p> + <p> + One thought that flew across my mind was that Doctor Roycroft was very + intimate with the Ryleys, and had doubtless somehow informed them of my + aunt’s death. This explained Fred Ryley’s strange words and + attitude to me on the way from the station. The young man had been too + timid to stop me. The matter was a trifle, but another idea that struck me + was not a trifle, though I strove to make it so. My aunt had died about + midnight, and it was at midnight that Diaz and I had heard the mysterious + knock on his sitting-room door. At the time I had remarked how it + resembled my aunt’s knock. Occasionally, when the servants overslept + themselves, Aunt Constance would go to their rooms in her pale-blue + dressing-gown and knock on their door exactly like that. Could it be that + this was one of those psychical manifestations of which I had read? Had my + aunt, in passing from this existence to the next, paused a moment to warn + me of my terrible danger? My intellect replied that a disembodied soul + could not knock, and that the phenomenon had been due simply to some guest + or servant of the hotel who had mistaken the room, and discovered his + error in time. Nevertheless, the instinctive part of me—that part of + us which refuses to fraternize with reason, and which we call the + superstitious because we cannot explain it—would not let go the + spiritualistic theory, and during all my life has never quite surrendered + it to the attacks of my brain. + </p> + <p> + There was a long pause. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said; ‘I will go upstairs alone;’ and I went, + leaving my cloak and hat with Rebecca. + </p> + <p> + Already, to my hypersensitive nostrils, there was a slight odour in the + darkened bedroom. What lay on the bed, straight and long and thin, + resembled almost exactly my aunt as she lived. I forced myself to look on + it. Except that the face was paler than usual, and had a curious + transparent, waxy appearance, and that the cheeks were a little hollowed, + and the lines from the nose to the corners of the mouth somewhat deepened, + there had been no outward change.... And <i>this</i> once was she! I + thought, Where is she, then? Where is the soul? Where is that which loved + me without understanding me? Where is that which I loved? The baffling, + sad enigma of death confronted me in all its terrifying crudity. The shaft + of love and the desolation of death had struck me almost in the same hour, + and before these twin mysteries, supremely equal, I recoiled and quailed. + I had neither faith nor friend. I was solitary, and my soul also was + solitary. The difficulties of Being seemed insoluble. I was not a moral + coward, I was not prone to facile repentances; but as I gazed at that calm + and unsullied mask I realized, whatever I had gained, how much I had lost. + At twenty-one I knew more of the fountains of life than Aunt Constance at + over sixty. Poor aged thing that had walked among men for interminable + years, and never <i>known</i>! It seemed impossible, shockingly against + Nature, that my aunt’s existence should have been so! I pitied her + profoundly. I felt that essentially she was girlish compared to me. And + yet—and yet—that which she had kept and which I had given away + was precious, too—indefinably and wonderfully precious! The price of + knowledge and of ecstasy seemed heavy to me then. The girl that had gone + with Diaz into that hotel apartment had come out no more. She had expired + there, and her extinction was the price, Oh, innocence! Oh, divine + ignorance! Oh, refusal! None knows your value save her who has bartered + you! And herein is the woman’s tragedy. + </p> + <p> + There in that mausoleum I decided that I must never see Diaz again. He was + fast in my heart, a flashing, glorious treasure, but I must never see him + again. I must devote myself to memory. + </p> + <p> + On the dressing-table lay a brown-paper parcel which seemed out of place + there. I opened it, and it contained a magnificently-bound copy of <i>The + Imitation of Christ</i>. Upon the flyleaf was written: ‘To dearest + Carlotta on attaining her majority. With fondest love. C.P.’ + </p> + <p> + It was too much; it was overwhelming. I wept again. Soul so kind and pure! + The sense of my loss, the sense of the simple, proud rectitude of her + life, laid me low. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + Train journeys have too often been sorrowful for me, so much so that the + conception itself of a train, crawling over the country like a snake, or + flying across it like a winged monster, fills me with melancholy. Trains + loaded with human parcels of sadness and illusion and brief joy, wandering + about, crossing, and occasionally colliding in the murk of existence; + trains warmed and lighted in winter; trains open to catch the air of your + own passage in summer; night-trains that pierce the night with your + yellow, glaring eyes, and waken mysterious villages, and leave the night + behind and run into the dawn as into a station; trains that carry bread + and meats for the human parcels, and pillows and fountains of fresh water; + trains that sweep haughtily and wearily indifferent through the landscapes + and the towns, sufficient unto yourselves, hasty, panting, formidable, and + yet mournful entities: I have understood you in your arrogance and your + pathos. + </p> + <p> + That little journey from Knype to Shawport had implanted itself painfully + in my memory, as though during it I had peered too close into the face of + life. And now I had undertaken another, and a longer one. Three months had + elapsed—three months of growing misery and despair; three months of + tedious familiarity with lawyers and distant relatives, and all the + exasperating camp-followers of death; three months of secret and strange + fear, waxing daily. And at last, amid the expostulations and the shrugs of + wisdom and age, I had decided to go to London. I had little energy, and no + interest, but I saw that I must go to London; I was driven there by my + secret fear; I dared not delay. And not a soul in the wide waste of the + Five Towns comprehended me, or could have comprehended me had it been so + minded. I might have shut up the house for a time. But no; I would not. + Always I have been sudden, violent, and arbitrary; I have never been able + to tolerate half-measures, or to wait upon occasion. I sold the house; I + sold the furniture. Yes; and I dismissed my faithful Rebecca and the + clinging Lucy, and they departed, God knows where; it was as though I had + sold them into slavery. Again and again, in the final week, I cut myself + to the quick, recklessly, perhaps purposely; I moved in a sort of terrible + languor, deaf to every appeal, pretending to be stony, and yet tortured by + my secret fear, and by a hemorrhage of the heart that no philosophy could + stanch. And I swear that nothing desolated me more than the strapping and + the labelling of my trunks that morning after I had slept, dreamfully, in + the bed that I should never use again—the bed that, indeed, was even + then the property of a furniture dealer. Had I wept at all, I should have + wept as I wrote out the labels for my trunks: ‘Miss Peel, passenger to + Golden Cross Hotel, London. Euston via Rugby,’ with two thick lines + drawn under the ‘Euston.’ That writing of labels was the + climax. With a desperate effort I tore myself up by the roots, and all + bleeding I left the Five Towns. I have never seen them since. Some day, + when I shall have attained serenity and peace, when the battle has been + fought and lost, I will revisit my youth. I have always loved passionately + the disfigured hills and valleys of the Five Towns. And as I think of + Oldcastle Street, dropping away sleepily and respectably from the Town + Hall of Bursley, with the gold angel holding a gold crown on its spire, I + vibrate with an inexplicable emotion. What is there in Oldcastle Street to + disturb the dust of the soul? + </p> + <p> + I must tell you here that Diaz had gone to South America on a triumphal + tour of concerts, lest I forget! I read it in the paper. + </p> + <p> + So I arrived in London on a February day, about one o’clock. And the + hall-porter at the Golden Cross Hotel, and the two pale girls in the + bureau of the hotel, were sympathetic and sweet to me, because I was young + and alone, and in mourning, and because I had great rings round my eyes. + It was a fine day, blue and mild. At half-past three I had nothing in the + world to do. I had come to London without a plan, without a purpose, with + scarcely an introduction; I wished simply to plunge myself into its + solitude, and to be alone with my secret fear. I walked out into the + street, slowly, like one whom ennui has taught to lose no chance of + dissipating time. I neither liked nor disliked London. I had no feelings + towards it save one of perplexity. I thought it noisy, dirty, and hurried. + Its great name roused no thrill in my bosom. On the morrow, I said, I + would seek a lodging, and perhaps write to Ethel Ryley. Meanwhile I + strolled up into Trafalgar Square, and so into Charing Cross Road. And in + Charing Cross Road—it was the curst accident of fate—I saw the + signboard of the celebrated old firm of publishers, Oakley and Dalbiac. It + is my intention to speak of my books as little as possible in this + history. I must, however, explain that six months before my aunt’s + death I had already written my first novel, <i>The Jest</i>, and sent it + to precisely Oakley and Dalbiac. It was a wild welter of youthful + extravagances, and it aimed to depict London society, of which I knew + nothing whatever, with a flippant and cynical pen. Oakley and Dalbiac had + kept silence for several months, and had then stated, in an extremely + formal epistle, that they thought the book might have some chance of + success, and that they would be prepared to publish it on certain terms, + but that I must not expect, etc. By that time I had lost my original + sublime faith in the exceeding excellence of my story, and I replied that + I preferred to withdraw the book. To this letter I had received no answer. + When I saw the famous sign over a doorway the impulse seized me to enter + and get the manuscript, with the object of rewriting it. Soon, I + reflected, I might not be able to enter; the portals of mankind might be + barred to me for a space.... I saw in a flash of insight that my salvation + lay in work, and in nothing else. I entered, resolutely. A brougham was + waiting at the doors. + </p> + <p> + After passing along counters furnished with ledgers and clerks, through a + long, lofty room lined with great pigeon-holes containing thousands of + books each wrapped separately in white paper, I was shown into what the + clerk who acted as chamberlain called the office of the principal. This + room, too, was spacious, but so sombre that the electric light was already + burning. The first thing I noticed was that the window gave on a wall of + white tiles. In the middle of the somewhat dingy apartment was a vast, + square table, and at this table sat a pale, tall man, whose youth + astonished me—for the firm of Oakley and Dalbiac was historic. + </p> + <p> + He did not look up exactly at the instant of my entering, but when he did + look up, when he saw me, he stared for an instant, and then sprang from + his chair as though magically startled into activity. His age was about + thirty, and he had large, dark eyes, and a slight, dark moustache, and his + face generally was interesting; he wore a dark gray suit. I was nervous, + but he was even more nervous; yet in the moment of looking up he had not + seemed nervous. He could not do enough, apparently, to make me feel at + ease, and to show his appreciation of me and my work. He spoke + enthusiastically of <i>The Jest</i>, begging me neither to suppress it nor + to alter it. And, without the least suggestion from me, he offered me a + considerable sum of money in advance of royalties. At that time I scarcely + knew what royalties were. But although my ignorance of business was + complete, I guessed that this man was behaving in a manner highly unusual + among publishers. He was also patently contradicting the tenor of his firm’s + letter to me. I thanked him, and said I should like, at any rate, to + glance through the manuscript. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t alter it, Miss Peel, I beg,’ he said. ‘It is + “young,” I know; but it ought to be. I remember my wife said—my + wife reads many of our manuscripts—by the way—’ He went + to a door, opened it, and called out, ‘Mary!’ + </p> + <p> + A tall and slim woman, extremely elegant, appeared in reply to this + appeal. Her hair was gray above the ears, and I judged that she was four + or five years older than the man. She had a kind, thin face, with shining + gray eyes, and she was wearing a hat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary, this is Miss Peel, the author of <i>The Jest</i>—you + remember. Miss Peel, my wife.’ + </p> + <p> + The woman welcomed me with quick, sincere gestures. Her smile was very + pleasant, and yet a sad smile. The husband also had an air of quiet, + restrained, cheerful sadness. + </p> + <p> + ‘My wife is frequently here in the afternoon like this,’ said the + principal. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ she laughed; ‘it’s quite a family affair, and I’m + almost on the staff. I distinctly remember your manuscript, Miss Peel, and + how very clever and amusing it was.’ + </p> + <p> + Her praise was spontaneous and cordial, but it was a different thing from + the praise of her husband. He obviously noticed the difference. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was just saying to Miss Peel—’ he began, with increased + nervousness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Pardon me,’ I interrupted. ‘But am I speaking to Mr. Oakley + or Mr. Dalbiac?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To neither,’ said he. ‘My name is Ispenlove, and I am the + nephew of the late Mr. Dalbiac. Mr. Oakley died thirty years ago. I have + no partner.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You expected to see a very old gentleman, no doubt,’ Mrs. Ispenlove + remarked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘People often do. And Frank is so very young. You live in London?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said; ‘I have just come up.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To stay?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To stay.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Alone?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. My aunt died a few months ago. I am all that is left of my family.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Ispenlove’s eyes filled with tears, and she fingered a gold + chain that hung from her neck. + </p> + <p> + ‘But have you got rooms—a house?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am at a hotel for the moment.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you have friends?’ + </p> + <p> + I shook my head. Mr. Ispenlove was glancing rapidly from one to the other + of us. + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear young lady!’ exclaimed his wife. Then she hesitated, and + said: ‘Excuse my abruptness, but do let me beg you to come and have tea + with us this afternoon. We live quite near—in Bloomsbury Square. The + carriage is waiting. Frank, you can come?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can come for an hour,’ said Mr. Ispenlove. + </p> + <p> + I wanted very much to decline, but I could not. I could not disappoint + that honest and generous kindliness, with its touch of melancholy. I could + not refuse those shining gray eyes. I saw that my situation and my youth + had lacerated Mrs. Ispenlove’s sensitive heart, and that she wished + to give it balm by being humane to me. + </p> + <p> + We seemed, so rapid was our passage, to be whisked on an Arabian carpet to + a spacious drawing-room, richly furnished, with thick rugs and ample + cushions and countless knicknacks and photographs and delicately-tinted + lampshades. There was a grand piano by Steinway, and on it Mendelssohn’s + ‘Songs without Words.’ The fire slumbered in a curious grate that + projected several feet into the room—such a contrivance I had never + seen before. Near it sat Mrs. Ispenlove, entrenched behind a vast copper + disc on a low wicker stand, pouring out tea. Mr. Ispenlove hovered about. + He and his wife called each other ‘dearest.’ ‘Ring the + bell for me, dearest.’ ‘Yes, dearest.’ I felt sure that + they had no children. They were very intimate, very kind, and always + gently sad. The atmosphere was charmingly domestic, even cosy, despite the + size of the room—a most pleasing contrast to the offices which we + had just left. Mrs. Ispenlove told her husband to look after me well, and + he devoted himself to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know,’ said Mrs. Ispenlove, ‘I am gradually recalling + the details of your book, and you are not at all the sort of person that I + should have expected to see.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But that poor little book isn’t <i>me</i>,’ I answered. + ‘I shall never write another like it. I only—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall you not?’ Mr. Ispenlove interjected. ‘I hope you will, + though.’ + </p> + <p> + I smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘I only did it to see what I could do. I am going to begin something quite + different.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It appears to me,’ said Mrs. Ispenlove—‘and I must + again ask you to excuse my freedom, but I feel as if I had known you a + long time—it appears to me that what you want immediately is a + complete rest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why do you say that?’ I demanded. + </p> + <p> + ‘You do not look well. You look exhausted and worn out.’ + </p> + <p> + I blushed as she gazed at me. Could she—? No. Those simple gray eyes + could not imagine evil. Nevertheless, I saw too plainly how foolish I had + been. I, with my secret fear, that was becoming less a fear than a + dreadful certainty, to permit myself to venture into that house! I might + have to fly ignominiously before long, to practise elaborate falsehood, to + disappear. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps you are right,’ I agreed. + </p> + <p> + The conversation grew fragmentary, and less and less formal. Mrs. + Ispenlove was the chief talker. I remember she said that she was always + being thrown among clever people, people who could do things, and that her + own inability to do anything at all was getting to be an obsession with + her; and that people like me could have no idea of the tortures of + self-depreciation which she suffered. Her voice was strangely wistful + during this confession. She also spoke—once only, and quite shortly, + but with what naïve enthusiasm!—of the high mission and influence of + the novelist who wrote purely and conscientiously. After this, though my + liking for her was undiminished, I had summed her up. Mr. Ispenlove + offered no commentary on his wife’s sentiments. He struck me as + being a reserved man, whose inner life was intense and sufficient to him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah!’ I reflected, as Mrs. Ispenlove, with an almost motherly + accent, urged me to have another cup of tea, ‘if you knew me, if you + knew me, what would you say to me? Would your charity be strong enough to + overcome your instincts?’ And as I had felt older than my aunt, so I + felt older than Mrs. Ispenlove. + </p> + <p> + I left, but I had to promise to come again on the morrow, after I had seen + Mr. Ispenlove on business. The publisher took me down to my hotel in the + brougham (and I thought of the drive with Diaz, but the water was not + streaming down the windows), and then he returned to his office. + </p> + <p> + Without troubling to turn on the light in my bedroom, I sank sighing on to + the bed. The events of the afternoon had roused me from my terrible + lethargy, but now it overcame me again. I tried to think clearly about the + Ispenloves and what the new acquaintance meant for me; but I could not + think clearly. I had not been able to think clearly for two months. I + wished only to die. For a moment I meditated vaguely on suicide, but + suicide seemed to involve an amount of complicated enterprise far beyond + my capacity. It amazed me how I had managed to reach London. I must have + come mechanically, in a heavy dream; for I had no hope, no energy, no + vivacity, no interest. For many weeks my mind had revolved round an awful + possibility, as if hypnotized by it, and that monotonous revolution seemed + alone to constitute my real life. Moreover, I was subject to recurring + nausea, and to disconcerting bodily pains and another symptom. + </p> + <p> + ‘This must end!’ I said, struggling to my feet. + </p> + <p> + I summoned the courage of an absolute disgust. I felt that the power which + had triumphed over my dejection and my irresolution and brought me to + London might carry me a little further. + </p> + <p> + Leaving the hotel, I crossed the Strand. Innumerable omnibuses were + crawling past. I jumped into one at hazard, and the conductor put his arm + behind my back to support me. He was shouting, ‘Putney, Putney, + Putney!’ in an absent-minded manner: he had assisted me to mount + without even looking at me. I climbed to the top of the omnibus and sat + down, and the omnibus moved off. I knew not where I was going; Putney was + nothing but a name to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where to, lady?’ snapped the conductor, coming upstairs. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Putney,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + A little bell rang and he gave me a ticket. The omnibus was soon full. A + woman with a young child shared my seat. But the population of the roof + was always changing. I alone remained—so it appeared to me. And we + moved interminably forward through the gas-lit and crowded streets, under + the mild night. Occasionally, when we came within the circle of an + arc-lamp, I could see all my fellow-passengers very clearly; then they + were nothing but dark, featureless masses. The horses of the omnibus were + changed. A score of times the conductor came briskly upstairs, but he + never looked at me again. ‘I’ve done with you,’ his back + seemed to say. + </p> + <p> + The houses stood up straight and sinister, thousands of houses unendingly + succeeding each other. Some were brilliantly illuminated; some were dark; + and some had one or two windows lighted. The phenomenon of a solitary + window lighted, high up in a house, filled me with the sense of the tragic + romance of London. Why, I cannot tell. But it did. London grew to be + almost unbearably mournful. There were too many people in London. + Suffering was packed too close. One can contemplate a single affliction + with some equanimity, but a million griefs, calamities, frustrations, + elbowing each other—No, no! And in all that multitude of sadnesses I + felt that mine was the worst. My loneliness, my fear, my foolish youth, my + inability to cope with circumstance, my appalling ignorance of the very + things which I ought to know! It was awful. And yet even then, in that + despairing certainty of disaster, I was conscious of the beauty of life, + the beauty of life’s exceeding sorrow, and I hugged it to me, like a + red-hot iron. + </p> + <p> + We crossed a great river by a great bridge—a mysterious and mighty + stream; and then the streets closed in on us again. And at last, after + hours and hours, the omnibus swerved into a dark road and stopped—stopped + finally. + </p> + <p> + ‘Putney!’ cried the conductor, like fate. + </p> + <p> + I descended. Far off, at the end of the vista of the dark road, I saw a + red lamp. I knew that in large cities a red lamp indicated a doctor: it + was the one useful thing that I did know. + </p> + <p> + I approached the red lamp, cautiously, on the other side of the street. + Then some power forced me to cross the street and open a wicket. And in + the red glow of the lamp I saw an ivory button which I pushed. I could + plainly hear the result; it made me tremble. I had a narrow escape of + running away. The door was flung wide, and a middle-aged woman appeared in + the bright light of the interior of the house. She had a kind face. It is + astounding, the number of kind faces one meets. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is the doctor in?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + I would have given a year of my life to hear her say ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, miss,’ she said. ‘Will you step in?’ + </p> + <p> + Events seemed to be moving all too rapidly. + </p> + <p> + I passed into a narrow hall, with an empty hat-rack, and so into the + surgery. From the back of the house came the sound of a piano—scales, + played very slowly. The surgery was empty. I noticed a card with letters + of the alphabet printed on it in different sizes; and then the piano + ceased, and there was the humming of an air in the passage, and a tall man + in a frock-coat, slippered and spectacled, came into the surgery. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-evening, madam,’ he said gruffly. ‘Won’t you sit + down?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I—I—I want to ask you—’ + </p> + <p> + He put a chair for me, and I dropped into it. + </p> + <p> + ‘There!’ he said, after a moment. ‘You felt as if you might + faint, didn’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + I nodded. The tears came into my eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘I’ll just give you a draught, + if you don’t mind.’ + </p> + <p> + He busied himself behind me, and presently I was drinking something out of + a conical-shaped glass. + </p> + <p> + My heart beat furiously, but I felt strong. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want you to tell me, doctor,’ I spoke firmly, ‘whether I am + about to become a mother.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah?’ he answered interrogatively, and then he hummed a fragment of + an air. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have lost my husband,’ I was about to add; but suddenly I scorned + such a weakness and shut my lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘Since when—’ the doctor began. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + ‘No,’ I heard him saying. ‘You have been quite mistaken. But I + am not surprised. Such mistakes are frequently made—a kind of + auto-suggestion.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mistaken!’ I murmured. + </p> + <p> + I could not prevent the room running round me as I reclined on the sofa; + and I fainted. + </p> + <p> + But in the night, safely in my room again at the hotel, I wondered whether + that secret fear, now exorcised, had not also been a hope. I wondered.... + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART II — THREE HUMAN HEARTS + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + And now I was twenty-six. + </p> + <p> + Everyone who knows Jove knows the poignant and delicious day when the + lovers, undeclared, but sure of mutual passion, await the magic moment of + avowal, with all its changeful consequences. I resume my fragmentary + narrative at such a day in my life. As for me, I waited for the avowal as + for an earthquake. I felt as though I were the captain of a ship on fire, + and the only person aware that the flames were creeping towards a powder + magazine. And my love shone fiercely in my heart, like a southern star; it + held me, hypnotized, in a thrilling and exquisite entrancement, so that if + my secret, silent lover was away from me, as on that fatal night in my + drawing-room, my friends were but phantom presences in a shadowy world. + This is not an exaggerated figure, but the truth, for when I have loved I + have loved much.... + </p> + <p> + My drawing-room in Bedford Court, that night on which the violent drama of + my life recommenced, indicated fairly the sorts of success which I had + achieved, and the direction of my tastes. The victim of Diaz had gradually + passed away, and a new creature had replaced her—a creature rapidly + developed, and somewhat brazened in the process under the sun of an + extraordinary double prosperity in London. I had soon learnt that my face + had a magic to win for me what wealth cannot buy. My books had given me + fame and money. And I could not prevent the world from worshipping the + woman whom it deemed the gods had greatly favoured. I could not have + prevented it, even had I wished, and I did not wish, I knew well that no + merit and no virtue, but merely the accident of facial curves, and the + accident of a convolution of the brain, had brought me this ascendancy, + and at first I reminded myself of the duty of humility. But when homage is + reiterated, when the pleasure of obeying a command and satisfying a + caprice is begged for, when roses are strewn, and even necks put down in + the path, one forgets to be humble; one forgets that in meekness alone + lies the sole good; one confuses deserts with the hazards of heredity. + </p> + <p> + However, in the end fate has no favourites. A woman who has beauty wants + to frame it in beauty. The eye is a sensualist, and its appetites, once + aroused, grow. A beautiful woman takes the same pleasure in the sight of + another beautiful woman as a man does; only jealousy or fear prevents her + from admitting the pleasure. I collected beautiful women.... Elegance is a + form of beauty. It not only enhances beauty, but it is the one thing which + will console the eye for the absence of beauty. The first rule which I + made for my home was that in it my eye should not be offended. I lost + much, doubtless, by adhering to it, but not more than I gained. And since + elegance is impossible without good manners, and good manners are a + convention, though a supremely good one, the society by which I surrounded + myself was conventional; superficially, of course, for it is the business + of a convention to be not more than superficial. Some persons after + knowing my drawing-room were astounded by my books, others after reading + my books were astounded by my drawing-room; but these persons lacked + perception. Given elegance, with or without beauty itself, I had naturally + sought, in my friends, intellectual courage, honest thinking, kindness of + heart, creative talent, distinction, wit. My search had not been + unfortunate.... You see Heaven had been so kind to me! + </p> + <p> + That night in my drawing-room (far too full of bric-a-brac of all climes + and ages), beneath the blaze of the two Empire chandeliers, which Vicary, + the musical composer, had found for me in Chartres, there were perhaps a + dozen guests assembled. + </p> + <p> + Vicary had just given, in his driest manner, a description of his recent + visit to receive the accolade from the Queen. It was replete with the + usual quaint Vicary details—such as the solemn warning whisper of an + equerry in Vicary’s ear as he walked backwards, ‘<i>Mind the + edge of the carpet’;</i> and we all laughed, I absently, and yet a + little hysterically—all save Vicary, whose foible was never to + laugh. But immediately afterwards there was a pause, one of those + disconcerting, involuntary pauses which at a social gathering are like a + chill hint of autumn in late summer, and which accuse the hostess. It was + over in an instant; the broken current was resumed; everybody pretended + that everything was as usual at my receptions. But that pause was the + beginning of the downfall. + </p> + <p> + With a fierce effort I tried to escape from my entrancement, to be + interested in these unreal shadows whose voices seemed to come to me from + a distance, and to make my glance forget the door, where the one reality + in the world for me, my unspoken lover, should have appeared long since. I + joined unskilfully in a conversation which Vicary and Mrs. Sardis and her + daughter Jocelyn were conducting quite well without my assistance. The + rest were chattering now, in one or two groups, except Lord Francis Alcar, + who, I suddenly noticed, sat alone on a settee behind the piano. Here was + another unfortunate result of my preoccupation. By what negligence had I + allowed him to be thus forsaken? I rose and went across to him, penitent, + and glad to leave the others. + </p> + <p> + There are only two fundamental differences in the world—the + difference between sex and sex, and the difference between youth and age. + Lord Francis Alcar was sixty years older than me. His life was over before + mine had commenced. It seemed incredible; but I had acquired the whole of + my mundane experience, while he was merely waiting for death. At seventy, + men begin to be separated from their fellow-creatures. At eighty, they are + like islets sticking out of a sea. At eighty-five, with their trembling + and deliberate speech, they are the abstract voice of human wisdom. They + gather wisdom with amazing rapidity in the latter years, and even their + folly is wise then. Lord Francis was eighty-six; his faculties enfeebled + but intact after a career devoted to the three most costly of all luxuries—pretty + women, fine pictures, and rare books; a tall, spare man, quietly proud of + his age, his ability to go out in the evening unattended, his amorous + past, and his contributions to the history of English printing. + </p> + <p> + As I approached him, he leaned forward into his favourite attitude, elbows + on knees and fingertips lightly touching, and he looked up at me. And his + eyes, sunken and fatigued and yet audacious, seemed to flash out. He + opened his thin lips to speak. When old men speak, they have the air of + rousing themselves from an eternal contemplation in order to do so, and + what they say becomes accordingly oracular. + </p> + <p> + ‘Pallor suits you,’ he piped gallantly, and then added: ‘But + do not carry it to extremes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Am I so pale, then?’ I faltered, trying to smile naturally. + </p> + <p> + I sat down beside him, and smoothed out my black lace dress; he examined + it like a connoisseur. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he said at length. ‘What is the matter?’ + </p> + <p> + Lord Francis charged this apparently simple and naïve question with a + strange intimate meaning. The men who surround a woman such as I, living + as I lived, are always demanding, with a secret thirst, ‘Does she + really live without love? What does she conceal?’ I have read this + interrogation in the eyes of scores of men; but no one, save Lord Francis, + would have had the right to put it into the tones of his voice. We were so + mutually foreign and disinterested, so at the opposite ends of life, that + he had nothing to gain and I nothing to lose, and I could have permitted + to this sage ruin of a male almost a confessor’s freedom. Moreover, + we had an affectionate regard for each other. + </p> + <p> + I said nothing, and he repeated in his treble: + </p> + <p> + ‘What is the matter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Love is the matter!’ I might have passionately cried out to him, + had we been alone. But I merely responded to his tone with my eyes. I + thanked him with my eyes for his bold and flattering curiosity, senile, + but thoroughly masculine to the last. And I said: + </p> + <p> + ‘I am only a little exhausted. I finished my novel yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + It was my sixth novel in five years. + </p> + <p> + ‘With you,’ he said, ‘work is simply a drug.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Lord Francis,’ I expostulated, ‘how do you know that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And it has got such a hold of you that you cannot do without it,’ + he proceeded, with slow, faint shrillness. ‘Some women take to + morphia, others take to work.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘I have quite determined to do no + more work for twelve months.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Seriously?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Seriously.’ + </p> + <p> + He faced me, vivacious, and leaned against the back of the settee. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you mean to give yourself time to love?’ he murmured, as it + were with a kind malice, and every crease in his veined and yellow + features was intensified by an enigmatic smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not?’ I laughed encouragingly. ‘Why not? What do you + advise?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I advise it,’ he said positively. ‘I advise it. You have + already wasted the best years.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The best?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘One can never afterwards love as one loves at twenty. But there! You have + nothing to learn about love!’ + </p> + <p> + He gave me one of those disrobing glances of which men who have dedicated + their existence to women alone have the secret. I shrank under the ordeal; + I tried to clutch my clothes about me. + </p> + <p> + The chatter from the other end of the room grew louder. Vicary was gazing + critically at his chandeliers. + </p> + <p> + ‘Does love bring happiness?’ I asked Lord Francis, carefully + ignoring his remark. + </p> + <p> + ‘For forty years,’ he quavered, ‘I made love to every pretty + woman I met, in the search for happiness. I may have got five per cent. + return on my outlay, which is perhaps not bad in these hard times; but I + certainly did not get even that in happiness. I got it in—other + ways.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And if you had to begin afresh?’ + </p> + <p> + He stood up, turned his back on the room, and looked down at me from his + bent height. His knotted hands were shaking, as they always shook. + </p> + <p> + ‘I would do the same again,’ he whispered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Would you?’ I said, looking up at him. ‘Truly?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Only the fool and the very young expect happiness. The wise merely + hope to be interested, at least not to be bored, in their passage through + this world. Nothing is so interesting as love and grief, and the one + involves the other. Ah! would I not do the same again!’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke gravely, wistfully, and vehemently, as if employing the last + spark of divine fire that was left in his decrepit frame. This undaunted + confession of a faith which had survived twenty years of inactive + meditation, this banner waved by an expiring arm in the face of the + eternity that mocks at the transience of human things, filled me with + admiration. My eyes moistened, but I continued to look up at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is the title of the new book?’ he demanded casually, sinking + into a chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Burning Sappho</i>,’ I answered. ‘But the title is very + misleading.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Bright star!’ he exclaimed, taking my hand. ‘With such a + title you will surely beat the record of the Good Dame.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hsh!’ I enjoined him. + </p> + <p> + Jocelyn Sardis was coming towards us. + </p> + <p> + The Good Dame was the sobriquet which Lord Francis had invented to conceal—or + to display—his courteous disdain of the ideals represented by Mrs. + Sardis, that pillar long established, that stately dowager, that + impeccable <i>doyenne</i> of serious English fiction. Mrs. Sardis had + captured two continents. Her novels, dealing with all the profound + problems of the age, were read by philosophers and politicians, and one of + them had reached a circulation of a quarter of a million copies. Her + dignified and indefatigable pen furnished her with an income of fifteen + thousand pounds a year. + </p> + <p> + Jocelyn Sardis was just entering her mother’s world, and she had + apparently not yet recovered from the surprise of the discovery that she + was a woman; a simple and lovable young creature with brains amply + sufficient for the making of apple-pies. As she greeted Lord Francis in + her clear, innocent voice, I wondered sadly why her mother should be so + anxious to embroider the work of Nature. I thought if Jocelyn could just + be left alone to fall in love with some average, kindly stockbroker, how + much more nearly the eternal purpose might be fulfilled.... + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I remember,’ Lord Francis was saying. ‘It was at St. + Malo. And what did you think of the Breton peasant?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh,’ said Jocelyn, ‘mamma has not yet allowed us to study the + condition of the lower classes in France. We are all so busy with the new + Settlement.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It must be very exhausting, my dear child,’ said Lord Francis. + </p> + <p> + I rose. + </p> + <p> + ‘I came to ask you to play something,’ the child appealed to me. + ‘I have never heard you play, and everyone says—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Jocelyn, my pet,’ the precise, prim utterance of Mrs. Sardis + floated across the room. + </p> + <p> + ‘What, mamma?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are not to trouble Miss Peel. Perhaps she does not feel equal to + playing.’ + </p> + <p> + My blood rose in an instant. I cannot tell why, unless it was that I + resented from Mrs. Sardis even the slightest allusion to the fact that I + was not entirely myself. The latent antagonism between us became violently + active in my heart. I believe I blushed. I know that I felt murderous + towards Mrs. Sardis. I gave her my most adorable smile, and I said, with + sugar in my voice: + </p> + <p> + ‘But I shall be delighted to play for Jocelyn.’ + </p> + <p> + It was an act of bravado on my part to attempt to play the piano in the + mood in which I found myself; and that I should have begun the opening + phrase of Chopin’s first Ballade, that composition so laden with + formidable memories—begun it without thinking and without + apprehension—showed how far I had lost my self-control. Not that the + silver sounds which shimmered from the Broadwood under my feverish hands + filled me with sentimental regrets for an irrecoverable past. No! But I + saw the victim of Diaz as though I had never been she. She was for me one + of those ladies that have loved and are dead. The simplicity of her mind + and her situation, compared with my mind and my situation, seemed + unbearably piteous to me. Why, I knew not. The pathos of that brief and + vanished idyll overcame me like some sad story of an antique princess. And + then, magically, I saw the pathos of my present position in it as in a + truth-revealing mirror. My fame, and my knowledge and my experience, my + trained imagination, my skill, my social splendour, my wealth, were + stripped away from me as inessential, and I was merely a woman in love, to + whom love could not fail to bring calamity and grief; a woman expecting + her lover, and yet to whom his coming could only be disastrous; a woman + with a heart divided between tremulous joy and dull sorrow; who was at + once in heaven and in hell; the victim of love. How often have I called my + dead Carlotta the victim of Diaz! Let me be less unjust, and say that he, + too, was the victim of love. What was Diaz but the instrument of the god? + </p> + <p> + Jocelyn stood near me by the piano. I glanced at her as I played, and + smiled. She answered my smile; her eyes glistened with tears; I bent my + gaze suddenly to the keyboard. ‘You too!’ I thought sadly, + ‘You too!... One day! One day even you will know what life is, and + the look in those innocent eyes will never be innocent again!’ + </p> + <p> + Then there was a sharp crack at the other end of the room; the handle of + the door turned, and the door began to open. My heart bounded and stopped. + It must be he, at last! I perceived the fearful intensity of my longing + for his presence. But it was only a servant with a tray. My fingers + stammered and stumbled. For a few instants I forced them to obey me; my + pride was equal to the strain, though I felt sick and fainting. And then I + became aware that my guests were staring at me with alarmed and anxious + faces. Mrs. Sardis had started from her chair. I dropped my hands. It was + useless to fight further; the battle was lost. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will not play any more,’ I said quickly. ‘I ought not to + have tried to play from memory. Excuse me.’ + </p> + <p> + And I left the piano as calmly as I could. I knew that by an effort I + could walk steadily and in a straight line across the room to Vicary and + the others, and I succeeded. They should not learn my secret. + </p> + <p> + ‘Poor thing!’ murmured Mrs. Sardis sympathetically. ‘Do sit + down, dear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t you have something to drink?’ said Vicary. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am perfectly all right,’ I said. ‘I’m only sorry that + my memory is not what it used to be.’ And I persisted in standing + for a few moments by the mantelpiece. In the glass I caught one glimpse of + a face as white as milk, Jocelyn remained at her post by the piano, + frightened by she knew not what, like a young child. + </p> + <p> + ‘Our friend finished a new work only yesterday,’ said Lord Francis + shakily. He had followed me. ‘She has wisely decided to take a long + holiday. Good-bye, my dear.’ + </p> + <p> + These were the last words he ever spoke to me, though I saw him again. We + shook hands in silence, and he left. Nor would the others stay. I had + ruined the night. We were all self-conscious, diffident, suspicious. Even + Vicary was affected. How thankful I was that my silent lover had not come! + My secret was my own—and his. And no one should surprise it unless + we chose. I cared nothing what they thought, or what they guessed, as they + filed out of the door, a brilliant procession of which I had the right to + be proud; they could not guess my secret. I was sufficiently woman of the + world to baffle them as long as I wished to baffle them. + </p> + <p> + Then I noticed that Mrs. Sardis had stayed behind; she was examining some + lustre ware in the further drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid Jocelyn has gone without her mother,’ I said, + approaching her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have told Jocelyn to go home alone,’ replied Mrs. Sardis. ‘The + carriage will return for me. Dear friend, I want to have a little talk + with you. Do you permit?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall be delighted,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are sure you are well enough?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There is nothing whatever the matter with me,’ I answered slowly + and distinctly. ‘Come to the fire, and let us be comfortable. And I + told Emmeline Palmer, my companion and secretary, who just then appeared, + that she might retire to bed. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Sardis was nervous, and this condition, so singular in Mrs. Sardis, + naturally made me curious as to the cause of it. But my eyes still + furtively wandered to the door. + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear co-worker,’ she began, and hesitated. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I encouraged her. + </p> + <p> + She put her matron’s lips together: + </p> + <p> + ‘You know how proud I am of your calling, and how jealous I am of its + honour and its good name, and what a great mission I think we novelists + have in the work of regenerating the world.’ + </p> + <p> + I nodded. That kind of eloquence always makes me mute. It leaves nothing + to be said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wonder,’ Mrs. Sardis continued, ‘if you have ever realized + what a power <i>you</i> are in England and America to-day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Power!’ I echoed. ‘I have done nothing but try to write as + honestly and as well as I could what I felt I wanted to write.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No one can doubt your sincerity, my dear friend,’ Mrs. Sardis said. + ‘And I needn’t tell you that I am a warm admirer of your + talent, and that I rejoice in your success. But the tendency of your work—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely,’ I interrupted her coldly, ‘you are not taking the + trouble to tell me that my books are doing harm to the great and righteous + Anglo-Saxon public!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do not let us poke fun at our public, my dear,’ she protested. + ‘I personally do not believe that your books are harmful, though + their originality is certainly daring, and their realism startling; but + there exists a considerable body of opinion, as you know, that strongly + objects to your books. It may be reactionary opinion, bigoted opinion, + ignorant opinion, what you like, but it exists, and it is not afraid to + employ the word “immoral.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I speak as one old enough to be your mother, and I speak after all to a + motherless young girl who happens to have genius with, perhaps, some of + the disadvantages of genius, when I urge you so to arrange your personal + life that this body of quite respectable adverse opinion shall not find in + it a handle to use against the fair fame of our calling.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs. Sardis!’ I cried. ‘What do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + I felt my nostrils dilate in anger as I gazed, astounded, at this + incarnation of mediocrity who had dared to affront me on my own hearth; + and by virtue of my youth and my beauty, and all the homage I had + received, and the clear sincerity of my vision of life, I despised and + detested the mother of a family who had never taken one step beyond the + conventions in which she was born. Had she not even the wit to perceive + that I was accustomed to be addressed as queens are addressed?... Then, as + suddenly as it had flamed, my anger cooled, for I could see the painful + earnestness in her face. And Mrs. Sardis and I—what were we but two + groups of vital instincts, groping our respective ways out of one mystery + into another? Had we made ourselves? Had we chosen our characters? Mrs. + Sardis was fulfilling herself, as I was. She was a natural force, as I + was. As well be angry with a hurricane, or the heat of the sun. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean?’ I repeated quietly. ‘Tell me exactly what + you mean.’ + </p> + <p> + I thought she was aiming at the company which I sometimes kept, or the + freedom of my diversions on the English Sabbath. I thought what trifles + were these compared to the dilemma in which, possibly within a few hours, + I should find myself. + </p> + <p> + ‘To put it in as few words as possible,’ said she, ‘I mean + your relations with a married man. Forgive my bluntness, dear girl.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My—’ + </p> + <p> + Then my secret was not my secret! We were chattered about, he and I. We + had not hidden our feeling, our passions. And I had been imagining myself + a woman of the world equal to sustaining a difficult part in the masque of + existence. With an abandoned gesture I hid my face in my hands for a + moment, and then I dropped my hands, and leaned forward and looked + steadily at Mrs. Sardis. Her eyes were kind enough. + </p> + <p> + ‘You won’t affect not to understand?’ she said. + </p> + <p> + I assented with a motion of the head. + </p> + <p> + ‘Many persons say there is a—a liaison between you,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘And do you think that?’ I asked quickly. + </p> + <p> + ‘If I had thought so, my daughter would not have been here to-night,’ + she said solemnly. ‘No, no; I do not believe it for an instant, and + I brought Jocelyn specially to prove to the world that I do not. I only + heard the gossip a few days ago; and to-night, as I sat here, it was borne + in upon me that I must speak to you to-night. And I have done so. Not + everyone would have done so, dear girl. Most of your friends are content + to talk among themselves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘About me? Oh!’ It was the expression of an almost physical pain. + </p> + <p> + ‘What can you expect them to do?’ asked Mrs. Sardis mildly. + </p> + <p> + ‘True,’ I agreed. + </p> + <p> + ‘You see, the circumstances are so extremely peculiar. Your friendship + with her—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me tell you’—I stopped her—‘that not a single + word has ever passed between me and—and the man you mean, that + everybody might not hear. Not a single word!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dearest girl,’ she exclaimed; ‘how glad I am! How glad I am! + Now I can take measures to—. + </p> + <p> + ‘But—’ I resumed. + </p> + <p> + ‘But what?’ + </p> + <p> + In a flash I saw the futility of attempting to explain to a woman like + Mrs. Sardis, who had no doubts about the utter righteousness of her own + code, whose rules had no exceptions, whose principles could apply to every + conceivable case, and who was the very embodiment of the vast stolid + London that hemmed me in—of attempting to explain to such an + excellent, blind creature why, and in obedience to what ideal, I would not + answer for the future. I knew that I might as well talk to a church + steeple. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing,’ I said, rising, ‘except that I thank you. Be sure + that I am grateful. You have had a task which must have been very + unpleasant to you.’ + </p> + <p> + She smiled, virtuously happy. + </p> + <p> + ‘You made it easy,’ she murmured. + </p> + <p> + I perceived that she wanted to kiss me; but I avoided the caress. How I + hated kissing women! + </p> + <p> + ‘No more need be said,’ she almost whispered, as I put my hand on + the knob of the front-door. I had escorted her myself to the hall. + </p> + <p> + ‘Only remember your great mission, the influence you wield, and the fair + fame of our calling.’ + </p> + <p> + My impulse was to shriek. But I merely smiled as decently as I could; and + I opened the door. + </p> + <p> + And there, on the landing, just emerging from the lift, was Ispenlove, + haggard, pale, his necktie astray. He and Mrs. Sardis exchanged a brief + stare; she gave me a look of profound pain and passed in dignified silence + down the stairs; Ispenlove came into the flat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing will convince her now that I am not a liar,’ I reflected. + </p> + <p> + It was my last thought as I sank, exquisitely drowning, in the sea of + sensations caused by Ispenlove’s presence. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Without a word, we passed together into the drawing-room, and I closed the + door. Ispenlove stood leaning against the piano, as though intensely + fatigued; he crushed his gibus with an almost savage movement, and then + bent his large, lustrous black eyes absently on the flat top of it. His + thin face was whiter even than usual, and his black hair, beard, and + moustache all dishevelled; the collar of his overcoat was twisted, and his + dinner-jacket rose an inch above it at the back of the neck. + </p> + <p> + I wanted to greet him, but I could not trust my lips. And I saw that he, + too, was trying in vain to speak. + </p> + <p> + At length I said, with that banality which too often surprises us in + supreme moments: + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it? Do you know that your tie is under your ear?’ + </p> + <p> + And as I uttered these words, my voice, breaking of itself and in defiance + of me, descended into a tone which sounded harsh and inimical. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah!’ he murmured, lifting his eyes to mine, ‘if you turn + against me to-night, I shall—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Turn against you!’ I cried, shocked. ‘Let me help you with + your overcoat!’ + </p> + <p> + And I went near him, meaning to take his overcoat. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s finished between Mary and me,’ he said, holding me with + his gaze. ‘It’s finished. I’ve no one but you now; and I’ve + come—I’ve come—’ + </p> + <p> + He stopped. We read one another’s eyes at arm’s length, and + all the sorrow and pity and love that were in each of us rose to our eyes + and shone there. I shivered with pleasure when I saw his arms move, and + then he clutched and dragged me to him, and I hid my glowing face on his + shoulder, in the dear folds of his overcoat, and I felt his lips on my + neck. And then, since neither of us was a coward, we lifted our heads, and + our mouths met honestly and fairly, and, so united, we shut our eyes for + an eternal moment, and the world was not. + </p> + <p> + Such was the avowal. + </p> + <p> + I gave up my soul to him in that long kiss; all that was me, all that was + most secret and precious in me, ascended and poured itself out through my + tense lips, and was received by him. I kissed him with myself, with the + entire passionate energy of my being—not merely with my mouth. And + if I sighed, it was because I tried to give him more—more than I had—and + failed. Ah! The sensation of his nearness, the warmth of his face, the + titillation of his hair, the slow, luxurious intake of our breaths, the + sweet cruelty of his desperate clutch on my shoulders, the glimpses of his + skin through my eyelashes when I raised ever so little my eyelids! Pain + and joy of life, you were mingled then! + </p> + <p> + I remembered that I was a woman, and disengaged myself and withdrew from + him. I hated to do it; but I did it. We became self-conscious. The + brilliant and empty drawing-room scanned us unfavourably with all its + globes and mirrors. How difficult it is to be natural in a great crisis! + Our spirits clamoured for expression, beating vainly against a thousand + barred doors of speech. There was so much to say, to explain, to define, + and everything was so confused and dizzily revolving, that we knew not + which door to open first. And then I think we both felt, but I more than + he, that explanations and statements were futile, that even if all the + doors were thrown open together, they would be inadequate. The + deliciousness of silence, of wonder, of timidity, of things guessed at and + hidden.... + </p> + <p> + ‘It makes me afraid,’ he murmured at length. + </p> + <p> + ‘What?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To be loved like that.... Your kiss ... you don’t know.’ + </p> + <p> + I smiled almost sadly. As if I did not know what my kiss had done! As if I + did not know that my kiss had created between us the happiness which + brings ruin! + </p> + <p> + ‘You <i>do</i> love me?’ he demanded. + </p> + <p> + I nodded, and sat down. + </p> + <p> + ‘Say it, say it!’ he pleaded. + </p> + <p> + ‘More than I can ever show you,’ I said proudly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Honestly,’ he said, ‘I can’t imagine what you have been + able to see in me. I’m nothing—I’m nobody—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Foolish boy!’ I exclaimed. ‘You are you.’ + </p> + <p> + The profound significance of that age-worn phrase struck me for the first + time. + </p> + <p> + He rushed to me at the word ‘boy,’ and, standing over me, took + my hand in his hot hand. I let it lie, inert. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you haven’t always loved me. I have always loved <i>you</i>, + from the moment when I drove with you, that first day, from the office to + your hotel. But you haven’t always loved me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I admitted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then when did you—? Tell me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was dull at first—I could not see. But when you told me that the + end of <i>Fate and Friendship</i> was not as good as I could make it—do + you remember, that afternoon in the office?—and how reluctant you + were to tell me, how afraid you were to tell me?—your throat went + dry, and you stroked your forehead as you always do when you are nervous—There! + you are doing it now, foolish boy!’ + </p> + <p> + I seized his left arm, and gently pulled it down from his face. Oh, + exquisite moment! + </p> + <p> + ‘It was brave of you to tell me—very brave! I loved you for telling + me. You were quite wrong about the end of that book. You didn’t see + the fine point of it, and you never would have seen it—and I liked + you, somehow, for not seeing it, because it was so feminine—but I + altered the book to please you, and when I had altered it, against my + conscience, I loved you more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s incredible! incredible!’ he muttered, half to himself. + ‘I never hoped till lately that you would care for me. I never dared + to think of such a thing. I knew you oughtn’t to! It passes + comprehension.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is just what love does,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no,’ he went on quickly; ‘you don’t understand; you + can’t understand my feelings when I began to suspect, about two + months ago, that, after all, the incredible had happened. I’m + nothing but your publisher. I can’t talk. I can’t write. I can’t + play. I can’t do anything. And look at the men you have here! I’ve + sometimes wondered how often you’ve been besieged—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘None of them was like you,’ I said. ‘Perhaps that is why I + have always kept them off.’ + </p> + <p> + I raised my eyes and lips, and he stooped and kissed me. He wanted to take + me in his arms again, but I would not yield myself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Be reasonable,’ I urged him. ‘Ought we not to think of our + situation?’ + </p> + <p> + He loosed me, stammering apologies, abasing himself. + </p> + <p> + ‘I ought to leave you, I ought never to see you again.’ He spoke + roughly. ‘What am I doing to you? You who are so innocent and pure!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I entreat you not to talk like that,’ I gasped, reddening. + </p> + <p> + ‘But I must talk like that,’ he insisted. ‘I must talk like + that. You had everything that a woman can desire, and I come into your + life and offer you—what?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I <i>have</i> everything a woman can desire,’ I corrected him + softly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Angel!’ he breathed. ‘If I bring you disaster, you will + forgive me, won’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My happiness will only cease with your love,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Happiness!’ he repeated. ‘I have never been so happy as I am + now; but such happiness is terrible. It seems to me impossible that such + happiness can last.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Faint heart!’ I chided him. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is for you I tremble,’ he said. ‘If—if—’ + He stopped. ‘My darling, forgive me!’ + </p> + <p> + How I pitied him! How I enveloped him in an effluent sympathy that rushed + warm from my heart! He accused himself of having disturbed my existence. + Whereas, was it not I who had disturbed his? He had fought against me, I + knew well, but fate had ordained his defeat. He had been swept away; he + had been captured; he had been caught in a snare of the high gods. And he + was begging forgiveness, he who alone had made my life worth living! I + wanted to kneel before him, to worship him, to dry his tears with my hair. + I swear that my feelings were as much those of a mother as of a lover. He + was ten years older than me, and yet he seemed boyish, and I an aged woman + full of experience, as he sat there opposite to me with his wide, + melancholy eyes and restless mouth. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wonderful, is it not,’ he said, ‘that we should be talking + like this to-night, and only yesterday we were Mr. and Miss to each other?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wonderful!’ I responded. ‘But yesterday we talked with our + eyes, and our eyes did not say Mr. or Miss. Our eyes said—Ah, what + they said can never be translated into words!’ + </p> + <p> + My gaze brooded on him like a caress, explored him with the unappeasable + curiosity of love, and blinded him like the sun. Could it be true that + Heaven had made that fine creature—noble and modest, nervous and + full of courage, impetuous and self-controlled, but, above all things, + fine and delicate—could it be true that Heaven had made him and then + given him to me, with his enchanting imperfections that themselves + constituted perfection? Oh, wonder, wonder! Oh, miraculous bounty which I + had not deserved! This thing had happened to me, of all women! How it + showed, by comparison, the sterility of my success and my fame and my + worldly splendour! I had hungered and thirsted for years; I had travelled + interminably through the hot desert of my brilliant career, until I had + almost ceased to hope that I should reach, one evening, the pool of water + and the palm. And now I might eat and drink and rest in the shade. + Wonderful! + </p> + <p> + ‘Why were you so late to-night?’ I asked abruptly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Late?’ he replied absently. ‘Is it late?’ + </p> + <p> + We both looked at the clock. It was yet half an hour from midnight. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course it isn’t—not <i>very</i>,’ I said. I was + forgetting that. Everybody left so early.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why was that?’ + </p> + <p> + I told him, in a confusion that was sweet to me, how I had suffered by + reason of his failure to appear. He glanced at me with tender amaze. + </p> + <p> + ‘But I am fortunate to-day,’ I exclaimed. ‘Was it not lucky + they left when they did? Suppose you had arrived, in that state, dearest + man, and burst into a room full of people? What would they have thought? + Where should I have looked?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Angel!’ he cried. ‘I’m so sorry. I forgot it was your + evening. I must have forgotten. I forgot everything, except that I was + bound to see you at once, instantly, with all speed.’ + </p> + <p> + Poor boy! He was like a bird fluttering in my hand. Millions of women must + have so pictured to themselves the men who loved them, and whom they + loved. + </p> + <p> + ‘But still, you <i>were</i> rather late, you know,’ I smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do not ask me why,’ he begged, with an expression of deep pain on + his face. ‘I have had a scene with Mary. It would humiliate me to + tell you—to tell even you—what passed between us. But it is + over. Our relations in the future can never, in any case, be more than + formal.’ + </p> + <p> + A spasm of fierce jealousy shot through me—jealousy of Mary, my + friend Mary, who knew him with such profound intimacy that they could go + through a scene together which was ‘humiliating.’ I saw that + my own intimacy with him was still crude with the crudity of newness, and + that only years could mellow it. Mary, the good, sentimental Mary, had + wasted the years of their marriage—had never understood the value of + the treasure in her keeping. Why had they always been sad in their house? + What was the origin of that resigned and even cheerful gloom which had + pervaded their domestic life, and which I had remarked on my first visit + to Bloomsbury Square? Were these, too, mysteries that I must not ask my + lover to reveal? Resentment filled me. I came near to hating Mary, not + because she had made him unhappy—oh no!—but because she had + had the priority in his regard, and because there was nothing about him, + however secret and recondite, that I could be absolutely sure of the sole + knowledge of. She had been in the depths with him. I desired fervently + that I also might descend with him, and even deeper. Oh, that I might have + the joy and privilege of humiliation with him! + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall ask you nothing, dearest,’ I murmured. + </p> + <p> + I had risen from my seat and gone to him, and was lightly touching his + hair with my fingers. He did not move, but sat staring into the fire. + Somehow, I adored him because he made no response to the fondling of my + hand. His strange acceptance of the caress as a matter of course gave me + the illusion that I was his wife, and that the years had mellowed our + intimacy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Carlotta!’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke my name slowly and distinctly, savouring it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I answered softly and obediently. + </p> + <p> + ‘Carlotta! Listen! Our two lives are in our hands at this moment—this + moment while we talk here.’ + </p> + <p> + His rapt eyes had not stirred from the fire. + </p> + <p> + ‘I feel it,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are we to do? What shall we decide to do?’ + </p> + <p> + He slowly turned towards me. I lowered my glance. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, you do, Carlotta,’ he insisted. ‘You do know.’ + </p> + <p> + His voice trembled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary and I are such good friends,’ I said. ‘That is what + makes it so—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no, no!’ he objected loudly. His nervousness had suddenly + increased. ‘Don’t, for God’s sake, begin to argue in that way! + You are above feminine logic. Mary is your friend. Good. You respect her; + she respects you. Good. Is that any reason why our lives should be ruined? + Will that benefit Mary? Do I not tell you that everything has ceased + between us?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The idea of being false to Mary—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no question of being false. And if there was, would you be + false to love rather than to friendship? Between you and me there is love; + between Mary and me there is not love. It isn’t her fault, nor mine, + least of all yours. It is the fault of the secret essence of existence. + Have you not yourself written that the only sacred thing is instinct? Are + we, or are we not, to be true to ourselves?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You see,’ I said, ‘your wife is so sentimental. She would be + incapable of looking at the affair as—as we do; as I should in her + place.’ + </p> + <p> + I knew that my protests were insincere, and that all my heart and brain + were with him, but I could not admit this frankly. Ah! And I knew also + that the sole avenue to peace and serenity, not to happiness, was the path + of renunciation and of obedience to the conventions of society, and that + this was precisely the path which we should never take. And on the horizon + of our joy I saw a dark cloud. It had always been there, but I had refused + to see it. I looked at it now steadily. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course,’ he groaned, ‘if we are to be governed by Mary’s + sentimentality—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dear love,’ I whispered, ‘what do you want me to do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The only possible, honest, just thing. I want you to go away with me, so + that Mary can get a divorce.’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke sternly, as it were relentlessly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Does she guess—about me?’ I asked, biting my lip, and looking + away from him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not yet. Hasn’t the slightest notion, I’m sure. But I’ll + tell her, straight and fair.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dearest friend,’ I said, after a silence. ‘Perhaps I know + more of the world than you think. Perhaps I’m a girl only in years + and situation. Forgive me if I speak plainly. Mary may prove + unfaithfulness, but she cannot get a decree unless she can prove other + things as well.’ + </p> + <p> + He stroked his forehead. As for me, I shuddered with agitation. He walked + across the room and back. + </p> + <p> + ‘Angel!’ he said, putting his white face close to mine like an + actor. ‘I will prove whether your love for me is great enough. I + have struck her. I struck her to-night in the presence of a servant. And I + did it purposely, in cold blood, so that she might be able to prove + cruelty. Ah! Have I not thought it all out? Have I not?’ + </p> + <p> + A sob, painfully escaping, shook my whole frame. + </p> + <p> + ‘And this was before you had—had spoken to me!’ I said + bitterly. + </p> + <p> + Not myself, but some strange and frigid force within me uttered those + words. + </p> + <p> + ‘That is what love will do. That is the sort of thing love drives one to,’ + he cried despairingly. ‘Oh! I was not sure of you—I was not + sure of you. I struck her, on the off chance.’ + </p> + <p> + And he sank on the sofa and wept passionately, unashamed, like a child. + </p> + <p> + I could not bear it. My heart would have broken if I had watched, without + assuaging, my boy’s grief an instant longer than I did. I sprang to + him. I took him to my breast. I kissed his eyes until the tears ceased to + flow. Whatever it was or might be, I must share his dishonour. + </p> + <p> + ‘My poor girl!’ he said at length. ‘If you had refused me, if + you had even judged me, I intended to warn you plainly that it meant my + death; and if that failed, I should have gone to the office and shot + myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do not say such things,’ I entreated him. + </p> + <p> + ‘But it is true. The revolver is in my pocket. Ah! I have made you cry! + You’re frightened! But I’m not a brute; I’m only a + little beside myself. Pardon me, angel!’ + </p> + <p> + He kissed me, smiling sadly with a trace of humour. He did not understand + me. He did not suspect the risk he had run. If I had hesitated to + surrender, and he had sought to move me by threatening suicide, I should + never have surrendered. I knew myself well enough to know that. I had a + conscience that was incapable of yielding to panic. A threat would have + parted us, perhaps for ever. Oh, the blindness of man! But I forgave him. + Nay, I cherished him the more for his childlike, savage simplicity. + </p> + <p> + ‘Carlotta,’ he said, ‘we shall leave everything. You grasp it?—everything.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Of all the things we have now, we shall + have nothing but ourselves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I thought it was a sacrifice for you, I would go out and never see you + again.’ + </p> + <p> + Noble fellow, proud now in the certainty that he sufficed for me! He meant + what he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is no sacrifice for me,’ I murmured. ‘The sacrifice would + be not to give up all in exchange for you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We shall be exiles,’ he went on, ‘until the divorce business + is over. And then perhaps we shall creep back—shall we?—and + try to find out how many of our friends are our equals in moral courage.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We shall come back. They all do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean?’ he demanded. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thousands have done what we are going to do,’ I said. ‘And + all of them have thought that their own case was different from the other + cases.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And a few have been happy. A few have not regretted the price. A few have + retained the illusion.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Illusion? Dearest girl, why do you talk like this?’ + </p> + <p> + I could see that my heart’s treasure was ruffled. He clasped my hand + tenaciously. + </p> + <p> + ‘I must not hide from you the kind of woman you have chosen,’ I + answered quietly, and as I spoke a hush fell upon my amorous passion. + ‘In me there are two beings—myself and the observer of myself. + It is the novelist’s disease, this duplication of personality. When + I said illusion, I meant the supreme illusion of love. Is it not an + illusion? I have seen it in others, and in exactly the same way I see it + in myself and I see it in you. Will it last?—who knows? None can + tell.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Angel!’ he expostulated. + </p> + <p> + ‘No one can foresee the end of love,’ I said, with an exquisite + gentle sorrow. ‘But when the illusion is as intense as mine, as + yours, even if its hour is brief, that hour is worth all the terrible + years of disillusion which it will cost. Darling, this precious night + alone would not be too dear if I paid for it with the rest of my life.’ + </p> + <p> + He thanked me with a marvellous smile of confident adoration, and his + disengaged hand played with the gold chain which hung loosely round my + neck. + </p> + <p> + ‘Call it illusion if you like,’ he said. ‘Words are nothing. I + only know that for me it will be eternal. I only know that my one desire + is to be with you always, never to leave you, not to miss a moment of you; + to have you for mine, openly, securely. Carlotta, where shall we go?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We must travel, mustn’t we?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Travel?’ he repeated, with an air of discontent. ‘Yes. But + where to?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Travel,’ I said. ‘See things. See the world.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I had thought we might find some quiet little place,’ he said + wistfully, and as if apologetically, where we could be alone, undisturbed, + some spot where we could have ourselves wholly to ourselves, and go walks + into mountains and return for dinner; and then the long, calm evenings! + Dearest, our honeymoon!’ + </p> + <p> + Our honeymoon! I had not, in the pursuit of my calling, studied human + nature and collected documents for nothing. With how many brides had I not + talked! How many loves did I not know to have been paralyzed and killed by + a surfeit in the frail early stages of their existence! Inexperienced as I + was, my learning in humanity was wiser than the experience of my + impulsive, generous, magnanimous lover, to whom the very thought of + calculation would have been abhorrent. But I saw, I felt, I lived through + in a few seconds the interminable and monotonous length of those calm + days, and especially those calm evenings succeeding each other with a + formidable sameness. I had watched great loves faint and die. And I knew + that our love—miraculously sweet as it was—probably was not + greater than many great ones that had not stood the test. You perceive the + cold observer in me. I knew that when love lasted, the credit of the + survival was due far more often to the woman than to the man. The woman + must husband herself, dole herself out, economize herself so that she + might be splendidly wasteful when need was. The woman must plan, scheme, + devise, invent, reconnoitre, take precautions; and do all this sincerely + and lovingly in the name and honour of love. A passion, for her, is a + campaign; and her deadliest enemy is satiety. Looking into my own heart, + and into his, I saw nothing but hope for the future of our love. But the + beautiful plant must not be exposed to hazard. Suppose it sickened, such a + love as ours—what then? The misery of hell, the torture of the + damned! Only its rich and ample continuance could justify us. + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear,’ I said submissively, ‘I shall leave everything to + you. The idea of travelling occurred to me; that was all. I have never + travelled further than Cannes. Still, we have all our lives before us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We will travel,’ he said unselfishly. ‘We’ll go round + the world—slowly. I’ll get the tickets at Cook’s + to-morrow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, dearest, if you would rather—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no! In any case we shall always have our evenings.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course we shall. Dearest, how good you are!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish I was,’ he murmured. + </p> + <p> + I was glad, then, that I had never allowed my portrait to appear in a + periodical. We could not prevent the appearance in American newspapers of + heralding paragraphs, but the likelihood of our being recognised was + sensibly lessened. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you start soon?’ he asked. ‘Can you be ready?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Any time. The sooner the better, now that it is decided.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You do not regret? We have decided so quickly. Ah! you are the merest + girl, and I have taken advantage—’ + </p> + <p> + I put my hand over his mouth. He seized it, and kept it there and kissed + it, and his ardent breath ran through my fingers. + </p> + <p> + ‘What about your business?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall confide it to old Tate—tell him some story—he knows + quite as much about it as I do. To-morrow I will see to all that. The day + after, shall we start? No; to-morrow night. To-morrow night, eh? I’ll + run in to-morrow and tell you what I’ve arranged. I must see you + to-morrow, early.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said. ‘Do not come before lunch.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not before lunch! Why?’ + </p> + <p> + He was surprised. But I had been my own mistress for five years, with my + own habits, rules, privacies. I had never seen anyone before lunch. And + to-morrow, of all days, I should have so much to do and to arrange. Was + this man to come like an invader and disturb my morning? So felt the + celibate in me, instinctively, thoughtlessly. That deep-seated objection + to the intrusion of even the most loved male at certain times is common, I + think, to all women. Women are capable of putting love aside, like a rich + dress, and donning the <i>peignoir</i> of matter-of-fact dailiness, in a + way which is an eternal enigma to men.... Then I saw, in a sudden flash, + that I had renounced my individual existence, that I had forfeited my + habits and rules, and privacies, that I was a man’s woman. And the + passionate lover in me gloried in this. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come as soon as you like, dearest friend,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nobody except Mary will know anything till we are actually gone,’ + he remarked. ‘And I shall not tell her till the last thing. + Afterwards, won’t they chatter! God! Let ’em.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They are already chattering,’ I said. And I told him about Mrs. + Sardis. ‘When she met you on the landing,’ I added, ‘she drew + her own conclusions, my poor, poor boy!’ + </p> + <p> + He was furious. I could see he wanted to take me in his arms and protect + me masculinely from the rising storm. + </p> + <p> + ‘All that is nothing,’ I soothed him. ‘Nothing. Against it, we + have our self-respect. We can scorn all that.’ And I gave a short, + contemptuous laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Darling!’ he murmured. ‘You are more than a woman.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope not.’ And I laughed again, but unnaturally. + </p> + <p> + He had risen; I leaned back in a large cushioned chair; we looked at each + other in silence—a silence that throbbed with the heavy pulse of an + unutterable and complex emotion—pleasure, pain, apprehension, even + terror. What had I done? Why had I, with a word—nay, without a word, + with merely a gesture and a glance—thrown my whole life into the + crucible of passion? Why did I exult in the tremendous and impetuous act, + like a martyr, and also like a girl? Was I playing with my existence as an + infant plays with a precious bibelot that a careless touch may shatter? + Why was I so fiercely, madly, drunkenly happy when I gazed into those + eyes? + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose I must go,’ he said disconsolately. + </p> + <p> + I nodded, and the next instant the clock struck. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he urged himself, ‘I must go.’ + </p> + <p> + He bent down, put his hands on the arms of the chair, and kissed me + violently, twice. The fire that consumes the world ran scorchingly through + me. Every muscle was suddenly strained into tension, and then fell slack. + My face flushed; I let my head slip sideways, so that my left cheek was + against the back of the chair. Through my drooping eyelashes I could see + the snake-like glitter of his eyes as he stood over me. I shuddered and + sighed. I was like someone fighting in vain against the sweet seduction of + an overwhelming and fatal drug. I wanted to entreat him to go away, to rid + me of the exquisite and sinister enchantment. But I could not speak. I + shut my eyes. This was love. + </p> + <p> + The next moment I heard the soft sound of his feet on the carpet. I opened + my eyes. He had stepped back. When our glances met he averted his face, + and went briskly for his overcoat, which lay on the floor by the piano. I + rose freed, re-established in my self-control. I arranged his collar, + straightened his necktie with a few touches, picked up his hat, pushed + back the crown, which flew up with a noise like a small explosion, and + gave it into his hands. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘To-morrow morning, eh? I shall get to + know everything necessary before I come. And then we will fix things up.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can let myself out,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + I made a vague gesture, intended to signify that I could not think of + permitting him to let himself out. We left the drawing-room, and passed, + with precautions of silence, to the front-door, which I gently opened. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-night, then,’ he whispered formally, almost coldly. + </p> + <p> + I nodded. We neither of us even smiled. + </p> + <p> + We were grave, stern, and stiff in our immense self-consciousness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Too late for the lift,’ I murmured out there with him in the vast, + glittering silence of the many-angled staircase, which disappeared above + us and below us into the mysterious unseen. + </p> + <p> + He nodded as I had nodded, and began to descend the broad, carpeted steps, + firmly, carefully, and neither quick nor slow. I leaned over the baluster. + When the turns of the staircase brought him opposite and below me, he + stopped and raised his hat, and we exchanged a smile. Then he resolutely + dropped his eyes and resumed the descent. From time to time I had glimpses + of parts of his figure as he passed story after story. Then I heard his + tread on the tessellated pavement of the main hall, the distant clatter of + double doors, and a shrill cab-whistle. + </p> + <p> + This was love, at last—the reality of love! He would have killed + himself had he failed to win me—killed himself! With the novelist’s + habit, I ran off into a series of imagined scenes—the dead body, + with the hole in the temples and the awkward attitude of death; the + discovery, the rush for the police, the search for a motive, the inquest, + the rapid-speaking coroner, who spent his whole life at inquests; myself, + cold and impassive, giving evidence, and Mary listening to what I said.... + But he lived, with his delicate physical charm, his frail distinction, his + spiritual grace; and he had won me. The sense of mutual possession was + inexpressibly sweet to me. And it was all I had in the world now. When my + mind moved from that rock, all else seemed shifting, uncertain, perilous, + bodeful, and steeped in woe. The air was thick with disasters, and + injustice, and strange griefs immediately I loosed my hold on the immense + fact that he was mine. + </p> + <p> + ‘How calm I am!’ I thought. + </p> + <p> + It was not till I had been in bed some three hours that I fully realized + the seismic upheaval which my soul had experienced. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + I woke up from one of those dozes which, after a sleepless night, give the + brief illusion of complete rest, all my senses sharpened, and my mind + factitiously active. And I began at once to anticipate Frank’s + coming, and to arrange rapidly my plans for closing the flat. I had + determined that it should be closed. Then someone knocked at the door, and + it occurred to me that there must have been a previous knock, which had, + in fact, wakened me. Save on special occasions, I was never wakened, and + Emmeline and my maid had injunctions not to come to me until I rang. My + thoughts ran instantly to Frank. He had arrived thus early, merely because + he could not keep away. + </p> + <p> + ‘How extremely indiscreet of him!’ I thought. ‘What detestable + prevarications with Emmeline this will lead to! I cannot possibly be ready + in time if he is to be in and out all day.’ + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, the prospect of seeing him quickly, and the idea of his + splendid impatience, drenched me with joy. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it?’ I called out. + </p> + <p> + Emmeline entered in that terrible mauve dressing-gown which I had been + powerless to persuade her to discard. + </p> + <p> + ‘So sorry to disturb you,’ said Emmeline, feeling her loose golden + hair with one hand, ‘but Mrs. Ispenlove has called, and wants to see + you at once. I’m afraid something has happened.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Mrs</i>. Ispenlove?’ + </p> + <p> + My voice shook. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Yvonne came to my room and told me that Mrs. Ispenlove was here, and + was either mad or very unwell, and would I go to her? So I got up at once. + What shall I do? Perhaps it’s something very serious. Not half-past + eight, and calling like this!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let her come in here immediately,’ I said, turning my head on the + pillow, so that Emmeline should not see the blush which had spread over my + face and my neck. + </p> + <p> + It was inevitable that a terrible and desolating scene must pass between + Mary Ispenlove and myself. I could not foresee how I should emerge from + it, but I desperately resolved that I would suffer the worst without a + moment’s delay, and that no conceivable appeal should induce me to + abandon Frank. I was, as I waited for Mrs. Ispenlove to appear, nothing + but an embodied and fierce instinct to guard what I had won. No + consideration of mercy could have touched me. + </p> + <p> + She entered with a strange, hysterical cry: + </p> + <p> + ‘Carlotta!’ + </p> + <p> + I had asked her long ago to use my Christian name—long before I ever + imagined what would come to pass between her husband and me; but I always + called her Mrs. Ispenlove. The difference in our ages justified me. And + that morning the difference seemed to be increased. I realized, with a + cruel justice of perception quite new in my estimate of her, that she was + old—an old woman. She had never been beautiful, but she was tall and + graceful, and her face had been attractive by the sweetness of the mouth + and the gray beneficence of the eyes; and now that sweetness and that + beneficence appeared suddenly to have been swallowed up in the fatal + despair of a woman who discovers that she has lived too long. Gray hair, + wrinkles, crow’s-feet, tired eyes, drawn mouth, and the terrible + tell-tale hollow under the chin—these were what I saw in Mary + Ispenlove. She had learnt that the only thing worth having in life is + youth. I possessed everything that she lacked. Surely the struggle was + unequal. Fate might have chosen a less piteous victim. I felt profoundly + sorry for Mary Ispenlove, and this sorrow was stronger in me even than the + uneasiness, the false shame (for it was not a real shame) which I + experienced in her presence. I put out my hands towards her, as it were, + involuntarily. She sprang to me, took them, and kissed me as I lay in bed. + </p> + <p> + ‘How beautiful you look—like that!’ she exclaimed wildly, and + with a hopeless and acute envy in her tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘But why—’ I began to protest, astounded. + </p> + <p> + ‘What will you think of me, disturbing you like this? What will you think?’ + she moaned. And then her voice rose: ‘I could not help it; I couldn’t, + really. Oh, Carlotta! you are my friend, aren’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + One thing grew swiftly clear to me: that she was as yet perfectly unaware + of the relations between Frank and myself. My brain searched hurriedly for + an explanation of the visit. I was conscious of an extraordinary relief. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are my friend, aren’t you?’ she repeated insistently. + </p> + <p> + Her tears were dropping on my bosom. But could I answer that I was her + friend? I did not wish to be her enemy; she and Frank and I were dolls in + the great hands of fate, irresponsible, guiltless, meet for an + understanding sympathy. Why was I not still her friend? Did not my heart + bleed for her? Yet such is the power of convention over honourableness + that I could not bring myself to reply directly, ‘Yes, I am your + friend.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We have known each other a long time,’ I ventured. + </p> + <p> + ‘There was no one else I could come to,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + Her whole frame was shaking. I sat up, and asked her to pass my + dressing-gown, which I put round my shoulders. Then I rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you going to do?’ she demanded fearfully. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am going to have the gas-stove lighted and some tea brought in, and + then we will talk. + </p> + <p> + Take your hat off, dear, and sit down in that chair. You’ll be more + yourself after a cup of tea.’ + </p> + <p> + How young I was then! I remember my naïve satisfaction in this exhibition + of tact. I was young and hard, as youth is apt to be—hard in spite + of the compassion, too intellectual and arrogant, which I conceived for + her. And even while I forbade her to talk until she had drunk some tea, I + regretted the delay, and I suffered by it. Surely, I thought, she will + read in my demeanour something which she ought not to read there. But she + did not. She was one of the simplest of women. In ten thousand women one + is born without either claws or second-sight. She was that one, + defenceless as a rabbit. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are very kind to me,’ she said, putting her cup on the + mantelpiece with a nervous rattle; ‘and I need it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell me,’ I murmured. ‘Tell me—what I can do.’ + </p> + <p> + I had remained in bed; she was by the fireplace. A distance between us + seemed necessary. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can’t do anything, my dear,’ she said. ‘Only I was + obliged to talk to someone, after all the night. It’s about Frank.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr. Ispenlove!’ I ejaculated, acting as well as I could, but not + very well. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. He has left me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why? What is the matter?’ + </p> + <p> + Even to recall my share in this interview with Mary Ispenlove humiliates + me. But perhaps I have learned the value of humiliation. Still, could I + have behaved differently? + </p> + <p> + ‘You won’t understand unless I begin a long time ago,’ said + Mary Ispenlove. ‘Carlotta, my married life has been awful—awful—a + tragedy. It has been a tragedy both for him and for me. But no one has + suspected it; we have hidden it.’ + </p> + <p> + I nodded. I, however, had suspected it. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s just twenty years—yes, twenty—since I fell in + love,’ she proceeded, gazing at me with her soft, moist eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘With—Frank,’ I assumed. I lay back in bed. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ she said. ‘With another man. That was in Brixton, when I + was a girl living with my father; my mother was dead. He was a barrister—I + mean the man I was in love with. He had only just been called to the Bar. + I think everybody knew that I had fallen in love with him. Certainly he + did; he could not help seeing it. I could not conceal it. Of course I can + understand now that it flattered him. Naturally it did. Any man is + flattered when a woman falls in love with him. And my father was rich, and + so on, and so on. We saw each other a lot. I hoped, and I kept on hoping. + Some people even said it was a match, and that I was throwing myself away. + Fancy—throwing myself away—me!—who have never been good + for anything! My father did not care much for the man; said he was selfish + and grasping. Possibly he was; but I was in love with him all the same. + Then I met Frank, and Frank fell in love with me. You know how obstinate + Frank is when he has once set his mind on a thing. Frank determined to + have me; and my father was on his side. I would not listen. I didn’t + give him so much as a chance to propose to me. And this state of things + lasted for quite a long time. It wasn’t my fault; it wasn’t + anybody’s fault.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just so,’ I agreed, raising my head on one elbow, and listening + intently. It was the first sincere word I had spoken, and I was glad to + utter it. + </p> + <p> + ‘The man I had fallen in love with came nearer. He was decidedly tempted. + I began to feel sure of him. All I wanted was to marry him, whether he + loved me a great deal or only a little tiny bit. I was in that state. Then + he drew away. He scarcely ever came to the house, and I seemed never to be + able to meet him. And then one day my father showed me something in the <i>Morning + Post</i>. It was a paragraph saying that the man I was in love with was + going to marry a woman of title, a widow and the daughter of a peer. I + soon found out she was nearly twice his age. He had done it to get on. He + was getting on very well by himself, but I suppose that wasn’t fast + enough for him. Carlotta, it nearly killed me. And I felt so sorry for + him. You can’t guess how sorry I felt for him. I felt that he didn’t + know what he had missed. Oh, how happy I should have made him! I should + have lived for him. I should have done everything for him. I should have + ... You don’t mind me telling you all this?’ + </p> + <p> + I made an imploring gesture. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a shame!’ I burst out. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, my dear!’ she said, ‘he didn’t love me. One can’t + blame him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And then?’ I questioned, with an eagerness that I tried to + overcome. + </p> + <p> + ‘Frank was so persevering. And—and—I <i>did</i> admire his + character. A woman couldn’t help admiring his character, could she? + And, besides, I honestly thought I had got over the other affair, and that + I was in love with him. I refused him once, and then I married him. He was + as mad for me as I had been for the other one. Yes, I married him, and we + both imagined we were going to be happy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And why haven’t you been?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘This is my shame,’ she said. ‘I could not forget the other + one. We soon found that out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you <i>talk</i> about it, you—and Frank?’ I put in, + amazed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh <i>no</i>!’ she said. ‘It was never mentioned—never + once during fifteen years. But he knew; and I knew that he knew. The other + one was always between us—always, always, always! The other one was + always in my heart. We did our best, both of us; but it was useless. The + passion of my life was—it was invincible. I <i>tried</i> to love + Frank. I could only like him. Fancy his position! And we were helpless. + Because, you know, Frank and I are not the sort of people that go and make + a scandal—at least, that was what I thought,’ she sighed. + ‘I know different now. Well, he died the day before yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Crettell. He had just been made a judge. He was the youngest judge on the + bench—only forty-six.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Was <i>that</i> the man?’ I exclaimed; for Crettell’s + character was well known in London. + </p> + <p> + ‘That was the man. Frank came in yesterday afternoon, and after he had + glanced at the paper, he said: “By the way, Crettell’s dead.” + I did not grasp it at first. He repeated: “Crettell—he’s + dead.” I burst into tears. I couldn’t help it. And, besides, I + forgot. Frank asked me very roughly what I was crying for. You know, Frank + has much changed these last few months. He is not as nice as he used to + be. Excuse me talking like this, my dear. Something must be worrying him. + Well, I said as well as I could while I was crying that the news was a + shock to me. I tried to stop crying, but I couldn’t. I sobbed. Frank + threw down the paper and stamped on it, and he swore. He said: “I + know you’ve always been in love with the brute, but you needn’t + make such a damn fuss about it.” Oh, my dear, how can I tell you + these things? That angered me. This was the first time in our married life + that Crettell had been even referred to, and it seemed to me that Frank + put all the hatred of fifteen years into that single sentence. Why was I + angry? I didn’t know. We had a scene. Frank lost his temper, for the + first time that I remember, and then he recovered it. He said quietly he + couldn’t stand living with me any more; and that he had long since + wanted to leave me. He said he would never see me again. And then one of + the servants came in, and—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing. I sent her out. And—and—Fran didn’t come home + last night.’ + </p> + <p> + There was a silence. I could find nothing to say, and Mary had hidden her + face. I utterly forgot myself and my own state in this extraordinary + hazard of matrimony. I could only think of Mary’s grief—a + grief which, nevertheless, I did not too well comprehend. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you love him now?’ I ventured at length. + </p> + <p> + She made no reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘You love him—is that so?’ I pursued. ‘Tell me honestly.’ + </p> + <p> + I spoke as gently as it was in me to speak. + </p> + <p> + ‘Honestly!’ she cried, looking up. ‘Honestly! No! If I loved + him, could I have been so upset about Crettell? But we have been together + so long. We are husband and wife, Carlotta. We are so used to each other. + And generally he is so good. We’ve got on very well, considering. + And now he’s left me. Think of the scandal! It will be terrible! + terrible! A separation at my age! Carlotta, it’s unthinkable! He’s + mad—that’s the only explanation. Haven’t I tried to be a + good wife to him? He’s never found fault with me—never! And I’m + sure, as regards him, I’ve had nothing to complain of.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He will come back,’ I said. ‘He’ll think things over + and see reason.’ + </p> + <p> + And it was just as though I heard some other person saying these words. + </p> + <p> + ‘But he didn’t come <i>home</i> last night,’ Mary insisted. + ‘What the servants are thinking I shouldn’t like to guess.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What does it matter what the servants think?’ I said brusquely. + </p> + <p> + ‘But it <i>does</i> matter. He didn’t come <i>home</i>. He must have + slept at a hotel. Fancy, sleeping at a hotel, and his home waiting for + him! Oh, Carlotta, you’re too young to understand what I feel! You’re + very clever, and you’re very sympathetic; but you can’t see + things as I see them. Wait till you’ve been married fifteen years. + The scandal! The shame! And me only too anxious to be a good wife, and to + keep our home as it should be, and to help him as much as I can with my + stupid brains in his business!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can understand perfectly,’ I asserted. ‘I can understand + perfectly.’ + </p> + <p> + And I could. The futility of arguing with Mary, of attempting to free her + ever so little from the coils of convention which had always bound her, + was only too plainly apparent. She was—and naturally, sincerely, + instinctively—the very incarnation and mouthpiece of the + conventionality of society, as she cowered there in her grief and her + quiet resentment. But this did not impair the authenticity of her grief + and her resentment. Her grief appealed to me powerfully, and her + resentment, almost angelic in its quality, seemed sufficiently justified. + I knew that my own position was in practice untenable, that logic must + always be inferior to emotion. I am intensely proud of my ability to see, + then, that no sentiment can be false which is sincere, and that Mary + Ispenlove’s attitude towards marriage was exactly as natural, + exactly as free from artificiality, as my own. Can you go outside Nature? + Is not the polity of Londoners in London as much a part of Nature as the + polity of bees in a hive? + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a word for fifteen years, and then an explosion like that!’ she + murmured, incessantly recurring to the core of her grievance. ‘I did + wrong to marry him, I know. But I <i>did</i> marry him—I <i>did</i> + marry him! We are husband and wife. And he goes off and sleeps at a hotel! + Carlotta, I wish I had never been born! What will people say? I shall + never be able to look anyone in the face again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He will come back,’ I said again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think so?’ + </p> + <p> + This time she caught at the straw. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And you will settle down gradually; and + everything will be forgotten.’ + </p> + <p> + I said that because it was the one thing I could say. I repeat that I had + ceased to think of myself. I had become a spectator. + </p> + <p> + ‘It can never be the same between us again,’ Mary breathed sadly. + </p> + <p> + At that moment Emmeline Palmer plunged, rather than came, into my bedroom. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Miss Peel—’ she began, and then stopped, seeing Mrs. + Ispenlove by the fireplace, though she knew that Mrs. Ispenlove was with + me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Anything wrong?’ I asked, affecting a complete calm. + </p> + <p> + It was evident that the good creature had lost her head, as she sometimes + did, when I gave her too much to copy, or when the unusual occurred in no + matter what form. The excellent Emmeline was one of my mistakes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr. Ispenlove is here,’ she whispered. + </p> + <p> + None of us spoke for a few seconds. Mary Ispenlove stared at me, but + whether in terror or astonishment, I could not guess. This was one of the + most dramatic moments of my life. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell Mr. Ispenlove that I can see nobody,’ I said, glancing at the + wall. + </p> + <p> + She turned to go. + </p> + <p> + ‘And, Emmeline,’ I stopped her. ‘Do not tell him anything + else.’ + </p> + <p> + Surely the fact that Frank had called to see me before nine o’clock + in the morning, surely my uneasy demeanour, must at length arouse + suspicion even in the simple, trusting mind of his wife! + </p> + <p> + ‘How does he know that I am here?’ Mary asked, lowering her voice, + when Emmeline had shut the door; ‘I said nothing to the servants.’ + </p> + <p> + I was saved. Her own swift explanation of his coming was, of course, the + most natural in the world. I seized on it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind how,’ I answered. ‘Perhaps he was watching outside + your house, and followed you. The important thing is that he has come. It + proves,’ I went on, inventing rapidly, ‘that he has changed + his mind and recognises his mistake. Had you not better go back home as + quickly as you can? It would have been rather awkward for you to see him + here, wouldn’t it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, her eyes softening and gleaming with joy. + ‘I will go. Oh, Carlotta! how can I thank you? You are my best + friend.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have done nothing,’ I protested. But I had. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are a dear!’ she exclaimed, coming impulsively to the bed. + </p> + <p> + I sat up. She kissed me fervently. I rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + ‘Has Mr. Ispenlove gone?’ I asked Emmeline. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Emmeline. + </p> + <p> + In another minute his wife, too, had departed, timorously optimistic, + already denying in her heart that it could never be the same between them + again. She assuredly would not find Frank at home. But that was nothing. I + had escaped! I had escaped! + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you mind getting dressed at once?’ I said to Emmeline. ‘I + should like you to go out with a letter and a manuscript as soon as + possible.’ + </p> + <p> + I got a notebook and began to write to Frank. I told him all that had + happened, in full detail, writing hurriedly, in gusts, and abandoning that + regard for literary form which the professional author is apt to preserve + even in his least formal correspondence. + </p> + <p> + ‘After this,’ I said, ‘we must give up what we decided last + night. I have no good reason to offer you. The situation itself has not + been changed by what I have learnt from your wife. I have not even + discovered that she loves you, though in spite of what she says, which I + have faithfully told you, I fancy she does—at any rate, I think she + is beginning to. My ideas about the rights of love are not changed. My + feelings towards you are not changed. Nothing is changed. But she and I + have been through that interview, and so, after all, everything is + changed; we must give it all up. You will say I am illogical. I am—perhaps. + It was a mere chance that your wife came to me. I don’t know why she + did. If she had not come, I should have given myself to you. Supposing she + had written—I should still have given myself to you. But I have been + in her presence. I have been with her. And then the thought that you + struck her, for my sake! She said nothing about that. That was the one + thing she concealed. I could have cried when she passed it over. After + all, I don’t know whether it is sympathy for your wife that makes me + change, or my self-respect—say my self-pride; I’m a proud + woman. I lied to her through all that interview. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, if I had only had the courage to begin by telling her outright and + bluntly that you and I had settled that I should take her place! That + would have stopped her. But I hadn’t. And, besides, how could I + foresee what she would say to me and how she would affect me? No; I lied + to her at every point. My whole attitude was a lie. Supposing you and I + had gone off together before I had seen her, and then I had met her + afterwards, I could have looked her in the face—sorrowfully, with a + heart bleeding—but I could have looked her in the face. But after + this interview—no; it would be impossible for me to face her with + you at my side! Don’t I put things crudely, horribly! I know + everything that you will say. You could not bring a single argument that I + have not thought of. + </p> + <p> + ‘However, arguments are nothing. It is how I feel. Fate is against us. + Possibly I have ruined your life and mine without having done anything to + improve hers; and possibly I have saved us all three from terrible misery. + Possibly fate is with us. No one can say. I don’t know what will + happen in the immediate future; I won’t think about it. If you do as + I wish, if you have any desire to show me that I have any influence over + you, you will go back to live with your wife. Where did you sleep last + night? Or did you walk the streets? You must not answer this letter at + present. Write to me later. Do not try to see me. I won’t see you. + We <i>mustn’t</i> meet. I am going away at once. I don’t think + I could stand another scene with your wife, and she would be sure to come + again to me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Try to resume your old existence. You can do it if you try. Remember that + your wife is no more to blame than you are, or than I am. Remember that + you loved her once. And remember that I act as I am acting because there + is no other way for me. <i>C’est plus fort que moi,</i> I am going + to Torquay. I let you know this—I hate concealment; and anyway you + would find out. But I shall trust you not to follow me. I shall trust you. + You are saying that this is a very different woman from last night. It is. + I haven’t yet realized what my feelings are. I expect I shall + realize them in a few days. I send with this a manuscript. It is nothing. + I send it merely to put Emmeline off the scent, so that she shall think + that it is purely business. Now I shall <i>trust</i> you.—C. P.’ + </p> + <p> + I commenced the letter without even a ‘Dear Frank,’ and I + ended it without an affectionate word. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should like you to take these down to Mr. Ispenlove’s office,’ + I said to Emmeline. ‘Ask for him and give them to him yourself. + There’s no answer. He’s pretty sure to be in. But if he isn’t, + bring them back. I’m going to Torquay by that eleven-thirty express—isn’t + it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Eleven-thirty-five,’ Emmeline corrected me coldly. + </p> + <p> + When she returned, she said she had seen Mr. Ispenlove and given him the + letter and the parcel. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + I had acquaintances in Torquay, but I soon discovered that the place was + impossible for me. Torquay is the chosen home of the proprieties, the + respectabilities, and all the conventions. Nothing could dislodge them + from its beautiful hills; the very sea, as it beats primly, or with a + violence that never forgets to be discreet, on the indented shore, + acknowledges their sway. Aphrodite never visits there; the human race is + not continued there. People who have always lived within the conventions + go there to die within the conventions. The young do not flourish there; + they escape from the soft enervation. Since everybody is rich, there are + no poor. There are only the rich, and the servitors, who get rich. These + two classes never mix—even in the most modest villas they live on + opposite sides of the house. The life of the town is a vast conspiracy on + the part of the servitors to guard against any danger of the rich taking + all their riches to heaven. You can, if you are keen enough, detect + portions of this conspiracy in every shop. On the hills each abode stands + in its own undulating grounds, is approached by a winding drive of at + least ten yards, is wrapped about by the silence of elms, is flanked by + greenhouses, and exudes an immaculate propriety from all its windows. In + the morning the rich descend, the servitors ascend; the bosky and + perfectly-kept streets on the hills are trodden with apologetic celerity + by the emissaries of the servitors. The one interminable thoroughfare of + the town is graciously invaded by the rich, who, if they have not walked + down for the sake of exercise, step cautiously from their carriages, + enunciate a string of orders ending with the name of a house, and + cautiously regain their carriages. Each house has a name, and the pride of + the true servitor is his ability to deduce instantly from the name of the + house the name of its owner and the name of its street. In the afternoon a + vast and complicated game of visiting cards is played. One does not begin + to be serious till the evening; one eats then, solemnly and fully, to the + faint accompaniment of appropriate conversation. And there is no relief, + no surcease from utmost conventionality. It goes on night and day; it + hushes one to sleep, and wakes one up. On all but the strongest minds it + casts a narcotizing spell, so that thought is arrested, and originality, + vivacity, individuality become a crime—a shame that must be hidden. + Into this strange organism I took my wounded heart, imagining that an + atmosphere of coma might help to heal it. But no! Within a week my state + had become such that I could have cried out in mid Union Street at noon: + ‘Look at me with your dead eyes, you dead who have omitted to get + buried, I am among you, and I am an adulteress in spirit! And my body has + sinned the sin! And I am alive as only grief can be alive. I suffer the + torture of vultures, but I would not exchange my lot with yours!’ + </p> + <p> + And one morning, after a fortnight, I thought of Monte Carlo. And the + vision of that place, which I had never seen, too voluptuously lovely to + be really beautiful, where there are no commandments, where + unconventionality and conventionality fight it out on even terms, where + the adulteress swarms, and the sin is for ever sinned, and wounded hearts + go about gaily, where it is impossible to distinguish between virtue and + vice, and where Toleration in fine clothes is the supreme social goddess—the + vision of Monte Carlo, as a place of refuge from the exacerbating and + moribund and yet eternal demureness of Torquay, appealed to me so + persuasively that I was on my way to the Riviera in two hours. In that + crisis of my life my moods were excessively capricious. Let me say that I + had not reached Exeter before I began to think kindly of Torquay. What was + Torquay but an almost sublime example of what the human soul can + accomplish in its unending quest of an ideal? + </p> + <p> + I left England on a calm, slate-coloured sea—sea that more than any + other sort of sea produces the reflective melancholy which makes wonderful + the faces of fishermen. How that brief voyage symbolized for me the + mysterious movement of humanity! We converged from the four quarters of + the universe, passed together an hour, helpless, in somewhat inimical + curiosity concerning each other, and then, mutually forgotten, took wing, + and spread out into the unknown. I think that as I stood near the hot + funnel, breasting the wind, and vacantly staring at the smooth expanse + that continually slipped from under us, I understood myself better than I + had done before. My soul was at peace—the peace of ruin after a + conflagration, but peace. Sometimes a little flame would dart out—flame + of regret, revolt, desire—and I would ruthlessly extinguish it. I + felt that I had nothing to live for, that no energy remained to me, no + interest, no hope. I saw the forty years of probable existence in front of + me flat and sterile as the sea itself. I was coldly glad that I had + finished my novel, well knowing that it would be my last. And the immense + disaster had been caused by a chance! Why had I been born with a vein of + overweening honesty in me? Why should I have sacrificed everything to the + pride of my conscience, seeing that consciences were the product of + education merely? Useless to try to answer the unanswerable! What is, is. + And circumstances are always at the mercy of character. I might have been + wrong, I might have been right; no ethical argument could have bent my + instinct. I did not sympathize with myself—I was too proud and stern—but + I sympathized with Frank. I wished ardently that he might be consoled—that + his agony might not be too terrible. I wondered where he was, what he was + doing. I had received no letter from him, but then I had instructed that + letters should not be forwarded to me. My compassion went out after him, + followed him into the dark, found him (as I hoped), and surrounded him + like an alleviating influence. I thought pityingly of the ravage that had + been occasioned by our love. His home was wrecked. Our lives were equally + wrecked. Our friends were grieved; they would think sadly of my closed + flat. Even the serio-comic figure of Emmeline touched me; I had paid her + three months’ wages and dismissed her. Where would she go with her + mauve <i>peignoir</i>? She was over thirty, and would not easily fall into + another such situation. Imagine Emmeline struck down by a splinter from + our passionate explosion! Only Yvonne was content at the prospect of + revisiting France. + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Ah! Qu’on est bien ici, madame</i>!’ she said, when we had + fixed ourselves in the long and glittering <i>train de grand luxe</i> that + awaited us at Calais. Once I had enjoyed luxury, but now the futility of + all this luxurious cushioned arrogance, which at its best only + corresponded with a railway director’s dreams of paradise, seemed to + me pathetic. Could it detain youth, which is for ever flying? Could it + keep out sorrow? Could it breed hope? As the passengers, so correct in + their travelling costumes, passed to and fro in the corridors with the + subdued murmurs always adopted by English people when they wish to prove + that they are not excited, I thought: ‘Does it matter how you and I + go southwards? The pride of the eye, and of the palate, and of the limbs, + what can it help us that this should be sated? We cannot leave our souls + behind.’ The history of many of these men and women was written on + their faces. I wondered if my history was written on mine, gazing into the + mirrors which were everywhere, but seeing nothing save that which I had + always seen. Then I smiled, and Yvonne smiled respectfully in response. + Was I not part of the immense pretence that riches bring joy and that life + is good? On every table in the restaurant-cars were bunches of fresh + flowers that had been torn from the South, and would return there dead, + having ministered to the illusion that riches bring joy and that life is + good. I hated that. I could almost have wished that I was travelling + southwards in a slow, slow train, third class, where sorrow at any rate + does not wear a mask. Great grief is democratic, levelling—not + downwards but upwards. It strips away the inessential, and makes brothers. + It is impatient with all the unavailing inventions which obscure the + brotherhood of mankind. + </p> + <p> + I descended from the train restlessly—there were ten minutes to + elapse before the departure—and walked along the platform, glimpsing + the faces in the long procession of windows, and then the flowers and + napery in the two restaurant-cars: wistful all alike, I thought—flowers + and faces! How fanciful, girlishly fanciful, I was! Opposite the door of + the first car stood a gigantic negro in the sober blue and crimson livery + of the International Sleeping Car Company. He wore white gloves, like all + the servants on the train: it was to foster the illusion; it was part of + what we paid for. + </p> + <p> + ‘When is luncheon served?’ I asked him idly. + </p> + <p> + He looked massively down at me as I shivered slightly in my furs. He + contemplated me for an instant. He seemed to add me up, antipathetically, + as a product of Western civilization. + </p> + <p> + ‘Soon as the train starts, madam,’ he replied suavely, in good + American, and resumed nonchalantly his stare into the distance of the + platform. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you!’ I said. + </p> + <p> + I was glad that I had encountered him on that platform and not in the + African bush. I speculated upon the chain of injustice and oppression that + had warped his destiny from what it ought to have been to what it was. + ‘And he, too, is human, and knows love and grief and illusion, like + me,’ I mused. A few yards further on the engine-driver and stoker + were busy with coal and grease. ‘Five minutes hence, and our lives, + and our correctness, and our luxury, will be in their grimy hands,’ + I said to myself. Strange world, the world of the <i>train de grand luxe</i>! + But a world of brothers! I regained my carriage, exactly, after all, as + the inhabitants of Torquay regained theirs. + </p> + <p> + Then the wondrous self-contained microcosm, shimmering with gilt and + varnish and crystal, glorious in plush and silk, heavy with souls and all + that correct souls could possibly need in twenty hours, gathered itself up + and rolled forward, swiftly, and more swiftly, into the wide, gray + landscapes of France. The vibrating and nerve-destroying monotony of a + long journey had commenced. We were summoned by white gloves to luncheon; + and we lunched in a gliding palace where the heavenly dreams of a railway + director had received their most luscious expression—and had then + been modestly hidden by advertisements of hotels and brandy. The Southern + flowers shook in their slender glasses, and white gloves balanced dishes + as if on board ship, and the electric fans revolved ceaselessly. As I was + finishing my meal, a middle-aged woman whom I knew came down the car + towards me. She had evidently not recognised me. + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you do, Miss Kate?’ I accosted her. + </p> + <p> + It was the younger of Vicary’s two maiden sisters. I guessed that + the other could not be far away. + </p> + <p> + She hesitated, stopped, and looked down at me, rather as the negro had + done. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! how do you do, Miss Peel?’ she said distantly, with a nervous + simper; and she passed on. + </p> + <p> + This was my first communication, since my disappearance, with the world of + my London friends and acquaintances. I perceived, of course, from Miss + Kate’s attitude that something must have occurred, or something must + have been assumed, to my prejudice. Perhaps Frank had also vanished for a + time, and the rumour ran that we were away together. I smiled frigidly. + What matter? In case Miss Vicary should soon be following her sister, I + left without delay and went back to my coupé; it would have been a pity to + derange these dames. Me away with Frank! What folly to suppose it! Yet it + might have been. I was in heart what these dames probably took me for. I + read a little in the <i>Imitation of Christ</i> which Aunt Constance had + meant to give me, that book which will survive sciences and even + Christianity itself. ‘Think not that thou hast made any progress,’ + I read, ‘unless thou feel thyself inferior to all ... Behold how far + off thou art yet from true charity and humility: which knows not how to be + angry or indignant, with any except one’s self.’ + </p> + <p> + Night fell. The long, illuminated train roared and flashed on its + invisible way under a dome of stars. It shrieked by mysterious stations, + dragging furiously its freight of luxury and light and human masks through + placid and humble villages and towns, of which it ignored everything save + their coloured signals of safety. Ages of oscillation seemed to pass. In + traversing the corridors one saw interior after interior full of the signs + of wearied humanity: magazines thrown aside, rugs in disorder, hair + dishevelled, eyes heavy, cheeks flushed, limbs in the abandoned attitudes + of fatigue—here and there a compartment with blinds discreetly + drawn, suggesting the jealous seclusion of love, and here and there a + group of animated tatlers or card-players whose nerves nothing could + affect, and who were incapable of lassitude; on every train and every + steamer a few such are to be found. + </p> + <p> + More ages passed, and yet the journey had but just begun. At length we + thundered and resounded through canyons of tall houses, their façades + occasionally bathed in the cold, blue radiance of arc-lights; and under + streets and over canals. Paris! the city of the joy of life! We were to + see the muddied skirts of that brilliant and sinister woman. We panted to + a standstill in the vast echoing cavern of the Gare du Nord, stared + haughtily and drowsily at its bustling confusion, and then drew back, to + carry our luxury and our correctness through the lowest industrial + quarters. Belleville, Menilmontant, and other names of like associations + we read on the miserable, forlorn stations of the Ceinture, past which we + trailed slowly our disgust. + </p> + <p> + We made a semicircle through the secret shames that beautiful Paris would + fain hide, and, emerging, found ourselves in the deserted and stony + magnificence of the Gare de Lyon, the gate of the South. Here, where we + were not out of keeping, where our splendour was of a piece with the + splendour of the proudest terminus in France, we rested long, fretted by + the inexplicable leisureliness on the part of a <i>train de grand luxe</i>, + while gilded officials paced to and fro beneath us on the platforms, + guarding in their bureaucratic breasts the secret of the exact instant at + which the great express would leave. I slept, and dreamed that the Misses + Vicary had brought several pairs of white gloves in order to have me + dismissed from the society of the train. A hand touched me. It was Yvonne’s. + I awoke to a renewal of the maddening vibration. We had quitted Paris long + since. It was after seven o’clock. ‘<i>On dit que le diner est + servi, madame</i> said Yvonne. I told her to go, and I collected my wits + to follow her. As I was emerging into the corridor, Miss Kate went by. I + smiled faintly, perhaps timidly. She cut me completely. Then I went out + into the corridor. A man was standing at the other end twirling his + moustaches. He turned round. + </p> + <p> + It was Frank. + </p> + <p> + He came towards me, uncertainly swaying with the movement of the swaying + train. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good God!’ he muttered, and stopped within a yard of me. + </p> + <p> + I clung convulsively to the framework of the doorway. Our lives paused. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why have you followed me, Frank?’ I asked gloomily, in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + I had meant to be severe, offended. I had not meant to put his name at the + end of my question, much less to utter it tenderly, like an endearment. + But I had little control over myself. I was almost breathless with a fatal + surprise, shaken with terrible emotion. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve not followed you,’ he said. ‘I joined the train at + Paris. I’d no idea you were on the train till I saw you in the + corner asleep, through the window of the compartment. I’ve been + waiting here till you came out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you seen the Vicarys?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! You’ve been away from London all this time?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t. I’ve been in Belgium and + Holland. Then I went to Paris. And now—you see me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m going to Mentone,’ I said. ‘I had thought of Monte + Carlo first, but I changed my mind. Where are you going to?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mentone,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + We talked in hard, strained tones, avoiding each other’s eyes. A + string of people passed along the car on their way to dinner. I withdrew + into my compartment, and Frank flattened himself against a window. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come in here a minute,’ I said, when they were gone. + </p> + <p> + He entered the compartment and sat down opposite to me and lifted his + hand, perhaps unconsciously, to pull the door to. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said; ‘don’t shut it. Leave it like that.’ + </p> + <p> + He was dressed in a gray tourist suit. Never before had I seen him in any + but the formal attire of London. I thought he looked singularly graceful + and distinguished, even romantic, in that loose, soft clothing. But no + matter what he wore, Frank satisfied the eye. We were both extremely + nervous and excited and timid, fearing speech. + </p> + <p> + ‘Carlotta,’ he said at last—I had perceived that he was + struggling to a resolution—‘this is the best thing that could + have happened. Whatever we do, everybody will believe that we are running + off together.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think they have been believing that ever since we left London,’ I + said; and I told him about Miss Kate’s treatment of me at lunch. + ‘But how can that affect us?’ I demanded. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary will believe it—does believe, I’m sure. Long before + this, people will have enlightened her. And now the Vicarys have seen us, + it’s all over. Our hand is forced, isn’t it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Frank,’ I said, ‘didn’t you think my letter was right?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I obeyed it,’ he replied heavily. ‘I haven’t even + written to you. I meant to when I got to Mentone.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But didn’t you think I was right?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. Yes—I suppose it was.’ His lower lip + fell. ‘Of course I don’t want you to do anything that you—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dinner, please,’ said my negro, putting his head between us. + </p> + <p> + We both informed the man that we should not dine, and I asked him to tell + Yvonne not to wait for me. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s your maid, too,’ said Frank. ‘How are we going + to get out of it? The thing’s settled for us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear, dear boy!’ I exclaimed. ‘Are we to outrage our + consciences simply because people think we have outraged them?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It isn’t my conscience—it’s yours,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, then—mine.’ + </p> + <p> + I drew down my veil; I could scarcely keep dry eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why are you so hard, Carlotta?’ he cried. ‘I can’t + understand you. I never could. But you’ll kill me—that’s + what you’ll do.’ + </p> + <p> + Impulsively I leaned forward; and he seized my hand. Our antagonism melted + in tears. Oh the cruel joy of that moment! Who will dare to say that the + spirit cannot burn with pleasure while drowning in grief? Or that tragedy + may not be the highest bliss? That instant of renunciation was our true + marriage. I realize it now—a union that nothing can soil nor impair. + </p> + <p> + ‘I love you; you are fast and fast in my heart,’ I murmured. ‘But + you must go back to Mary. There is nothing else.’ + </p> + <p> + And I withdrew my hand. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve no right, my dearest, to tell me to go back to Mary. I + cannot.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I have only the right to ask you to + leave me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then there is no hope?’ + </p> + <p> + His lips trembled. Ah! those lips! + </p> + <p> + I made a sign that there was no hope. And we sat in silence, overcome. + </p> + <p> + A servant came to arrange the compartment for sleeping, and we were + obliged to assume nonchalance and go into the corridor. All the windows of + the corridor were covered with frost traceries. The train with its + enclosed heat and its gleaming lamps was plunging through an ice-gripped + night. I thought of the engine-driver, perched on his shaking, snorting, + monstrous machine, facing the weather, with our lives and our loves in his + hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll leave each other now, Frank,’ I said, ‘before the + people begin to come back from dinner. Go and eat something.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall be all right. Yvonne will get me some fruit. I shall stay in our + compartment till we arrive.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. And when we do arrive—what then? What are your wishes? You + see, I can’t leave the train before we get to Mentone because of my + registered luggage.’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke appealingly. + </p> + <p> + The dear thing, with his transparent pretexts! + </p> + <p> + ‘You can ignore us at the station, and then leave Mentone again during the + day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you wish,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-night!’ I whispered. ‘Good-bye!’ And I turned to + my compartment. + </p> + <p> + ‘Carlotta!’ he cried despairingly. + </p> + <p> + But I shut the door and drew the blinds. + </p> + <p> + Yvonne was discretion itself when she returned. She had surely seen Frank. + No doubt she anticipated piquant developments at Mentone. + </p> + <p> + All night I lay on my narrow bed, with Yvonne faintly snoring above me, + and the harsh, metallic rattle of the swinging train beneath. I could + catch the faint ticking of my watch under the thin pillow. The lamp burnt + delicately within its green shade. I lay almost moveless, almost dead, + shifting only at long intervals from side to side. Sometimes my brain + would arouse itself, and I would live again through each scene of my + relationship with Frank and Mary. I often thought of the engine-driver, + outside, watching over us and unflinchingly dragging us on. I hoped that + his existence had compensations. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + Early on the second morning after that interview in the train I sat on my + balcony in the Hôtel d'Écosse, full in the tremendous sun that had + ascended over the Mediterranean. The shore road wound along beneath me by + the blue water that never receded nor advanced, lopping always the same + stones. A vivid yellow electric tram, like a toy, crept forward on my left + from the direction of Vintimille and Italy, as it were swimming + noiselessly on the smooth surface of the road among the palms of an + intense green, against the bright blue background of the sea; and another + tram advanced, a spot of orange, to meet it out of the variegated tangle + of tinted houses composing the Old Town. High upon the summit of the Old + Town rose the slim, rose-coloured cupola of the church in a sapphire sky. + The regular smiting sound of a cracked bell, viciously rung, came from it. + The eastern prospect was shut in by the last olive-clad spurs of the Alps, + that tread violently and gigantically into the sea. The pathways of the + hotel garden were being gently swept by a child of the sun, who could not + have sacrificed his graceful dignity to haste; and many peaceful morning + activities proceeded on the road, on the shore, and on the jetty. A + procession of tawny fishing-boats passed from the harbour one after + another straight into the eye of the sun, and were lost there. Smoke + climbed up softly into the soft air from the houses and hotels on the + level of the road. The trams met and parted, silently widening the + distance between them which previously they had narrowed. And the sun rose + and rose, bathing the blue sea and the rich verdure and the glaring white + architecture in the very fluid of essential life. The whole azure coast + basked in it like an immense cat, commencing the day with a voluptuous + savouring of the fact that it was alive. The sun is the treacherous and + tyrannical god of the South, and when he withdraws himself, arbitrary and + cruel, the land and the people shiver and prepare to die. + </p> + <p> + It was such a morning as renders sharp and unmistakable the division + between body and soul—if the soul suffers. The body exults; the body + cries out that nothing on earth matters except climate. Nothing can damp + the glorious ecstasy of the body baptized in that air, caressed by that + incomparable sun. It laughs, and it laughs at the sorrow of the soul. It + imperiously bids the soul to choose the path of pleasure; it shouts aloud + that sacrifice is vain and honour an empty word, full of inconveniences, + and that to exist amply and vehemently, to listen to the blood as it beats + strongly through the veins, is the end of the eternal purpose. Ah! how + easy it is to martyrize one’s self by some fatal decision made + grandly in the exultation of a supreme moment! And how difficult to endure + the martyrdom without regret! I regretted my renunciation. My body + rebelled against it, and even my soul rebelled. I scorned myself for a + fool, for a sentimental weakling—yes, and for a moral coward. Every + argument that presented itself damaged the justice of my decision. After + all, we loved, and in my secret dreams had I not always put love first, as + the most sacred? The reality was that I had been afraid of what Mary would + think. True, my attitude had lied to her, but I could not have avoided + that. Decency would have forbidden me to use any other attitude; and more + than decency—kindness. Ought the course of lives to be changed at + the bidding of mere hazard? It was a mere chance that Mary had called on + me. I bled for her grief, but nothing that I could do would assuage it. I + felt sure that, in the impossible case of me being able to state my + position to her and argue in its defence, I could force her to see that in + giving myself to Frank I was not being false to my own ideals. What else + could count? What other consideration should guide the soul on its + mysterious instinctive way? Frank and I had a right to possess each other. + We had a right to be happy if we could. And the one thing that had robbed + us of that right was my lack of courage, caused partly by my feminine + mentality (do we not realize sometimes how ignobly feminine we are?), and + partly by the painful spectacle of Mary’s grief.... And her grief, + her most intimate grief, sprang not from thwarted love, but from a base + and narrow conventionality. + </p> + <p> + Thus I declaimed to myself in my heart, under the influence of the + seductive temptations of that intoxicating atmosphere. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come down,’ said a voice firmly and quietly underneath me in the + orange-trees of the garden. + </p> + <p> + I started violently. It was Frank’s voice. He was standing in the + garden, his legs apart, and a broad, flat straw hat, which I did not + admire, on his head. His pale face was puckered round about the eyes as he + looked up at me, like the face of a person trying to look directly at the + sun. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why,’ I exclaimed foolishly, glancing down over the edge of the + balcony, and shutting my white parasol with a nervous, hurried movement, + ‘have—have you come here?’ + </p> + <p> + He had disobeyed my wish. He had not left Mentone at once. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come down,’ he repeated persuasively, and yet commandingly. + </p> + <p> + I could feel my heart beating against the marble parapet of the balcony. I + seemed to be caught, to be trapped. I could not argue with him in that + position. I could not leave him shouting in the garden. So I nodded to + pacify him, and disappeared quickly from the balcony, almost scurrying + away. And in the comparative twilight of my room I stopped and gave a + glance in the mirror, and patted my hair, and fearfully examined the woman + that I saw in the glass, as if to discern what sort of woman she truly + was, and what was the root of her character. I hesitated and snatched up + my gloves. I wanted to collect my thoughts, and I could not. It was + impossible to think clearly. I moved in the room, dazed. I stood by the + tumbled bed, fingering the mosquito curtains. They might have been a veil + behind which was obscured the magic word of enlightenment I needed. I + opened the door, shut it suddenly, and held the knob tight, defying an + imagined enemy outside. ‘Oh!’ I muttered at last, angry with + myself, ‘what is the use of all this? You know you must go down to + him. He’s waiting for you. Show a little common-sense and go without + so much fuss.’ And so I descended the stairs swiftly and guiltily, + relieved that no one happened to see me. In any case, I decided, nothing + could induce me to yield to him after my letter and after what had passed + in the train. The affair was beyond argument. I felt that I could not + yield, and that though it meant the ruin of happiness by obstinacy, I + could not yield. I shrank from yielding in that moment as men shrink from + public repentance. + </p> + <p> + He had not moved from his post in the garden. We shook hands. A band of + Italian musicians wandered into the garden and began to sing Verdi to a + vigorous thrumming of guitars. They sang as only Italians can sing—as + naturally as they breathed, and with a rich and overflowing innocent joy + in the art which Nature had taught them. They sang loudly, swingingly, + glancing full of naive hope up at the windows of the vast, unresponsive + hotel. + </p> + <p> + ‘So you are still in Mentone,’ I ventured. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Come for a walk.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come for a walk.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well,’ I consented. ‘As I am?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you are. I saw you all in white on the balcony, and I was determined + to fetch you out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But could you see who it was from the road?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I could. I knew in an instant.’ + </p> + <p> + We descended, he a couple of paces in front of me, the narrow zigzag path + leading down between two other hotels to the shore road. + </p> + <p> + ‘What will happen now?’ I asked myself wildly. My head swam. + </p> + <p> + It seemed that nothing would happen. We turned eastwards, walking slowly, + and I began to resume my self-control. Only the simple and the humble were + abroad at that early hour: purveyors of food, in cheerfully rattling + carts, or hauling barrows with the help of grave and formidable dogs; + washers and cleaners at the doors of highly-decorated villas, amiably + performing their tasks while the mighty slept; fishermen and fat + fisher-girls, industriously repairing endless brown nets on the other side + of the parapet of the road; a postman and a little policeman; a porcelain + mender, who practised his trade under the shadow of the wall; a few + loafers; some stable-boys exercising horses; and children with adorable + dirty faces, shouting in their high treble as they played at hopscotch. I + felt very closely akin to these meek ones as we walked along. They were so + human, so wistful. They had the wonderful simplicity of animals, + uncomplicated by the disease of self-consciousness; they were the vital + stuff without the embroidery. They preserved the customs of their + ancestors, rising with the sun, frankly and splendidly enjoying the sun, + looking up to it as the most important thing in the world. They never + attempted to understand what was beyond them; they troubled not with + progress, ideals, righteousness, the claims of society. They accepted + humbly and uninquiringly what they found. They lived the life of their + instincts, sometimes violent, often kindly, and always natural. Why should + I have felt so near to them? + </p> + <p> + A calm and gentle pleasure filled me, far from intense, but yet + satisfying. I determined to enjoy the moment, or, perhaps, without + determination, I gave myself up, gradually, to the moment. I forgot care + and sorrow. I was well; I was with Frank; I was in the midst of enchanting + natural beauty; the day was fair and fresh and virgin. I knew not where I + was going. Shorewards a snowy mountain ridge rose above the long, wide + slopes of olives, dotted with white dwellings. A single sail stood up + seawards on the immense sheet of blue. The white sail appeared and + disappeared in the green palm-trees as we passed eastwards. Presently we + left the sea, and we lost the hills, and came into a street of poor little + shops for simple folk, that naïvely exposed their cheap and tawdry goods + to no matter what mightiness should saunter that way. And then we came to + the end of the tram-line, and it was like the end of the world. And we saw + in the distance abodes of famous persons, fabulously rich, defying the sea + and the hills, and condescending from afar off to the humble. We crossed + the railway, and a woman ran out from a cabin with a spoon in one hand and + a soiled flag in the other, and waved the flag at a towering black engine + that breathed stertorously in a cutting. Already we were climbing, and the + road grew steeper, and then we came to custom-houses—unsightly, + squalid, irregular, and mean—in front of which officials laughed and + lounged and smoked. + </p> + <p> + We talked scarcely at all. + </p> + <p> + ‘You were up early this morning,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; I could not sleep.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was the same with me.’ + </p> + <p> + We recovered the sea; but now it was far below us, and the footprints of + the wind were marked on it, and it was not one blue, but a thousand blues, + and it faded imperceptibly into the sky. The sail, making Mentone, was + much nearer, and had developed into a two-masted ship. It seemed to be + pushed, rather than blown, along by the wind. It seemed to have rigidity + in all its parts, and to be sliding unwillingly over a vast slate. The + road lay through craggy rocks, shelving away unseen on one hand, and + rising steeply against the burning sky on the other. We mounted steadily + and slowly. I did not look much at Frank, but my eye was conscious of his + figure, striding leisurely along. Now and then, when I turned to glance + behind, I saw our shadows there diagonally on the road, and again I did + not care for his hat. I had not seen him in a straw hat till that morning. + We arrived at a second set of French custom-houses, deserted, and then we + saw that the gigantic side of the mountain was cleft by a fissure from + base to summit. And across the gorge had been thrown a tiny stone bridge + to carry the road. At this point, by the bridge, the face of the rock had + been carved smooth, and a great black triangle painted on it. And on the + road was a common milestone, with ‘France’ on one side and ‘Italia’ + on the other. And a very old man was harmlessly spreading a stock of + picture postcards on the parapet of the bridge. My heart went out to that + poor old man, whose white curls glinted in the sunlight. It seemed to me + so pathetic that he should be just there, at that natural spot which the + passions and the blood of men long dead had made artificial, tediously + selling postcards in order to keep his worn and creaking body out of the + grave. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do give him something,’ I entreated Frank. + </p> + <p> + And while Frank went to him I leaned over the other parapet and listened + for the delicate murmur of the stream far below. The split flank of the + hill was covered with a large red blossom, and at the base, on the edge of + the sea, were dolls’ houses, each raising a slanted pencil of pale + smoke. + </p> + <p> + Then we were in Italy, and still climbing. We saw a row of narrow, + slattern cottages, their backs over the sea, and in front of them marched + to and fro a magnificent soldier laced in gold, with chinking spurs and a + rifle. Suddenly there ran out of a cottage two little girls, aged about + four years and eight years, dirty, unkempt, delicious, shrill, their + movements full of the ravishing grace of infancy. They attacked the laced + soldier, chattering furiously, grumbling at him, intimidating him with the + charming gestures of spoilt and pouting children. And he bent down stiffly + in his superb uniform, and managed his long, heavy gun, and talked to them + in a deep, vibrating voice. He reasoned with them till we could hear him + no more. It was so touching, so exquisitely human! + </p> + <p> + We reached the top of the hill, having passed the Italian customs, equally + vile with the French. The terraced grounds of an immense deserted castle + came down to the roadside; and over the wall, escaped from the garden, + there bloomed extravagantly a tangle of luscious yellow roses, just out of + our reach. The road was still and deserted. We could see nothing but the + road and the sea and the hills, all steeped, bewitched, and glorious under + the sun. The ship had nearly slid to Mentone. The curving coastline of + Italy wavered away into the shimmering horizon. And there were those huge + roses, insolently blooming in the middle of winter, the symbol of the + terrific forces of nature which slept quiescent under the universal calm. + Perched as it were in a niche of the hills, we were part of that + tremendous and ennobling scene. Long since the awkward self-consciousness + caused by our plight had left us. We did not use speech, but we knew that + we thought alike, and were suffering the same transcendent emotion. Was it + joy or sadness? Rather than either, it was an admixture of both, + originating in a poignant sense of the grandeur of life and of the earth. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Frank,’ I murmured, my spirit bursting, ‘how beautiful it + is!’ + </p> + <p> + Our eyes met. He took me and kissed me impetuously, as though my utterance + had broken a spell which enchained him. And as I kissed him I wept, + blissfully. Nature had triumphed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + We departed from Mentone that same day after lunch. I could not remove to + his hotel; he could not remove to mine, for this was Mentone. We went to + Monte Carlo by road, our luggage following. We chose Monte Carlo partly + because it was the nearest place, and partly because it has some of the + qualities—incurious, tolerant, unprovincial—of a capital city. + If we encountered friends there, so much the better, in the end. The great + adventure, the solemn and perilous enterprise had begun. I sent Yvonne for + a holiday to her home in Laroche. Why? Ah, why? Perhaps for the simple + reason that I had not the full courage of my convictions. We seldom have—<i>nous + autres</i>. I felt that, if she had remained, Yvonne would have been too + near me in the enterprise. I could not at first have been my natural self + with her. I told the astonished and dissatisfied Yvonne that I would write + to her as soon as I wanted her. Yet in other ways I had courage, and I + found a delicious pleasure in my courage. When I was finally leaving the + hotel I had Frank by my side. I behaved to him as to a husband. I publicly + called him ‘dear.’ I asked his advice in trifles. He paid my + bill. He even provided the money necessary for Yvonne. My joy in the + possession of this male creature, whose part it now was to do for me a + thousand things that hitherto I had been forced to do for myself, was + almost naive. I could not hide it. I was at last a man’s woman. I + had a protector. Yes; I must not shrink from the equivocal significance of + that word—I had a protector. + </p> + <p> + Frank was able to get three rooms at the Hotel de Paris at Monte Carlo. I + had only to approve them. We met in our sitting-room at half-past three, + ready to go out for a walk. It would be inexact to say that we were not + nervous. But we were happy. He had not abandoned his straw hat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t wear that any more,’ I said to him, smiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘But why? It’s quite new.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It doesn’t suit you,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ he laughed, and he put it on. + </p> + <p> + ‘But I don’t like to see you in it,’ I persisted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, you’ll stand it this afternoon, my angel, and I’ll get + another to-morrow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Haven’t you got another one here?’ I asked, with discontent. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ and he laughed again. + </p> + <p> + ‘But, dear—’ I pouted. + </p> + <p> + He seemed suddenly to realize that as a fact I did not like the hat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come here,’ he said, charmingly grave; and he led me by the hand + into his bedroom, which was littered with clothes, small parcels, boots, + and brushes. One chair was overturned. + </p> + <p> + ‘Heavens!’ I muttered, pretending to be shocked at the disorder. + </p> + <p> + He drew, me to a leather box of medium size. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can open it,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + I opened it. The thing was rather a good contrivance, for a man. It held a + silk hat, an opera hat, a bowler hat, some caps, and a soft Panama straw. + </p> + <p> + ‘And you said you had no others!’ I grumbled at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, which is it to be?’ he demanded. + </p> + <p> + ‘This, of course,’ I said, taking the bowler. I reached up, removed + the straw hat from his head, and put the bowler in its place. ‘There!’ + I exclaimed, satisfied, giving the bowler a pat—there!’ + </p> + <p> + He laughed, immensely content, enraptured, foolishly blissful. We were + indeed happy. Before opening the door leading to the corridor we stopped + and kissed. + </p> + <p> + On the seaward terrace of the vast, pale, floriated Casino, so impressive + in its glittering vulgarity, like the bride-cake of a stockbroker’s + wedding, we strolled about among a multifarious crowd, immersed in + ourselves. We shared a contempt for the architecture, the glaring + flower-beds, and the false distinction of the crowd, and an enthusiasm for + the sunshine and the hills and the sea, and whatever else had escaped the + hands of the Casino administration. We talked lightly and freely. Care + seemed to be leaving us; we had no preoccupations save those which were + connected with our passion. Then I saw, standing in an attitude of + attention, the famous body-servant of Lord Francis Alcar, and I knew that + Lord Francis could not be far away. We spoke to the valet; he pointed out + his master, seated at the front of the terrace, and told us, in a + discreet, pained, respectful voice, that our venerable friend had been + mysteriously unwell at Monte Carlo, and was now taking the air for the + first time in ten days. I determined that we should go boldly and speak to + him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lord Francis,’ I said gently, after we had stood some seconds by + his chair, unremarked. + </p> + <p> + He was staring fixedly at the distance of the sea. He looked amazingly + older than when I had last talked with him. His figure was shrunken, and + his face rose thin and white out of a heavy fur overcoat and a large blue + muffler. In his eyes there was such a sadness, such an infinite regret, + such a profound weariness as can only be seen in the eyes of the senile. + He was utterly changed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lord Francis,’ I repeated, ‘don’t you know me?’ + </p> + <p> + He started slightly and looked at me, and a faint gleam appeared in his + eyes. Then he nodded, and took a thin, fragile alabaster hand out of the + pocket of his overcoat. I shook it. It was like shaking hands with a dead, + starved child. He carefully moved the skin and bone back into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you pretty well?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + He nodded. Then the faint gleam faded out of his eyes; his head fell a + little, and he resumed his tragic contemplation of the sea. The fact of my + presence had dropped like a pebble into the strange depths of that aged + mind, and the waters of the ferocious egotism of senility had closed over + it, and it was forgotten. His rapt and yet meaningless gaze frightened me. + It was as if there was more desolation and disillusion in that gaze than I + had previously imagined the whole earth to contain. Useless for Frank to + rouse him for the second time. Useless to explain ourselves. What was love + to him, or the trivial conventions of a world which he was already + quitting? + </p> + <p> + We walked away. From the edge of the terrace I could see a number of boats + pulling to and fro in the water. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s the pigeon-shooting,’ Frank explained. ‘Come to + the railings and you’ll be able to see.’ + </p> + <p> + I had already heard the sharp popping of rifles. I went to the railings, + and saw a number of boxes arranged in a semicircle on a green, which was, + as it were, suspended between the height of the terrace and the sea. + Suddenly one of the boxes collapsed with a rattle, and a bird flew out of + the ruin of it. There were two reports of a gun; the bird, its curving + flight cut short, fell fluttering to the grass; a dog trotted out from the + direction of the gun unseen beneath us, and disappeared again with the + mass of ruffled feathers in its mouth. Then two men showed themselves, ran + to the collapsed box, restored it, and put in it a fresh victim, and + disappeared after the dog. I was horrified, but I could not remove my eyes + from the green. Another box fell flat, and another bird flew out; a gun + sounded; the bird soared far away, wavered, and sank on to the surface of + the sea, and the boats converged towards it in furious haste. So the game + proceeded. I saw a dozen deaths on the green; a few birds fell into the + sea, and one escaped, settling ultimately on the roof of the Casino. + </p> + <p> + ‘So that is pigeon-shooting,’ I said coldly, turning to Frank. + ‘I suppose it goes on all day?’ + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s just as cruel as plenty of other sports, and no more,’ + he said, as if apologizing for the entire male sex. + </p> + <p> + ‘I presume so,’ I answered. ‘But do you know, dear, if the + idea once gets into my head that that is going on all day, I shan’t + be able to stop here. Let us have tea somewhere.’ + </p> + <p> + Not until dinner did I recover from the obsession of that continual + slaughter and destruction of beautiful life. It seemed to me that the + Casino and its gorgeous gardens were veritably established on the + mysterious arched hollow, within the high cliff, from which death shot out + all day and every day. But I did recover perfectly. Only now do I + completely perceive how violent, how capricious and contradictory were my + emotions in those unique and unforgettable hours. + </p> + <p> + We dined late, because I had deprived myself of Yvonne. Already I was + almost in a mind to send for her. The restaurant of the hotel was full, + but we recognised no one as we walked through the room to our table. + </p> + <p> + ‘There is one advantage in travelling about with you,’ said Frank. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘No matter where one is, one can always be sure of being with the most + beautiful woman in the place.’ + </p> + <p> + I was content. I repaid him by being more than ever a man’s woman. I + knew that I was made for that. I understood why great sopranos have of + their own accord given up even the stage on marriage. The career of + literature seemed to me tedious and sordid in comparison with that of + being a man’s woman. In my rich black dress and my rings and + bracelets I felt like an Eastern Empress; I felt that I could adequately + reward homage with smiles, and love with fervid love. And I felt like a + cat—idle, indolently graceful, voluptuously seeking warmth and + caresses. I enveloped Frank with soft glances, I dazed him with glances. + He ordered a wine which he said was fit for gods, and the waiter brought + it reverently and filled our glasses, with a ritual of precautions. Later + during the dinner Frank asked me if I would prefer champagne. I said, + ‘No, of course not.’ But he said, ‘I think you would,’ + and ordered some. ‘Admit,’ he said, ‘that you prefer + champagne.’ ‘Well, of course,’ I replied. But I drank + very little champagne, lest I should be too happy. Frank’s wonderful + face grew delicately flushed. The room resounded with discreet chatter, + and the tinkle of glass and silver and porcelain. The upper part of it + remained in shadow, but every table was a centre of rosy light, + illuminating faces and jewels and napery. And in my sweet illusion I + thought that every face had found the secret of joy, and that even the old + had preserved it. Pleasure reigned. Pleasure was the sole goddess. And how + satisfying then was the worship of her! Life had no inconveniences, no + dark spots, no pitfalls. The gratification of the senses, the appeasing of + appetites that instantly renewed themselves—this was the business of + the soul. And as the wine sank lower in the bottles, and we cooled our + tongues with ices, and the room began to empty, expectation gleamed and + glittered in our eyes. At last, except a group of men smoking and talking + in a corner, we were the only diners left. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall we go?’ Frank said, putting a veil of cigarette smoke between + us. + </p> + <p> + I trembled. I was once more the young and timid girl. I could not speak. I + nodded. + </p> + <p> + In the hall was Vicary, talking to the head-porter. He saw us and started. + </p> + <p> + ‘What! Vicary!’ I murmured, suddenly cooled. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want to speak to you,’ said Vicary. ‘Where can we go?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This way,’ Frank replied. + </p> + <p> + We went to our sitting-room, silent and apprehensive. + </p> + <p> + ‘Sit down,’ said Vicary, shutting the door and standing against it. + </p> + <p> + He was wearing a tourist suit, with a gray overcoat, and his grizzled hair + was tumbling over his hard, white face. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the matter?’ Frank asked. ‘Anything wrong?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, you two,’ said Vicary, ‘I don’t want to + discuss your position, and I’m the last person in this world to cast + the first stone; but it falls to me to do it. I was coming down to Nice to + stay with my sisters, and I’ve come a little further. My sisters + wired me they had seen you. I’ve been to Mentone, and driven here + from there. I hoped I should get here earlier than the newspapers, and I + have done, it seems.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Earlier than the newspapers?’ Frank repeated, standing up. + </p> + <p> + ‘Try to keep calm,’ Vicary continued. ‘Your wife’s body + was found in the Thames at seven o’clock last night. The doctors say + it had been in the water for forty-eight hours. Your servants thought she + had gone to you. But doubtless some thoughtful person had told her that + you two were wandering about Europe together.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>My wife</i>’ cried Frank. + </p> + <p> + And the strange and terrible emphasis he put on the word ‘wife’ + proved to me in the fraction of a second that in his heart I was not his + wife. A fearful tragedy had swept away the structure of argument in favour + of the rights of love which he had built over the original conventionality + of his mind. Poor fellow! + </p> + <p> + He fell back into his chair and covered his eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thank God my mother didn’t live to see this!’ he cried. + </p> + <p> + And then he rushed to his bedroom and banged the door. + </p> + <p> + ‘My poor girl!’ said Vicary, approaching me. ‘What can I—I’m + awfully—’ + </p> + <p> + I waved him away. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s that?’ he exclaimed, in a different voice, listening. + </p> + <p> + I ran to the bedroom, and saw Frank lifting a revolver. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve brought me to this, Carlotta!’ he shouted. + </p> + <p> + I sprang towards him, but it was too late. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART III — THE VICTORY + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + When I came out of the house, hurried and angrily flushing, I perceived + clearly that my reluctance to break a habit and my desire for physical + comfort, if not my attachment to the girl, had led me too far. I was + conscious of humiliation. I despised myself. The fact was that I had + quarrelled with Yvonne—Yvonne, who had been with me for eight years, + Yvonne who had remained sturdily faithful during my long exile. Now the + woman who quarrels with a maid is clumsy, and the woman who quarrels with + a good maid is either a fool or in a nervous, hysterical condition, or + both. Possibly I was both. I had permitted Yvonne too much liberty. I had + spoilt her. She was fidelity itself, goodness itself; but her character + had not borne the strain of realizing that she had acquired power over me, + and that she had become necessary to me. So that morning we had differed + violently; we had quarrelled as equals. The worst side of her had appeared + suddenly, shockingly. And she had left me, demonstrating even as she + banged the door that she was at least my mistress in altercation. All day + I fought against the temptation to eat my pride, and ask her to return. It + was a horrible, a deplorable, temptation. And towards evening, after seven + hours of solitude in the hotel in the Avenue de Kleber, I yielded to it. I + knew the address to which she had gone, and I took a cab and drove there, + hating myself. I was received with excessive rudeness by a dirty and + hag-like concierge, who, after refusing all information for some minutes, + informed me at length that the young lady in question had quitted Paris in + company with a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + The insolence of the concierge, my weakness and my failure, the bitter + sense of lost dignity, the fact that Yvonne had not hesitated even a few + hours before finally abandoning me—all these things wounded me. But + the sharpest stab of all was that during our stay in Paris Yvonne must + have had secret relations with a man. I had hidden nothing from her; she, + however, had not reciprocated my candour. I had imagined that she lived + only for me.... + </p> + <p> + Well, the truth cannot be concealed that the years of wandering which had + succeeded the fatal night at Monte Carlo had done little to improve me. + What would you have? For months and months my ears rang with Frank’s + despairing shout: ‘<i>You’ve</i> brought me to this, Carlotta!’ + And the profound injustice of that cry tainted even the sad sweetness of + my immense sorrow. To this day, whenever I hear it, as I do still, my + inmost soul protests, and all the excuses which my love found for him seem + inadequate and unconvincing. I was a broken creature. (How few know what + it means to be broken—to sink under a tremendous and overwhelming + calamity! And yet who but they can understandingly sympathize with the + afflicted?) As for my friends, I did not give them the occasion to desert + me; I deserted them. For the second time in my career I tore myself up by + the roots. I lived the nomad’s life, in the usual European haunts of + the nomad. And in five years I did not make a single new friend, scarcely + an acquaintance. I lived in myself and on myself, nursing grief, nursing a + rancour against fate, nursing an involuntary shame.... You know, the + scandal of which I had been the centre was appalling; it touched the + extreme. It must have nearly killed the excellent Mrs. Sardis. I did not + dare to produce another novel. But after a year or so I turned to poetry, + and I must admit that my poetry was accepted. But it was not enough to + prevent me from withering—from shrivelling. I lost ground, and I was + still losing it. I was becoming sinister, warped, peculiar, capricious, + unaccountable. I guessed it then; I see it clearly now. + </p> + <p> + The house of the odious concierge was in a small, shabby street off the + Boulevard du Montparnasse. I looked in vain for a cab. Even on the wide, + straight, gas-lit boulevard there was not a cab, and I wondered why I had + been so foolish as to dismiss the one in which I had arrived. The great, + glittering electric cars floated horizontally along in swift succession, + but they meant nothing to me; I knew not whence they came nor whither they + went. I doubt if I had ever been in a tram-car. Without a cab I was as + helpless and as timid as a young girl, I who was thirty-one, and had + travelled and lived and suffered! Never had I been alone in the streets of + a large city at night. And the September night was sultry and forbidding. + I was afraid—I was afraid of the men who passed me, staring at me. + One man spoke to me, and I literally shook with fear as I hastened on. + What would I have given to have had the once faithful Yvonne by my side! + Presently I came to the crossing of the Boulevard Raspail, and this + boulevard, equally long, uncharitable, and mournful with the other, + endless, stretching to infinity, filled me with horror. Yes, with the + horror of solitude in a vast city. Oh, you solitary, you who have felt + that horror descending upon you, desolating, clutching, and chilling the + heart, you will comprehend me! + </p> + <p> + At the corner, of the two boulevards was a glowing cafe, the Café du Dome, + with a row of chairs and little tables in front of its windows. And at one + of these little tables sat a man, gazing absently at a green glass in a + white saucer. I had almost gone past him when some instinct prompted me to + the bravery of looking at him again. He was a stoutish man, apparently + aged about forty-five, very fair, with a puffed face and melancholy eyes. + And then it was as though someone had shot me in the breast. It was as if + I must fall down and die—as if the sensations which I experienced + were too acute—too elemental for me to support. I have never borne a + child, but I imagine that the woman who becomes a mother may feel as I + felt then, staggered at hitherto unsuspected possibilities of sensation. I + stopped. I clung to the nearest table. There was ice on my shuddering + spine, and a dew on my forehead. + </p> + <p> + ‘Magda!’ breathed the man. + </p> + <p> + He had raised his eyes to mine. + </p> + <p> + It was Diaz, after ten years. + </p> + <p> + At first I had not recognised him. Instead of ten, he seemed twenty years + older. I searched in his features for the man I had known, as the returned + traveller searches the scene of his childhood for remembered landmarks. + Yes, it was Diaz, though time had laid a heavy hand on him. The magic of + his eyes was not effaced, and when he smiled youth reappeared. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is I,’ I murmured. + </p> + <p> + He got up, and in doing so shook the table, and his glass was overturned, + and scattered itself in fragments on the asphalte. At the noise a waiter + ran out of the cafe, and Diaz, blushing and obviously making a great + effort at self-control, gave him an order. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should have known you anywhere,’ said Diaz to me, taking my hand, + as the waiter went. + </p> + <p> + The ineptitude of the speech was such that I felt keenly sorry for him. I + was not in the least hurt. My sympathy enveloped him. The position was so + difficult, and he had seemed so pathetic, sitting there alone on the + pavement of the vast nocturnal boulevard, so weighed down by sadness, that + I wanted to comfort him and soothe him, and to restore him to all the + brilliancy of his first period. It appeared to me unjust and cruel that + the wheels of life should have crushed him too. And so I said, smiling as + well as I could: + </p> + <p> + ‘And I you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t you sit down here?’ he suggested, avoiding my eyes. + </p> + <p> + And thus I found myself seated outside a cafe, at night, conspicuous for + all Montparnasse to see. We never know what may lie in store for us at the + next turning of existence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I am not much changed, you think?’ he ventured, in an anxious + tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I lied. ‘You are perhaps a little stouter. That’s + all.’ + </p> + <p> + How hard it was to talk! How lamentably self-conscious we were! How + unequal to the situation! We did not know what to say. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are far more beautiful than ever you were,’ he said, looking at + me for an instant. ‘You are a woman; you were a girl—then.’ + </p> + <p> + The waiter brought another glass and saucer, and a second waiter followed + him with a bottle, from which he poured a greenish-yellow liquid into the + glass. + </p> + <p> + ‘What will you have?’ Diaz asked me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing, thank you,’ I said quickly. + </p> + <p> + To sit outside the cafe was already much. It would have been impossible + for me to drink there. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! as you please, as you please,’ Diaz snapped. ‘I beg your + pardon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Poor fellow!’ I reflected. ‘He must be suffering from nervous + irritability.’ And aloud, ‘I’m not thirsty, thank you,’ + as nicely as possible. + </p> + <p> + He smiled beautifully; the irritability had passed. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s awfully kind of you to sit down here with me,’ he said, + in a lower voice. ‘I suppose you’ve heard about me?’ + </p> + <p> + He drank half the contents of the glass. + </p> + <p> + ‘I read in the papers some years ago that you were suffering from + neurasthenia and nervous breakdown,’ I replied. ‘I was very + sorry.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he said; ‘nervous breakdown—nervous breakdown.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You haven’t been playing lately, have you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is more than two years since I played. And if you had heard me that + time! My God!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But surely you have tried some cure?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Cure!’ he repeated after me. ‘There’s no cure. Here I + am! Me!’ + </p> + <p> + His glass was empty. He tapped on the window behind us, and the procession + of waiters occurred again, and Diaz received a third glass, which now + stood on three saucers. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll excuse me,’ he said, sipping slowly. ‘I’m + not very well to-night. And you’ve—Why did you run away from + me? I wanted to find you, but I couldn’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Please do not let us talk about that,’ I stopped him. ‘I—I + must go.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, of course, if I’ve offended you—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said; ‘I’m not at all offended. But I think—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then, if you aren’t offended, stop a little, and let me see you + home. You’re sure you won’t have anything?’ + </p> + <p> + I shook my head, wishing that he would not drink so much. I thought it + could not be good for his nerves. + </p> + <p> + ‘Been in Paris long?’ he asked me, with a slightly confused + utterance. ‘Staying in this quarter? Many English and Americans here.’ + </p> + <p> + Then, in setting down the glass, he upset it, and it smashed on the + pavement like the first one. + </p> + <p> + ‘Damn!’ he exclaimed, staring forlornly at the broken glass, as if + in the presence of some irreparable misfortune. And before I could put in + a word, he turned to me with a silly smile, and approaching his face to + mine till his hat touched the brim of my hat, he said thickly: ‘After + all, you know, I’m the greatish pianist in the world.’ + </p> + <p> + The truth struck me like a blow. In my amazing ignorance of certain + aspects of life I had not suspected it. Diaz was drunk. The ignominy of + it! The tragedy of it! He was drunk. He had fallen to the beast. I drew + back from that hot, reeking face. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t think I am?’ he muttered. ‘You think young + What’s-his-name can play Ch—Chopin better than me? Is that it?’ + </p> + <p> + I wanted to run away, to cease to exist, to hide with my shame in some + deep abyss. And there I was on the boulevard, next to this animal, sharing + his table and the degradation! And I could not move. There are people so + gifted that in a dilemma they always know exactly the wisest course to + adopt. But I did not know. This part of my story gives me infinite pain to + write, and yet I must write it, though I cannot persuade myself to write + it in full; the details would be too repulsive. Nevertheless, forget not + that I lived it. + </p> + <p> + He put his face to mine again, and began to stammer something, and I drew + away. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are ashamed of me, madam,’ he said sharply. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you are not quite yourself—not quite well,’ I + replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean I am drunk.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean what I say. You are not quite well. Please do not twist my words.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean I am drunk,’ he insisted, raising his voice. ‘I am + not drunk; I have never been drunk. That I can swear with my hand on my + heart. But you are ashamed of being seen with me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you ought to go home,’ I suggested. + </p> + <p> + ‘That is only to get rid of me!’ he cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no,’ I appealed to him persuasively. ‘Do not wound me. I + will go with you as far as your house, if you like. You are too ill to be + alone.’ + </p> + <p> + At that moment an empty open cab strolled by, and, without pausing for his + answer, I signalled the driver. My heart beat wildly. My spirit was in an + uproar. But I was determined not to desert him, not to abandon him to a + public disgrace. I rose from my seat. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re very good,’ he said, in a new voice. + </p> + <p> + The cab had stopped. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come!’ I entreated him. + </p> + <p> + He rapped uncertainly on the window, and then, as the waiter did not + immediately appear, he threw some silver on the table, and aimed himself + in the direction of the cab. I got in. Diaz slipped on the step. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve forgotten somethin’,’ he complained. ‘What + is it? My umbrella—yes, my umbrella—<i>pépin</i> as they say + here. ‘Scuse me moment.’ + </p> + <p> + His umbrella was, in fact, lying under a chair. He stooped with difficulty + and regained it, and then the waiter, who had at length arrived, helped + him into the cab, and he sank like a mass of inert clay on my skirts. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell the driver the address,’ I whispered. + </p> + <p> + The driver, with head turned and a grin on his face, was waiting. + </p> + <p> + ‘Rue de Douai,’ said Diaz sullenly. + </p> + <p> + ‘What number?’ the driver asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Does that regard you?’ Diaz retorted crossly in French. ‘I + will tell you later.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell him now,’ I pleaded. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, to oblige you, I will. Twenty-seven. But what I can’t stand + is the impudence of these fellows.’ + </p> + <p> + The driver winked at me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just so,’ I soothed Diaz, and we drove off. + </p> + <p> + I have never been happier than in unhappiness. Happiness is not joy, and + it is not tranquillity. It is something deeper and something more + disturbing. Perhaps it is an acute sense of life, a realization of one’s + secret being, a continual renewal of the mysterious savour of existence. + As I crossed Paris with the drunken Diaz leaning clumsily against my + shoulder, I was profoundly unhappy. I was desolated by the sight of this + ruin, and yet I was happier than I had been since Frank died. I had + glimpses and intimations of the baffling essence of our human lives here, + strange, fleeting comprehensions of the eternal wonder and the eternal + beauty.... In vain, professional writer as I am, do I try to express + myself. What I want to say cannot be said; but those who have truly lived + will understand. + </p> + <p> + We passed over the Seine, lighted and asleep in the exquisite Parisian + night, and the rattling of the cab on the cobble-stones roused Diaz from + his stupor. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where are we?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just going through the Louvre,’ I replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know how I got to the other s-side of the river,’ he + said. ‘Don’t remember. So you’re coming home with me, eh? You + aren’t ‘shamed of me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are hurting me,’ I said coldly, ‘with your elbow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, a thousand pardons! a thous’ parnds, Magda! That isn’t + your real name, is it?’ + </p> + <p> + He sat upright and turned his face to glance at mine with a fatuous smile; + but I would not look at him. I kept my eyes straight in front. Then a + swerve of the carriage swung his body away from me, and he subsided into + the corner. The intoxication was gaining on him every minute. + </p> + <p> + ‘What shall I do with him?’ I thought. + </p> + <p> + I blushed as we drove up the Avenue de l’Opera and across the Grand + Boulevard, for it seemed to me that all the gay loungers must observe Diaz’ + condition. We followed darker thoroughfares, and at last the cab, after + climbing a hill, stopped before a house in a street that appeared rather + untidy and irregular. I got out first, and Diaz stumbled after me, while + two women on the opposite side of the road stayed curiously to watch us. + Hastily I opened my purse and gave the driver a five-franc-piece, and he + departed before Diaz could decide what to say. I had told him to go. + </p> + <p> + I did not wish to tell the driver to go. I told him in spite of myself. + </p> + <p> + Diaz, grumbling inarticulately, pulled the bell of the great door of the + house. But he had to ring several times before finally the door opened; + and each second was a year for me, waiting there with him in the street. + And when the door opened he was leaning against it, and so pitched forward + into the gloom of the archway. A laugh—the loud, unrestrained laugh + of the courtesan—came from across the street. + </p> + <p> + The archway was as black as night. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shut the door, will you?’ I heard Diaz’ voice. ‘I can’t + see it. Where are you?’ + </p> + <p> + But I was not going to shut the door. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you got a servant here?’ I asked him. + </p> + <p> + ‘She comes in the mornings,’ he replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then there is no one in your flat?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a shoul,’ said Diaz. ‘Needn’t be ‘fraid.’ + </p> + <p> + I’m not afraid,’ I said. ‘But I wanted to know. Which + floor is it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Third. I’ll light a match.’ + </p> + <p> + Then I pushed to the door, whose automatic latch clicked. We were fast in + the courtyard. + </p> + <p> + Diaz dropped his matches in attempting to strike one. The metal box + bounced on the tiles. I bent down and groped with both hands till I found + it. And presently we began painfully to ascend the staircase, Diaz holding + his umbrella and the rail, and I striking matches from time to time. We + were on the second landing when I heard the bell ring again, and the + banging of the front-door, and then voices at the foot of the staircase. I + trembled lest we should be over-taken, and I would have hurried Diaz on, + but he would not be hurried. Happily, as we were halfway between the + second and third story, the man and the girl whose voices I heard stopped + at the second. I caught sight of them momentarily through the banisters. + The man was striking matches as I had been. ‘<i>C’est ici</i>,’ + the girl whispered. She was dressed in blue with a very large hat. She put + a key in the door when they had stopped, and then our matches went out + simultaneously. The door shut, and Diaz and I were alone on the staircase + again. I struck another match; we struggled on. + </p> + <p> + When I had taken his key from Diaz’ helpless hand, and opened his + door and guided him within, and closed the door definitely upon the outer + world, I breathed a great sigh. Every turn of the stair had been a station + of the cross for me. We were now in utter darkness. The classical + effluvium of inebriety mingled with the classical odour of the furnished + lodging. But I cared not. I had at last successfully hidden his shame. No + one could witness it now but me. So I was glad. + </p> + <p> + Neither of us said anything as, still with the aid of matches, I + penetrated into the flat. Silently I peered about until I perceived a pair + of candles, which I lighted. Diaz, with his hat on his head and his + umbrella clasped tightly in his hand, fell into a chair. We glanced at + each other. + </p> + <p> + ‘You had better go to bed,’ I suggested. ‘Take your hat off. + You will feel better without it.’ + </p> + <p> + He did not move, and I approached him and gently took his hat. I then + touched the umbrella. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no, no!’ he cried suddenly; ‘I’m always losing this + umbrella, and I won’t let it out of my sight.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you wish,’ I replied coldly. + </p> + <p> + I was standing by him when he got up with a surprising lurch and put a + hand on my shoulder. He evidently meant to kiss me. I kept him at arm’s + length, feeling a sort of icy anger. + </p> + <p> + ‘Go to bed,’ I repeated fiercely. ‘It is the only place for + you.’ + </p> + <p> + He made inarticulate noises in his throat, and ultimately achieved the + remark: + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re very hard, Magda.’ + </p> + <p> + Then he bent himself towards the next room. + </p> + <p> + ‘You will want a candle,’ I said, with bitterness. ‘No; I will + carry it. Let me go first.’ + </p> + <p> + I preceded him through a tiny salon into the bedroom, and, leaving him + there with one candle, came back into the first room. The whole place was + deplorable, though not more deplorable than I had expected from the look + of the street and the house and the stairs and the girl with the large + hat. It was small, badly arranged, disordered, ugly, bare, comfortless, + and, if not very dirty, certainly not clean; not a home, but a kennel—a + kennel furnished with chairs and spotted mirrors and spotted engravings + and a small upright piano; a kennel whose sides were covered with enormous + red poppies, and on whose floor was something which had once been a + carpet; a kennel fitted with windows and curtains; a kennel with actually + a bed! It was the ready-made human kennel of commerce, which every large + city supplies wholesale in tens of thousands to its victims. In that + street there were hundreds such; in the house alone there were probably a + score at least. Their sole virtue was their privacy. Ah the blessedness of + the sacred outer door, which not even the tyrant concierge might violate! + I thought of all the other interiors of the house, floor above floor, and + serried one against another—vile, mean, squalid, cramped, unlovely, + frowsy, fetid; but each lighted and intensely alive with the interplay of + hearts; each cloistered, a secure ground where the instincts that move the + world might show themselves naturally and in secret. There was something + tragically beautiful in that. + </p> + <p> + I had heard uncomfortable sounds from the bedroom. Then Diaz called out: + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s no use. Can’t do it. Can’t get into bed.’ I + went directly to him. He sat on the bed, still clasping the umbrella, one + arm out of his coat. His gloomy and discouraged face was the face of a man + who retires baffled from some tremendously complicated problem. + </p> + <p> + ‘Put down your umbrella,’ I said. ‘Don’t be foolish.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not foolish,’ he retorted irritably. ‘Don’t + want to loosh thish umbrella again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well then,’ I said, ‘hold it in the other hand, and I will + help you.’ + </p> + <p> + This struck him as a marvellous idea, one of those discoveries that + revolutionize science, and he instantly obeyed. He was now very drunk. He + was nauseating. The conventions which society has built up in fifty + centuries ceased suddenly to exist. It was impossible that they should + exist—there in that cabin, where we were alone together, screened, + shut in. I lost even the sense of convention. I was no longer disgusted. + Everything that was seemed natural, ordinary, normal. I became his mother. + I became his hospital nurse. And at length he lay in bed, clutching the + umbrella to his breast. Nothing had induced him to loose it from both + hands at once. The priceless value of the umbrella was the one + clearly-defined notion that illuminated his poor devastated brain. I left + him to his inanimate companion. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + I should have left then, though I had a wish not to leave. But I was + prevented from going by the fear of descending those sinister stairs + alone, and the necessity of calling aloud to the concierge in order to get + out through the main door, and the possible difficulties in finding a cab + in that region at that hour. I knew that I could not have borne to walk + even to the end of the street unprotected. So I stayed where I was, seated + in a chair near the window of the larger room, saturating myself in the + vague and heavy flood of sadness that enwraps the fretful, passionate city + in the night—the night when the commonest noises seem to carry some + mystic message to the listening soul, the night when truth walks abroad + naked and whispers her secrets. + </p> + <p> + A gas-lamp threw its radiance on the ceiling in bars through the slits of + the window-shutters, and then, far in the middle wilderness of the night, + the lamp was extinguished by a careful municipality, and I was left in + utter darkness. Long since the candles had burnt away. I grew silly and + sentimental, and pictured the city in feverish sleep, gaining with + difficulty inadequate strength for the morrow—as if the city had not + been living this life for centuries and did not know exactly what it was + about! And then, sure as I had been that I could not sleep, I woke up, and + I could see the outline of the piano. Dawn had begun. And not a sound + disturbed the street, and not a sound came from Diaz’ bedroom. As of + old, he slept with the tranquillity of a child. + </p> + <p> + And after a time I could see the dust on the piano and on the polished + floor under the table. The night had passed, and it appeared to be almost + a miracle that the night had passed, and that I had lived through it and + was much the same Carlotta still. I gently opened the window and pushed + back the shutters. A young woman, tall, with a superb bust, clothed in + blue, was sweeping the footpath in long, dignified strokes of a broom. She + went slowly from my ken. Nothing could have been more prosaic, more sane, + more astringent. And yet only a few hours—and it had been night, + strange, voluptuous night! And even now a thousand thousand pillows were + warm and crushed under their burden of unconscious dreaming souls. But + that tall woman must go to bed in day, and rise to meet the first wind of + the morning, and perhaps never have known the sweet poison of the night. I + sank back into my chair.... + </p> + <p> + There was a sharp, decisive sound of a key in the lock of the + entrance-door. I jumped up, fully awake, with beating heart and blushing + face. Someone was invading the flat. Someone would catch me there. + </p> + <p> + Of course it was his servant. I had entirely forgotten her. + </p> + <p> + We met in the little passage. She was a stout creature and appeared to + fill the flat. She did not seem very surprised at the sight of me, and she + eyed me with the frigid disdain of one who conforms to a certain code for + one who does not conform to it. She sat in judgment on my well-hung skirt + and the rings on my fingers and the wickedness in my breast, and condemned + me to everlasting obloquy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Madame is going?’ she asked coldly, holding open the door. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, madame,’ I said. ‘Are you the <i>femme de ménage</i> of + monsieur?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, madame.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Monsieur is ill,’ I said, deciding swiftly what to do. ‘He + does not wish to be disturbed. He would like you to return at two o’clock.’ + </p> + <p> + Long before two I should have departed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Monsieur knows well that I have another <i>ménage</i> from twelve to two,’ + protested the woman. + </p> + <p> + ‘Three o’clock, then,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + <i>Bien</i>, madame,’ said she, and, producing the contents of a + reticule: ‘Here are the bread, the butter, the milk, and the newspaper, + madame.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you, madame.’ + </p> + <p> + I took the things, and she left, and I shut the door and bolted it. + </p> + <p> + In anticipation, the circumstances of such an encounter would have caused + me infinite trouble of spirit. ‘But after all it was not so very + dreadful,’ I thought, as I fastened the door. ‘Do I care for + his <i>femme de ménage</i>?’ + </p> + <p> + The great door of the house would be open now, and the stairs no longer + affrighting, and I might slip unobserved away. But I could not bring + myself to leave until I had spoken with Diaz, and I would not wake him. It + was nearly noon when he stirred. I heard his movements, and a slight + moaning sigh, and he called me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you there, Magda?’ + </p> + <p> + How feeble and appealing his voice! + </p> + <p> + For answer I stepped into his bedroom. + </p> + <p> + The eye that has learned to look life full in the face without a quiver of + the lid should find nothing repulsive. Everything that is is the ordered + and calculable result of environment. Nothing can be abhorrent, nothing + blameworthy, nothing contrary to nature. Can we exceed nature? In the + presence of the primeval and ever-continuing forces of nature, can we + maintain our fantastic conceptions of sin and of justice? We are, and that + is all we should dare to say. And yet, when I saw Diaz stretched on that + wretched bed my first movement was one of physical disgust. He had not + shaved for several days. His hair was like a doormat. His face was unclean + and puffed; his lips full and cracked; his eyes all discoloured. If aught + can be vile, he was vile. If aught can be obscene, he was obscene. His + limbs twitched; his features were full of woe and desolation and + abasement. + </p> + <p> + He looked at me heavily, mournfully. + </p> + <p> + ‘Diaz, Diaz!’ said my soul. ‘Have you come to this?’ + </p> + <p> + A great and overmastering pity seized me, and I went to him, and laid my + hand gently on his. He was so nervous and tremulous that he drew away his + hand as if I had burnt it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Magda,’ he murmured, ‘my head! There was a piece of hot + brick in my mouth, and I tried to take it out. But it was my tongue. Can I + have some tea? Will you give me some cold water first?’ + </p> + <p> + Strange that the frank and simple way in which he accepted my presence + there, and assumed my willingness to serve him, filled me with a new joy! + He said nothing of the night. I think that Diaz was one of the few men who + are strong enough never to regret the past. If he was melancholy, it was + merely because he suffered bodily in the present. + </p> + <p> + I gave him water, and he thanked me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now I will make some tea,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + And I went into the tiny kitchen and looked around, lifting my skirts. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you find the things?’ he called out. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s all that splashing?’ he inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m washing a saucepan,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I never have my meals here,’ he called. ‘Only tea. There are + two taps to the gas-stove—one a little way up the chimney.’ + </p> + <p> + Yes, I was joyous, actively so. I brought the tea to the bedroom with a + glad smile. I had put two cups on the tray, which I placed on the + night-table; and there were some biscuits. I sat at the foot of the bed + while we drank. And the umbrella, unperceived by Diaz, lay with its handle + on a pillow, ludicrous and yet accusing. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are an angel,’ said Diaz. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t call me that,’ I protested. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because I wish it,’ I said. ‘Angel’ was Ispenlove’s + word. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then, what shall I call you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My name is Carlotta Peel,’ I said. ‘Not Magdalen at all.’ + </p> + <p> + It was astounding, incredible, that he should be learning my name then for + the first time. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall always call you Magda,’ he responded. + </p> + <p> + ‘And now I must go,’ I stated, when I had explained to him about the + servant. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you’ll come back?’ he cried. + </p> + <p> + No question of his coming to me! I must come to him! + </p> + <p> + ‘To a place like this?’ I demanded. + </p> + <p> + Unthinkingly I put into my voice some of the distaste I felt for his + deplorable apartments, and he was genuinely hurt. I believe that in all + honesty he deemed his apartments to be quite adequate and befitting. His + sensibilities had been so dulled. + </p> + <p> + He threw up his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘if you—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no!’ I stopped him quickly. ‘I will come here. I was only + teasing you. Let me see. I’ll come back at four, just to see how you + are. Won’t you get up in the meantime?’ + </p> + <p> + He smiled, placated. + </p> + <p> + ‘I may do,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to. But in case I don’t, + will you take my key? Where did you put it last night?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have it,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + He summoned me to him just as I was opening the door. + </p> + <p> + ‘Magda!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it?’ + </p> + <p> + I returned. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are magnificent,’ he replied, with charming, impulsive + eagerness, his eyes resting upon me long. He was the old Diaz again. + ‘I can’t thank you. But when you come back I shall play to + you.’ + </p> + <p> + I smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Till four o’clock,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Magda,’ he called again, just as I was leaving, ‘bring one of + your books with you, will you?’ + </p> + <p> + I hesitated, with my hand on the door. When I gave him my name he had made + no sign that it conveyed to him anything out of the ordinary. That was + exactly like Diaz. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you read any of them?’ I asked loudly, without moving from the + door. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ he answered. ‘But I have heard of them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Really!’ I said, keeping my tone free from irony. ‘Well, I + will not bring you one of my books.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not?’ + </p> + <p> + I looked hard at the door in front of me. + </p> + <p> + ‘For you I will be nothing but a woman,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + And I fled down the stairs and past the concierge swiftly into the street, + as anxious as a thief to escape notice. I got a fiacre at once, and drove + away. I would not analyze my heart. I could not. I could but savour the + joy, sweet and fresh, that welled up in it as from some secret source. I + was so excited that I observed nothing outside myself, and when the cab + stopped in front of my hotel, it seemed to me that the journey had + occupied scarcely a few seconds. Do you imagine I was saddened by the + painful spectacle of Diaz’ collapse in life? No! I only knew that he + needed sympathy, and that I could give it to him with both hands. I could + give, give! And the last thing that the egotist in me told me before it + expired was that I was worthy to give. My longing to assuage the lot of + Diaz became almost an anguish. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + I returned at about half-past five, bright and eager, with vague + anticipations. I seemed to have become used to the house. It no longer + offended me, and I had no shame in entering it. I put the key into the + door of Diaz’ flat with a clear, high sense of pleasure. He had + entrusted me with his key; I could go in as I pleased; I need have no fear + of inconveniencing him, of coming at the wrong moment. It seemed + wonderful! And as I turned the key and pushed open the door my sole wish + was to be of service to him, to comfort him, to render his life less + forlorn. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here I am!’ I cried, shutting the door. + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. + </p> + <p> + In the smaller of the two tiny sitting-rooms the piano, which had been + closed, was open, and I saw that it was a Pleyel. But both rooms were + empty. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you still in bed, then?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + There was still no answer. + </p> + <p> + I went cautiously into the bedroom. It, too, was empty. The bed was made, + and the flat generally had a superficial air of tidiness. Evidently the + charwoman had been and departed; and doubtless Diaz had gone out, to + return immediately. I sat down in the chair in which I had spent most of + the night. I took off my hat and put it by the side of a tiny satchel + which I had brought, and began to wait for him. How delicious it would be + to open the door to him! He would notice that I had taken off my hat, and + he would be glad. What did the future, the immediate future, hold for me? + </p> + <p> + A long time I waited, and then I yawned heavily, and remembered that for + several days I had had scarcely any sleep. I shut my eyes to relieve the + tedium of waiting. When I reopened them, dazed, and startled into sudden + activity by mysterious angry noises, it was quite dark. I tried to recall + where I was, and to decide what the noises could be. I regained my + faculties with an effort. The noises were a beating on the door. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is Diaz,’ I said to myself; ‘and he can’t get in!’ + </p> + <p> + And I felt very guilty because I had slept. I must have slept for hours. + Groping for a candle, I lighted it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Coming! coming!’ I called in a loud voice. + </p> + <p> + And I went into the passage with the candle and opened the door. + </p> + <p> + It was Diaz. The gas was lighted on the stairs. Between that and my candle + he stood conspicuous in all his details. Swaying somewhat, he supported + himself by the balustrade, and was thus distant about two feet from the + door. He was drunk—viciously drunk; and in an instant I knew the + cruel truth concerning him, and wondered that I had not perceived it + before. He was a drunkard—simply that. He had not taken to drinking + as a consequence of nervous breakdown. Nervous breakdown was a euphemism + for the result of alcoholic excess. I saw his slow descent as in a vision, + and everything was explained. My heart leapt. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can save him,’ I said to myself. ‘I can restore him.’ + </p> + <p> + I was aware of the extreme difficulty of curing a drunkard, of the immense + proportion of failures. But, I thought, if a woman such as I cannot by the + lavishing of her whole soul and body deliver from no matter what fiend a + man such as Diaz, then the world has changed, and the eternal Aphrodite is + dead. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can save him!’ I repeated. + </p> + <p> + Oh, heavenly moment! + </p> + <p> + ‘Aren’t you coming in?’ I addressed him quietly. ‘I’ve + been waiting for you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you?’ he angrily replied. ‘I waited long enough for you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ I said, ‘come in.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is it?’ he demanded. ‘I inzizt—who is it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s I,’ I answered; ‘Magda.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s no’ wha’ I mean,’ he went on. ‘And + wha’s more—you know it. Who is it addrezzes you, madame?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why,’ I humoured him, ‘it’s you, of course—Diaz.’ + </p> + <p> + There was the sound of a door opening on one of the lower storeys, and I + hoped I had pacified him, and that he would enter; but I was mistaken. He + stamped his foot furiously on the landing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Diaz!’ he protested, shouting. ‘Who dares call me Diaz? Wha’s + my full name?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Emilio Diaz,’ I murmured meekly. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s better,’ he grumbled. ‘What am I?’ + </p> + <p> + I hesitated. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wha’ am I?’ he roared; and his voice went up and down the + echoing staircase. ‘I won’t put foot ev’n on doormat + till I’m told wha’ I am here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are the—the master,’ I said. ‘But do come in.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The mas’r! Mas’r of wha’?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Master of the pianoforte,’ I answered at once. + </p> + <p> + He smiled, suddenly appeased, and put his foot unsteadily on the doormat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good!’ he said. ‘But, un’stan’, I wouldn’t + ev’n have pu’ foot on doormat—no, not ev’n on + doormat—’ + </p> + <p> + And he came in, and I shut the door, and I was alone with my wild beast. + </p> + <p> + ‘Kiss me,’ he commanded. + </p> + <p> + I kissed him on the mouth. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t put your arms roun’ me,’ he growled. + </p> + <p> + So I deposited the candle on the floor, and put my arms round his neck, + standing on tip-toe, and kissed him again. + </p> + <p> + He went past me, staggering and growling, into the sitting-room at the end + of the passage, and furiously banged down the lid of the piano, so that + every cord in it jangled deafeningly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Light the lamp,’ he called out. + </p> + <p> + ‘In one second,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + I locked the outer door on the inside, slipped the key into my pocket, and + picked up the candle. + </p> + <p> + ‘What were you doing out there?’ he demanded. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I had to pick the candle up.’ + </p> + <p> + He seized my hat from the table and threw it to the floor. Then he sat + down. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nex’ time,’ he remarked, ‘you’ll know better’n + to keep me waiting.’ + </p> + <p> + I lighted a lamp. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘Won’t you go to bed?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall go to bed when I want,’ he answered. ‘I’m + thirsty. In the cupboard you’ll see a bottle. I’ll trouble you + to give it me, with a glass and some water.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This cupboard?’ I said questioningly, opening a cupboard papered to + match the rest of the wall. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But surely you can’t be thirsty, Diaz?’ I protested. + </p> + <p> + ‘Must I repea’ wha’ I said?’ he glared at me. ‘I’m + thirsty. Give me the bottle.’ + </p> + <p> + I took out the bottle nearest to hand. It was of a dark green colour, and + labelled ‘Extrait d’Absinthe. Pernod fils.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not this one, Diaz?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he insisted. ‘Give it me. And get a glass and some + water.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said firmly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wha’? You won’t give it me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + He jumped up recklessly and faced me. His hat fell off the back of his + head. + </p> + <p> + ‘Give me that bottle!’ + </p> + <p> + His breath poisoned the room. + </p> + <p> + I retreated in the direction of the window, and put my hand on the knob. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + He sprang at me, but not before I had opened the window and thrown out the + bottle. I heard it fall in the roadway with a crash and scattering of + glass. Happily it had harmed no one. Diaz was momentarily checked. He + hesitated. I eyed him as steadily as I could, closing the while the window + behind me with my right hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘He may try to kill me,’ I thought. + </p> + <p> + My heart was thudding against my dress, not from fear, but from + excitement. My situation seemed impossible to me, utterly passing belief. + Yesterday I had been a staid spinster, attended by a maid, in a hotel of + impeccable propriety. Today I had locked myself up alone with a riotous + drunkard in a vile flat in a notorious Parisian street. Was I mad? What + force, secret and powerful, had urged me on?... And there was the foul + drunkard, with clenched hands and fiery eyes, undecided whether or not to + murder me. And I waited. + </p> + <p> + He moved away, inarticulately grumbling, and resumed with difficulty his + hat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ver’ well,’ he hiccupped morosely, ‘ver’ well; I’m + going. Tha’s all.’ + </p> + <p> + He lurched into the passage, and then I heard him fumbling a long time + with the outer door. He left the door and went into his bedroom, and + finally returned to me. He held one hand behind his back. I had sunk into + a chair by the small table on which the lamp stood, with my satchel beside + it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now!’ he said, halting in front of me. ‘You’ve locked + tha’ door. I can’t go out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I admitted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Give me the key.’ + </p> + <p> + I shook my head. + </p> + <p> + ‘Give me the key,’ he cried. ‘I mus’ have the key.’ + </p> + <p> + I shook my head. + </p> + <p> + Then he showed his right hand, and it held a revolver. He bent slightly + over the table, staring down at me as I stared up at him. But as his chin + felt the heat rising from the chimney of the lamp, he shifted a little to + one side. I might have rushed for shelter into some other room; I might + have grappled with him; I might have attempted to soothe him. But I could + neither stir nor speak. Least of all, could I give him the key—for + him to go and publish his own disgrace in the thoroughfares. So I just + gazed at him, inactive. + </p> + <p> + ‘I s’ll kill you!’ he muttered, and raised the revolver. + </p> + <p> + My throat became suddenly dry. I tried to make the motion of swallowing, + and could not. And looking at the revolver, I perceived in a swift + revelation the vast folly of my inexperience. Since he was already drunk, + why had I not allowed him to drink more, to drink himself into a stupor? + Drunkards can only be cured when they are sober. To commence a course of + moral treatment at such a moment as I had chosen was indeed the act of a + woman. However, it was too late to reclaim the bottle from the street. + </p> + <p> + I saw that he meant to kill me. And I knew that previously, during our + encounter at the window, I had only pretended to myself that I thought + there was a risk of his killing me. I had pretended, in order to increase + the glory of my martyrdom in my own sight. Moreover, my brain, which was + working with singular clearness, told me that for his sake I ought to give + up the key. His exposure as a helpless drunkard would be infinitely + preferable to his exposure as a murderer. + </p> + <p> + Yet I could not persuade myself to relinquish the key. If I did so, he + would imagine that he had frightened me. But I had no fear, and I could + not bear that he should think I had. + </p> + <p> + He fired. + </p> + <p> + My ears sang. The room was full of a new odour, and a cloud floated + reluctantly upwards from the mouth of the revolver. I sneezed, and then I + grew aware that, firing at a distant of two feet, he had missed me. What + had happened to the bullet I could not guess. He put the revolver down on + the table with a groan, and the handle rested on my satchel. + </p> + <p> + ‘My God, Magda!’ he sighed, pushing back his hair with his beautiful + hand. + </p> + <p> + He was somewhat sobered. I said nothing, but I observed that the lamp was + smoking, and I turned down the wick. I was so self-conscious, so + irresolute, so nonplussed, that in sheer awkwardness, like a girl at a + party who does not know what to do with her hands, I pushed the revolver + off the satchel, and idly unfastened the catch of the satchel. Within it, + among other things, was my sedative. I, too, had fallen the victim of a + habit. For five years a bad sleeper, I had latterly developed into a very + bad sleeper, and my sedative was accordingly strong. + </p> + <p> + A notion struck me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Drink a little of this, my poor Diaz!’ I murmured. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘It will make you sleep,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + With a convulsive movement he clutched the bottle and uncorked it, and + before I could interfere he had drunk nearly the whole of its contents. + </p> + <p> + ‘Stop!’ I cried. ‘You will kill yourself!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What matter!’ he exclaimed; and staggered off to the darkness of + the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + I followed him with the lamp, but he had already fallen on the bed, and + seemed to be heavily asleep. I shook him; he made no response. + </p> + <p> + ‘At any cost he must he roused,’ I said aloud. ‘He must be + forced to walk.’ + </p> + <p> + There was a knocking at the outer door, low, discreet, and continuous. It + sounded to me like a deliverance. Whoever might be there must aid me to + waken Diaz. I ran to the door, taking the key out of my pocket, and opened + it. A tall woman stood on the doormat. It was the girl that I had glimpsed + on the previous night in the large hat ascending the stairs with a man. + But now her bright golden head was uncovered, and she wore a blue <i>peignoir</i>, + such as is sold ready made, with its lace and its ribbons, at all the big + Paris shops. + </p> + <p> + We both hesitated. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, pardon, madame,’ she said, in a thin, sweet voice in French. + ‘I was at my door, and it seemed to me that I heard—a + revolver. Nothing serious has passed, then? Pardon, madame.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing, thank you. You are very amiable, madame,’ I replied + stiffly. + </p> + <p> + ‘All my excuses, madame,’ said she, turning away. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no!’ I exclaimed. ‘I am wrong. Do not go. Someone is ill—very + ill. If you would—’ + </p> + <p> + She entered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where? What is it?’ she inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘He is in the bedroom—here.’ + </p> + <p> + We both spoke breathlessly, hurrying to the bedroom, after I had fetched + the lamp. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wounded? He has done himself harm? Ah!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said, ‘not that.’ + </p> + <p> + And I explained to her that Diaz had taken at least six doses of my strong + solution of trional. + </p> + <p> + I seized the lamp and held it aloft over the form of the sleeper, which + lay on its side cross-wise, the feet projecting a little over the edge of + the bed, the head bent forward and missing the pillow, the arms stretched + out in front—the very figure of abandoned and perfect + unconsciousness. And the girl and I stared at Diaz, our shoulders + touching, in the kennel. + </p> + <p> + ‘He must be made to walk about,’ I said. ‘You would be + extremely kind to help me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, madame,’ she replied. ‘He will be very well like that. + When one is alcoholic, one cannot poison one’s self; it is + impossible. All the doctors will tell you as much. Your friend will sleep + for twenty hours—twenty-four hours—and he will waken himself + quite re-established.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are sure? You know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know, madame. Be tranquil. Leave him. He could not have done better. It + is perfect.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps I should fetch a doctor?’ I suggested. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is not worth the pain,’ she said, with conviction. ‘You + would have vexations uselessly. Leave him.’ + </p> + <p> + I gazed at her, studying her, and I was satisfied. With her fluffly locks, + and her simple eyes, and her fragile face, and her long hands, she had, + nevertheless, the air of knowing profoundly her subject. She was a great + expert on males and all that appertained to them, especially their vices. + I was the callow amateur. I was compelled to listen with respect to this + professor in the professor’s garb. I was impressed, in spite of + myself. + </p> + <p> + ‘One might arrange him more comfortably,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + And we lifted the senseless victim, and put him on his back, and + straightened his limbs, as though he had been a corpse. + </p> + <p> + ‘How handsome he is!’ murmured my visitor, half closing her eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘You think so?’ I said politely, as if she had been praising one of + my private possessions. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes. We are neighbours, madame. I have frequently remarked him, you + understand, on the stairs, in the street.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Has he been here long?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘About a year, madame. You have, perhaps, not seen him since a long time. + An old friend?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is ten years ago,’ I replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! Ten years! In England, without doubt?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In England, yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ten years!’ she repeated, musing. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am certain she has a kind heart,’ I said to myself, and I decided + to question her: ‘Will you not sit down, madame?’ I invited + her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, madame! it is you who should sit down,’ she said quickly. + ‘You must have suffered.’ + </p> + <p> + We both sat down. There were only two chairs in the room. + </p> + <p> + ‘I would like to ask you,’ I said, leaning forward towards her, + ‘have you ever seen him—drunk—before?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ she replied instantly; ‘never before yesterday evening.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Be frank,’ I urged her, smiling sadly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should I not be frank, madame?’ she said, with a grave, gentle + appeal. + </p> + <p> + It was as if she had said: ‘We are talking woman to woman. I know + one of your secrets. You can guess mine. The male is present, but he is + deaf. What reason, therefore, for deceit?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am much obliged to you,’ I breathed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Decidedly he is alcoholic—that + sees itself,’ she proceeded. ‘But drunk—no!... He was + always alone.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Always alone?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Always.’ + </p> + <p> + Her eyes filled. I thought I had never seen a creature more gentle, + delicate, yielding, acquiescent, and fair. She was not beautiful, but she + had grace and distinction of movement. She was a Parisienne. She had won + my sympathy. We met in a moment when my heart needed the companionship of + a woman’s heart, and I was drawn to her by one of those sudden + impulses that sometimes draw women to each other. I cared not what she + was. Moreover, she had excited my curiosity. She was a novelty in my life. + She was something that I had heard of, and seen—yes, and perhaps + envied in secret, but never spoken with. And she shattered all my + preconceptions about her. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are an old tenant of this house?’ I ventured. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘it suits me. But the great heats are + terrible here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You do not leave Paris, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never. Except to see my little boy.’ + </p> + <p> + I started, envious of her, and also surprised. It seemed strange that this + ribboned and elegant and plastic creature, whose long, thin arms were used + only to dalliance, should be a mother. + </p> + <p> + ‘So you have a little boy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; he lives with my parents at Meudon. He is four years old. + </p> + <p> + ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Be frank with me once again. Do you love + your child, honestly? So many women don’t, it appears.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do I love him?’ she cried, and her face glowed with her love. + ‘I adore him!’ Her sincerity was touching and overwhelming. + ‘And he loves me, too. If he is naughty, one has only to tell him + that he will make his <i>petite mère</i> ill, and he will be good at once. + When he is told to obey his grandfather, because his grandfather provides + his food, he says bravely: “No, not grandpapa; it is <i>petite mère</i>!” + Is it not strange he should know that I pay for him? He has a little + engraving of the Queen of Italy, and he says it is his <i>petite mère</i>. + Among the scores of pictures he has he keeps only that one. He takes it to + bed with him. It is impossible to deprive him of it.’ + </p> + <p> + She smiled divinely. + </p> + <p> + ‘How beautiful!’ I said. ‘And you go to see him often?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As often as I have time. I take him out for walks. I run with him till we + reach the woods, where I can have him to myself alone. I never stop; I + avoid people. No one except my parents knows that he is my child. One + supposes he is a nurse-child, received by my parents. But all the world + will know now,’ she added, after a pause. ‘Last Monday I went + to Meudon with my friend Alice, and Alice wanted to buy him some sweets at + the grocer’s. In the shop I asked him if he would like <i>dragées</i>, + and he said “Yes.” The grocer said to him, “Yes who, + young man?” “Yes, <i>petite mère</i>,” he said, very + loudly and bravely. The grocer understood. We all lowered our heads.’ + </p> + <p> + There was something so affecting in the way she half whispered the last + phrase, that I could have wept; and yet it was comical, too, and she + appreciated that. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have no child, madame?’ she asked me. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said. ‘How I envy you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You need not,’ she observed, with a touch of hardness. ‘I + have been so unhappy, that I can never be as unhappy again. Nothing + matters now. All I wish is to save enough money to be able to live quietly + in a little cottage in the country.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘With your child,’ I put in. + </p> + <p> + ‘My child will grow up and leave me. He will become a man, and he will + forget his <i>petite mère.‘</i> + </p> + <p> + ‘Do not talk like that,’ I protested. + </p> + <p> + She glanced at me almost savagely. I was astonished at the sudden change + in her face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not?’ she inquired coldly. ‘Is it not true, then? Do you + still believe that there is any difference between one man and another? + They are all alike—all, all, all! I know. And it is we who suffer, + we others.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But surely you have some tender souvenir of your child’s father?’ + I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do I know who my child’s father is?’ she demanded. ‘My + child has thirty-six fathers!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You seem very bitter,’ I said, ‘for your age. You are much + younger than I am.’ + </p> + <p> + She smiled and shook her honey-coloured hair, and toyed with the ribbons + of her <i>peignoir</i>. + </p> + <p> + ‘What I say is true,’ she said gently. ‘But, there, what would + you have? We hate them, but we love them. They are beasts! beasts! but we + cannot do without them!’ + </p> + <p> + Her eyes rested on Diaz for a moment. He slept without the least sound, + the stricken and futile witness of our confidences. + </p> + <p> + ‘You will take him away from Paris soon, perhaps?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘If I can,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + There was a sound of light footsteps on the stair. They stopped at the + door, which I remembered we had not shut. I jumped up and went into the + passage. Another girl stood in the doorway, in a <i>peignoir</i> the exact + counterpart of my first visitor’s, but rose-coloured. And this one, + too, was languorous and had honey-coloured locks. It was as though the + mysterious house was full of such creatures, each with her secret lair. + </p> + <p> + ‘Pardon, madame,’ said my visitor, following and passing me; and + then to the newcomer: ‘What is it, Alice?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is Monsieur Duchatel who is arrived.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh!’ with a disdainful gesture. ‘<i>Je m’en fiche.</i> + Let him go.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But it is the nephew, my dear; not the uncle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, the nephew! I come. <i>Bon soir, madams, et bonne nuit</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + The two <i>peignoirs</i> fluttered down the stairs together. I returned to + my Diaz, and seeing his dressing-gown behind the door of the bedroom, I + took it and covered him with it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + His first words were: + </p> + <p> + ‘Magda, you look like a ghost. Have you been sitting there like that all + the time?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I said; ‘I lay down.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By your side.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What time is it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tea-time. The water is boiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘Was I dreadful last night?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dreadful? How?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have a sort of recollection of getting angry and stamping about. I didn’t + do anything foolish?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You took a great deal too much of my sedative,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘I feel quite well,’ he said; ‘but I didn’t know I had + taken any sedative at all. I’m glad I didn’t do anything silly + last night.’ + </p> + <p> + I ran away to prepare the tea. The situation was too much for me. + </p> + <p> + ‘My poor Diaz!’ I said, when we had begun to drink the tea, and he + was sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes full of sleep, his chin + rough, and his hair magnificently disarranged, ‘you did one thing + that was silly last night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t tell me I struck you?’ he cried. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh no!’ and I laughed. ‘Can’t you guess what I mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean I got vilely drunk.’ + </p> + <p> + I nodded. + </p> + <p> + ‘Magda,’ he burst out passionately, seeming at this point fully to + arouse himself, to resume acutely his consciousness, ‘why were you + late? You said four o’clock. I thought you had deceived me. I + thought I had disgusted you, and that you didn’t mean to return. I + waited more than an hour and a quarter, and then I went out in despair.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I came just afterwards,’ I protested. ‘You had only to + wait a few more minutes. Surely you could have waited a few more minutes?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You said four o’clock,’ he repeated obstinately. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was barely half-past five when I came,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had meant never to drink again,’ he went on. + </p> + <p> + ‘You were so kind to me. But then, when you didn’t come—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You doubted me, Diaz. You ought to have been sure of me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was wrong.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no!’ I said. ‘It was I who was wrong. But I never thought + that an hour and a half would make any difference.’ + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, Magda, Magda!’—he suddenly began to weep; it was + astounding—‘remember that you had deserted me once before. + Remember that. If you had not done that, my life might have been + different. It <i>would</i> have been different.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t say so,’ I pleaded. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I must say so. You cannot imagine how solitary my life has been. + Magda, I loved you.’ + </p> + <p> + And I too wept. + </p> + <p> + His accent was sincerity itself. I saw the young girl hurrying secretly + out of the Five Towns Hotel. Could it be true that she had carried away + with her, unknowing, the heart of Diaz? Could it be true that her panic + flight had ruined a career? The faint possibility that it was true made me + sick with vain grief. + </p> + <p> + ‘And now I am old and forgotten and disgraced,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘How old are you, Diaz?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thirty-six,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why,’ I said, ‘you have thirty years to live.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; and what years?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Famous years. Brilliant years.’ + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am done for—’ he murmured, and his head sank. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you so weak, then?’ I took his hand. ‘Are you so weak? + Look at me.’ + </p> + <p> + He obeyed, and his wet eyes met mine. In that precious moment I lived. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘You could not have looked at me if you had not been strong, very strong,’ + I said firmly. ‘You told me once that you had a house near + Fontainebleau. Have you still got it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let us go there, and—and—see.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should like to go,’ I insisted, with a break in my voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘My God!’ he exclaimed in a whisper, ‘my God!’ + </p> + <p> + I was sobbing violently, and my forehead was against the rough stuff of + his coat. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + And one morning, long afterwards, I awoke very early, and the murmuring of + the leaves of the forest came through the open window. I had known that I + should wake very early, in joyous anticipation of that day. And as I lay + he lay beside me, lost in the dreamless, boyish, natural sleep that he + never sought in vain. He lay, as always, slightly on his right side, with + his face a little towards me—his face that was young again, and from + which the bane had passed. It was one of the handsomest, fairest faces in + the world, one of the most innocent, and one of the strongest; the face of + a man who follows his instincts with the direct simplicity of a savage or + a child, and whose instincts are sane and powerful. Seen close, perfectly + at rest, as I saw it morning after morning, it was full of a special and + mysterious attraction. The fine curves of the nostrils and of the lobe of + the ear, the masterful lines of the mouth, the contours of the cheek and + chin and temples, the tints of the flesh subtly varying from rose to + ivory, the golden crown of hair, the soft moustache. I had learned every + detail by heart; my eyes had dwelt on them till they had become my soul’s + inheritance, till they were mystically mine, drawing me ever towards them, + as a treasure draws. Gently moving, I would put my ear close, close, and + listen to the breath of life as it entered regularly, almost + imperceptibly, vivifying that organism in repose. There is something + terrible in the still beauty of sleep. It is as though the spiritual + fabric hangs inexplicably over the precipice of death. It seems + impossible, or at least miraculous, that the intake and the expulsion upon + which existence depends should continue thus, minute by minute, hour by + hour. It is as though one stood on the very confines of life, and could + one trace but one step more, one single step, one would unveil the eternal + secret. I would not listen long; the torture was too sweet, too exquisite, + and I would gently slide back to my place.... His hand was on the + counterpane, near to my breast—the broad hand of the pianist, with a + wrist of incredible force, and the fingers tapering suddenly at the end to + a point. I let my own descend on it as softly as snow. Ah, ravishing + contact! He did not move. And while my small hand touched his I gazed into + the spaces of the bedroom, with its walls of faded blue tapestry and its + white curtains, and its marble and rosewood, and they seemed to hold + peace, as the hollows of a field hold dew; they seemed to hold happiness + as a great tree holds sunlight in its branches; and outside was the + murmuring of the leaves of the forest and the virginal freshness of the + morning. + </p> + <p> + Surely he must wake earlier that day! I pursed my lips and blew tenderly, + mischievously, on his cheek, lying with my cheek full on the pillow, so + that I could watch him. The muscles of his mouth twitched, his inner being + appeared to protest. And then began the first instinctive blind movement + of the day with him. His arms came forward and found my neck, and drew me + forcibly to him, and then, just before our lips touched, he opened his + eyes and shut them again. So it occurred every morning. Ere even his brain + had resumed activity his heart had felt its need of me. This it was that + was so wonderful, so overpowering! And the kiss, languid and yet warm, + heavy with a human scent, with the scent of the night, honest, sensuous, + and long—long! As I lay thus, clasped in his arms, I half closed my + eyes, and looked into his eyes through my lashes, smiling, and all was a + delicious blur.... + </p> + <p> + It was the summit of bliss! No! I have never mounted higher! I asked + myself, astounded, what I had done that I should receive such happiness, + what I had done that existence should have no flaw for me. And what <i>had</i> + I done? I know not, I know not. It passes me. I am lost in my joy. For I + had not even cured him. I had anticipated painful scenes, interminable + struggles, perhaps a relapse. But nothing of the kind. He had simply + ceased at once the habit—that was all. We never left each other. And + his magnificent constitution had perfectly recovered itself in a few + months. I had done nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Magda,’ he murmured indistinctly, drawing his mouth an inch away + from mine, ‘why can’t your dark hair always be loose over your + shoulders like that? It is glorious!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What ideas you have!’ I murmured, more softly than he. ‘And + do you know what it is to-day?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve forgotten?’ I pouted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Guess.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; you must tell me. Not your birthday? Not mine?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s just a year since I met you,’ I whispered timidly. + </p> + <p> + Our mouths met again, and, so enlocked, we rested, savouring the true + savour of life. And presently my hand stole up to his head and stroked his + curls. + </p> + <p> + Every morning he began to practise at eight o’clock, and continued + till eleven. The piano, a Steinway in a hundred Steinways, was in the + further of the two drawing-rooms. He would go into the room smoking a + cigarette, and when he had thrown away the cigarette I would leave him. + And as soon as I had closed the door the first notes would resound, slow + and solemn, of the five-finger exercises with which he invariably + commenced his studies. That morning, as often, I sat writing in the + enclosed garden. I always wrote in pencil on my knee. The windows of the + drawing-room were wide open, and Diaz’ music filled the garden. The + sheer beauty of his tone was such that to hear him strike even an isolated + note gave pleasure. He created beauty all the time. His five-finger + exercises were lovely patterns of sound woven with exact and awful + deliberation. It seemed impossible that these should be the same bald and + meaningless inventions which I had been wont to repeat. They were + transformed. They were music. The material in which he built them was + music itself, enchanting the ear as much by the quality of the tone as by + the impeccable elegance of the form. To hear Diaz play a scale, to catch + that measured, tranquil succession of notes, each a different jewel of + equal splendour, each dying precisely when the next was born—this + was to perceive at last what music is made of, to have glimpses of the + divine magic that is the soul of the divinest art. I used to believe that + nothing could surpass the beauty of a scale, until Diaz, after writing + formal patterns in the still air innumerably, and hypnotizing me with that + sorcery, would pass suddenly to the repetition of fragments of Bach. And + then I knew that hitherto he had only been trying to be more purely and + severely mechanical than a machine, and that now the interpreter was at + work. I have heard him repeat a passage fifty times—and so slowly!—and + each rendering seemed more beautiful than the last; and it was more + beautiful than the last. He would extract the final drop of beauty from + the most beautiful things in the world. Washed, drenched in this + circumambient ether of beauty, I wrote my verse. Perhaps it may appear + almost a sacrilege that I should have used the practising of a Diaz as a + background for my own creative activity. I often thought so. But when one + has but gold, one must put it to lowly use. So I wrote, and he passed from + Bach to Chopin. + </p> + <p> + Usually he would come out into the garden for five minutes at half-past + nine to smoke a cigarette, but that morning it had struck ten before the + music ceased. I saw him. He walked absent-minded along the terrace in the + strange silence that had succeeded. He was wearing his riding-breeches, + for we habitually rode at eleven. And that morning I did not hide my work + when he came. It was, in fact, finished; the time had arrived to disclose + it. He stopped in front of me in the sunlight, utterly preoccupied with + himself and his labours. He had the rapt look on his face which results + from the terrible mental and spiritual strain of practising as he + practised. + </p> + <p> + ‘Satisfied?’ I asked him. + </p> + <p> + He frowned. + </p> + <p> + ‘There are times when one gets rather inspired,’ he said, looking at + me, as it were, without seeing me. ‘It’s as if the whole soul + gets into one’s hands. That’s what’s wanted.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You had it this morning?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A bit.’ + </p> + <p> + He smiled with candid joy. + </p> + <p> + ‘While I was listening—’ I began. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh!’ he broke in impulsively, violently, ‘it isn’t you + that have to listen. It’s I that have to listen. It’s the + player that has to listen. He’s got to do more than listen. He’s + got to be <i>in</i> the piano with his inmost heart. If he isn’t on + the full stretch of analysis the whole blessed time, he might just as well + be turning the handle of a barrel-organ.’ + </p> + <p> + He always talked about his work during the little ‘recess’ + which he took in the middle of the morning. He pretended to be talking to + me, but it was to himself that he talked. He was impatient if I spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall be greater than ever,’ he proceeded, after a moment. And + his attitude towards himself was so disengaged, so apart and aloof, so + critically appreciative, that it was impossible to accuse him of egoism. + He was, perhaps, as amazed at his own transcendent gift as any other + person could be, and he was incapable of hiding his sensations. ‘Yes,’ + he repeated; ‘I think I shall be greater than ever. You see, a + Chopin player is born; you can’t make him. With Chopin it’s + not a question of intellect. It’s all tone with Chopin—<i>tone</i>, + my child, even in the most bravura passages. You’ve got to get it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I agreed. + </p> + <p> + He gazed over the tree-tops into the blue sky. + </p> + <p> + ‘I may be ready in six months,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you will,’ I concurred, with a judicial air. But I honestly + deemed him to be more than ready then. + </p> + <p> + Twelve months previously he had said: ‘With six hours’ + practice a day for two years I shall recover what I have lost.’ + </p> + <p> + He had succeeded beyond his hopes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you writing in that book?’ he inquired carelessly as he threw + down the cigarette and turned away. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have just finished something,’ I replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh!’ he said, ‘I’m glad you aren’t idle. It’s + so boring.’ + </p> + <p> + He returned to the piano, perfectly incurious about what I did, + self-absorbed as a god. And I was alone in the garden, with the semicircle + of trees behind me, and the façade of the old house and its terrace in + front. And lying on the lawn, just under the terrace, was the white end of + the cigarette which he had abandoned; it breathed upwards a thin spiral of + blue smoke through the morning sunshine, and then it ceased to breathe. + And the music recommenced, on a different plane, more brilliantly than + before. It was as though, till then, he had been laboriously building the + bases of a tremendous triumphal arch, and that now the two wings met, + dazzlingly, soaringly, in highest heaven, and the completed arch became a + rainbow glittering in the face of the infinite. He played two of his great + concert pieces, and their intricate melodies—brocaded, embroidered, + festooned—poured themselves through the windows into the garden in a + procession majestic and impassioned, perturbing the intent soul of the + solitary listener, swathing her in intoxicating sound. It was the unique + virtuoso born again, proudly displaying the ultimate sublime end of all + those slow-moving exercises to which he had subdued his fingers. Not for + ten years had I heard him play so. + </p> + <p> + When we first came into the house I had said bravely to myself: ‘His + presence shall not deter me from practising as I have always done.’ + And one afternoon I had sat down to the piano full of determination to + practise without fear of him, without self-consciousness. But before my + hands had touched the keys shame took me, unreasoning, terror-struck + shame, and I knew in an instant that while he lived I should never more + play the piano. He laughed lightly when I told him, and I called myself + silly. Yet now, as I sat in the garden, I saw how right I had been. And I + wondered that I should ever have had the audacity even to dream of playing + in his house; the idea was grotesque. And he did not ask me to play, save + when there arrived new orchestral music arranged for four hands. Then I + steeled myself to the ordeal of playing with him, because he wished to try + over the music. And he would thank me, and say that pianoforte duets were + always very enjoyable. But he did not pretend that I was not an amateur, + and he never—thank God!—suggested that we should attempt <i>Tristan</i> + again.... + </p> + <p> + At last he finished. And I heard distantly the bell which he had rung for + his glass of milk. And, remembering that I was not ready for the ride, I + ran with guilty haste into the house and upstairs. + </p> + <p> + The two bay horses were waiting, our English groom at their heads, when I + came out to the porch. Diaz was impatiently tapping his boot with his + whip. He was not in the least a sporting man, but he loved the sensation + of riding, and the groom would admit that he rode passably; but he loved + more to strut in breeches, and to imitate in little ways the sporting man. + I had learnt to ride in order to please him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come along,’ he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + His eyes said: ‘You are always late.’ And I was. Some people + always know exactly what point they have reached in the maze and jungle of + the day, just as mariners are always aware, at the back of their minds, of + the state of the tide. But I was not born so. + </p> + <p> + Diaz helped me to mount, and we departed, jingling through the gate and + across the road into a glade of the forest, one of those long sandy + defiles, banked on either side, and over-shadowed with tall oaks, which + pierce the immense forest like rapiers. The sunshine slanted through the + crimsoning leafwork and made irregular golden patches on the dark sand to + the furthest limit of the perspective. And though we could not feel the + autumn wind, we could hear it in the tree-tops, and it had the sound of + the sea. The sense of well-being and of joy was exquisite. The beauty of + horses, timid creatures, sensitive and graceful and irrational as young + girls, is a thing apart; and what is strange is that their vast strength + does not seem incongruous with it. To be above that proud and lovely + organism, listening, apprehensive, palpitating, nervous far beyond the + human, to feel one’s self almost part of it by intimate contact, to + yield to it, and make it yield, to draw from it into one’s self some + of its exultant vitality—in a word, to ride—yes, I could + comprehend Diaz’ fine enthusiasm for that! I could share it when he + was content to let the horses amble with noiseless hoofs over the soft + ways. But when he would gallop, and a strong wind sprang up to meet our + faces, and the earth shook and thundered, and the trunks of the trees + raced past us, then I was afraid. My fancy always saw him senseless at the + foot of a tree while his horse calmly cropped the short grass at the sides + of the path, or with his precious hand twisted and maimed! And I was in + agony till he reined in. I never dared to speak to him of this fear, nor + even hint to him that the joy was worth less than the peril. He would have + been angry in his heart, and something in him stronger than himself would + have forced him to increase the risks. I knew him! ... Ah! but when we + went gently, life seemed to be ideal for me, impossibly perfect! It seemed + to contain all that I could ever have demanded of it. + </p> + <p> + I looked at him sideways, so noble and sane and self-controlled. And the + days in Paris had receded, far and dim and phantom-like. Was it + conceivable that they had once been real, and that we had lived through + them? And was this Diaz, the world-renowned darling of capitals, riding by + me, a woman whom he had met by fantastic chance? Had he really hidden + himself in my arms from the cruel stare of the world and the insufferable + curiosity of admirers who, instead of admiring, had begun to pity? Had I + in truth saved him? Was it I who would restore him to his glory? Oh, the + astounding romance that my life had been! And he was with me! He shared my + life, and I his! I wondered what would happen when he returned to his + bright kingdom. I was selfish enough to wish that he might never return to + his kingdom, and that we might ride and ride for ever in the forest. + </p> + <p> + And then we came to a circular clearing, with an iron cross in the middle, + where roads met, a place such as occurs magically in some ballade of + Chopin’s. And here we drew rein on the leaf-strewn grass, breathing + quickly, with reddened cheeks, and the horses nosed each other, with long + stretchings of the neck and rattling of bits. + </p> + <p> + ‘So you’ve been writing again?’ said Diaz, smiling + quizzically. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘I’ve been writing a long time, but I + haven’t let <i>you</i> know anything about it; and just to-day I’ve + finished it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it—another novel?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; a little drama in verse.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Going to publish it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, naturally.’ + </p> + <p> + Diaz was aware that I enjoyed fame in England and America. He was probably + aware that my books had brought me a considerable amount of money. He had + read some of my works, and found them excellent—indeed, he was quite + proud of my talent. But he did not, he could not, take altogether + seriously either my talent or my fame. I knew that he always regarded me + as a child gracefully playing at a career. For him there was only one sort + of fame; all the other sorts were shadows. A supreme violinist might, + perhaps, approach the real thing, in his generous mind; but he was + incapable of honestly believing that any fame compared with that of a + pianist. The other fames were very well, but they were paste to the + precious stone, gewgaws to amuse simple persons. The sums paid to sopranos + struck him as merely ridiculous in their enormity. He could not be called + conceited; nevertheless, he was magnificently sure that he had been, and + still was, the most celebrated person in the civilized world. Certainly he + had no superiors in fame, but he would not admit the possibility of + equals. Of course, he never argued such a point; it was a tacit + assumption, secure from argument. And with that he profoundly reverenced + the great composers. The death of Brahms affected him for years. He + regarded it as an occasion for universal sorrow. Had Brahms condescended + to play the piano, Diaz would have turned the pages for him, and deemed + himself honoured—him whom queens had flattered! + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you imagine,’ I began to tease him, after a pause, ‘that + while you are working I spend my time in merely existing?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You exist—that is enough, my darling,’ he said. ‘Strange + that a beautiful woman can’t understand that in existing she is + doing her life’s work!’ + </p> + <p> + And he leaned over and touched my right wrist below the glove. + </p> + <p> + ‘You dear thing!’ I murmured, smiling. ‘How foolish you can + be!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the drama about?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘About La Vallière,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘La Vallière! But that’s the kind of subject I want for my opera!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ I said; ‘I have thought so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Could you turn it into a libretto, my child?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, dearest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because it already is a libretto. I have written it as such.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For whom else?’ + </p> + <p> + And I looked at him fondly, and I think tears came to my eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are a genius, Magda!’ he exclaimed. ‘You leave nothing + undone for me. The subject is the very thing to suit Villedo.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is Villedo?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My jewel, you don’t know who Villedo is! Villedo is the director of + the Opéra Comique in Paris, the most artistic opera-house in Europe. He + used to beg me every time we met to write him an opera.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And why didn’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because I had neither the subject nor the time. One doesn’t write + operas after lunch in hotel parlours; and as for a good libretto—well, + outside Wagner, there’s only one opera in the world with a good + libretto, and that’s <i>Carmen</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + Diaz, who had had a youthful operatic work performed at the Royal School + of Music in London, and whose numerous light compositions for the + pianoforte had, of course, enjoyed a tremendous vogue, was much more + serious about his projected opera than I had imagined. He had frequently + mentioned it to me, but I had not thought the idea was so close to his + heart as I now perceived it to be. I had written the libretto to amuse + myself, and perhaps him, and lo! he was going to excite himself; I well + knew the symptoms. + </p> + <p> + ‘You wrote it in that little book,’ he said. ‘You haven’t + got it in your pocket?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ I answered. ‘I haven’t even a pocket.’ + </p> + <p> + He would not laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come,’ he said—‘come, let’s see it.’ + </p> + <p> + He gathered up his loose rein and galloped off. He could not wait an + instant. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come along!’ he cried imperiously, turning his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am coming,’ I replied; ‘but wait for me. Don’t leave + me like that, Diaz.’ + </p> + <p> + The old fear seized me, but nothing could stop him, and I followed as fast + as I dared. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where is it?’ he asked, when we reached home. + </p> + <p> + ‘Upstairs,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + And he came upstairs behind me, pulling my habit playfully, in an effort + to persuade us both that his impatience was a simulated one. I had to find + my keys and unlock a drawer. I took the small, silk-bound volume from the + back part of the drawer and gave it to him. + </p> + <p> + ‘There!’ I exclaimed. ‘But remember lunch is ready.’ + </p> + <p> + He regarded the book. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a pretty binding!’ he said. ‘Who worked it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I did.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And, of course, your handwriting is so pretty, too!’ he added, + glancing at the leaves. ‘“La Vallière, an opera in three acts.”’ + </p> + <p> + We exchanged a look, each of us deliciously perturbed, and then he ran off + with the book. + </p> + <p> + He had to be called three times from the garden to lunch, and he brought + the book with him, and read it in snatches during the meal, and while + sipping his coffee. I watched him furtively as he turned over the pages. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you’ve done it!’ he said at length—‘you’ve + done it! You evidently have a gift for libretto. It is neither more nor + less than perfect! And the subject is wonderful!’ + </p> + <p> + He rose, walked round the table, and, taking my head between his hands, + kissed me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Magda,’ he said, ‘you’re the cleverest girl that was + ever born.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then, do you think you will compose it?’ I asked, joyous. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do I think I will compose it! Why, what do you imagine? I’ve + already begun. It composes itself. I’m now going to read it all + again in the garden. Just see that I’m not worried, will you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean you don’t want me there. You don’t care for me any + more.’ + </p> + <p> + It amused me to pretend to pout. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he laughed; ‘that’s it. I don’t care for + you any more.’ + </p> + <p> + He departed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have no fear!’ I cried after him. ‘I shan’t come into + your horrid garden!’ + </p> + <p> + His habit was to resume his practice at three o’clock. The hour was + then half-past one. I wondered whether he would allow himself to be + seduced from the piano that afternoon by the desire to compose. I hoped + not, for there could be no question as to the relative importance to him + of the two activities. To my surprise, I heard the piano at two o’clock, + instead of at three, and it continued without intermission till five. Then + he came, like a sudden wind, on to the terrace where I was having tea. + Diaz would never take afternoon tea. He seized my hand impulsively. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come down,’ he said—‘down under the trees there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What for?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I want you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, Diaz, let me put my cup down. I shall spill the tea on my dress.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll take your cup.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And I haven’t nearly finished my tea, either. And you’re + hurting me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll bring you a fresh cup,’ he said. ‘Come, come!’ + </p> + <p> + And he dragged me off, laughing, to the lower part of the garden, where + were two chairs in the shade. And I allowed myself to be dragged. + </p> + <p> + ‘There! Sit down. Don’t move. I’ll fetch your tea.’ + </p> + <p> + And presently he returned with the cup. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now that you’ve nearly killed me,’ I said, ‘and spoilt + my dress, perhaps you’ll explain.’ + </p> + <p> + He produced the silk-bound book of manuscript from his pocket and put it + in my unoccupied hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want you to read it to me aloud, all of it,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Really?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Really.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What a strange boy you are!’ I chided. + </p> + <p> + Then I drank the tea, straightened my features into seriousness, and began + to read. + </p> + <p> + The reading occupied less than an hour. He made no remark when it was + done, but held out his hand for the book, and went out for a walk. At + dinner he was silent till the servants had gone. Then he said musingly: + </p> + <p> + ‘That scene in the cloisters between Louise and De Montespan is a great + idea. It will be magnificent; it will be the finest thing in the opera. + What a subject you have found! what a subject!’ His tone altered. + ‘Magda, will you do something to oblige me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If it isn’t foolish.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I want you to go to bed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Out of the way?’ I smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Go to bed and to sleep,’ he repeated. + </p> + <p> + ‘But why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I want to walk about this floor. I must be alone.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ I said, ‘just to prove how humble and obedient I am, I + will go.’ + </p> + <p> + And I held up my mouth to be kissed. + </p> + <p> + Wondrous, the joy I found in playing the decorative, acquiescent, + self-effacing woman to him, the pretty, pouting plaything! I liked him to + dismiss me, as the soldier dismisses his charmer at the sound of the + bugle. I liked to think upon his obvious conviction that the libretto was + less than nothing compared to the music. I liked him to regard the whole + artistic productivity of my life as the engaging foible of a pretty woman. + I liked him to forget that I had brought him alive out of Paris. I liked + him to forget to mention marriage to me. In a word, he was Diaz, and I was + his. + </p> + <p> + And as I lay in bed I even tried to go to sleep, in my obedience, because + I knew he would wish it. But I could not easily sleep for anticipating his + triumph of the early future. His habits of composition were extremely + rapid. It might well occur that he would write the entire opera in a few + months, without at all sacrificing the piano. And naturally any operatic + manager would be loath to refuse an opera signed by Diaz. Villedo, + apparently so famous, would be sure to accept it, and probably would + produce it at once. And Diaz would have a double triumph, a dazzling and + gorgeous re-entry into the world. He might give his first recital in the + same week as the <i>première</i> of the opera. And thus his shame would + never be really known to the artistic multitude. The legend of a nervous + collapse could be insisted on, and the opera itself would form a + sufficient excuse for his retirement.... And I should be the secret cause + of all this glory—I alone! And no one would ever guess what Diaz + owed to me. Diaz himself would never appreciate it. I alone, withdrawn + from the common gaze, like a woman of the East, Diaz’ secret + fountain of strength and balm—I alone should be aware of what I had + done. And my knowledge would be enough for me. + </p> + <p> + I imagine I must have been dreaming when I felt a hand on my cheek. + </p> + <p> + ‘Magda, you aren’t asleep, are you?’ + </p> + <p> + Diaz was standing over me. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no!’ I answered, in a voice made feeble by sleep. And I looked + up at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Put something on and come downstairs, will you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What time is it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I don’t know. One o’clock.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve been working for over three hours, then!’ + </p> + <p> + I sat up. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he said proudly. ‘Come along. I want to play you my + notion of the overture. It’s only in the rough, but it’s + there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve begun with the overture?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not, my child? Here’s your dressing-gown. Which is the top end + of it?’ + </p> + <p> + I followed him downstairs, and sat close by him at the piano, with one + limp hand on his shoulder. There was no light in the drawing-rooms, save + one candle on the piano. My slipper escaped off my bare foot. As Diaz + played he looked at me constantly, demanding my approval, my enthusiasm, + which I gave him from a full heart. I thought the music charming, and, of + course, as he played it...! + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall only have three motives,’ he said. ‘That’s the + La Vallière motive. Do you see the idea?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean she limps?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Precisely. Isn’t it delightful?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She won’t have to limp much, you know. She didn’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just the faintest suggestion. It will be delicious. I can see Morenita in + the part. Well, what do you think of it?’ + </p> + <p> + I could not speak. His appeal, suddenly wistful, moved me so. I leaned + forward and kissed him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dear girl!’ he murmured. + </p> + <p> + Then he blew out the candle. He was beside himself with excitement. + </p> + <p> + ‘Diaz,’ I cried, ‘what’s the matter with you? Do have a + little sense. And you’ve made me lose my slipper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll carry you upstairs,’ he replied gaily. + </p> + <p> + A faint illumination came from the hall, so that we could just see each + other. He lifted me off the chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘No!’ I protested, laughing. ‘And my slipper.... The servants!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Stuff!’ + </p> + <p> + I was a trifle in those arms. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + The triumphal re-entry into the world has just begun, and exactly as Diaz + foretold. And the life of the forest is over. We have come to Paris, and + he has taken Paris, and already he is leaving it for other shores, and I + am to follow. At this moment, while I write because I have not slept and + cannot sleep, his train rolls out of St. Lazare. + </p> + <p> + Last night! How glorious! But he is no longer wholly mine. The world has + turned his face a little from my face.... + </p> + <p> + It was as if I had never before realized the dazzling significance of the + fame of Diaz. I had only once seen him in public. And though he conquered + in the Jubilee Hall of the Five Towns, his victory, personal and artistic, + at the Opera Comique, before an audience as exacting, haughty, and + experienced as any in Europe, was, of course, infinitely more striking—a + victory worthy of a Diaz. + </p> + <p> + I sat alone and hidden at the back of a <i>baignoire</i> in the + auditorium. I had drawn up the golden grille, by which the occupants of a + <i>baignoire</i> may screen themselves from the curiosity of the <i>parterre</i>. + I felt like some caged Eastern odalisque, and I liked so to feel. I liked + to exist solely for him, to be mysterious, and to baffle the general gaze + in order to be more precious to him. Ah, how I had changed! How he had + changed me! + </p> + <p> + It was Thursday, a subscription night, and, in addition, all Paris was in + the theatre, a crowded company of celebrities, of experts, and of + perfectly-dressed women. And no one knew who I was, nor why I was there. + The vogue of a musician may be universal, but the vogue of an English + writer is nothing beyond England and America. I had not been to a + rehearsal. I had not met Villedo, nor even the translator of my verse. I + had wished to remain in the background, and Diaz had not crossed me. Thus + I gazed through the bars of my little cell across the rows of bald heads, + and wonderful coiffures, and the waving arms of the conductor, and the + restless, gliding bows of the violinists, and saw a scene which was + absolutely strange and new to me. And it seemed amazing that these figures + which I saw moving and chanting with such grace in a palace garden, + authentic to the last detail of historical accuracy, were my La Vallière + and my Louis, and that this rich and coloured music which I heard was the + same that Diaz had sketched for me on the piano, from illegible scraps of + ruled paper, on the edge of the forest. The full miracle of operatic art + was revealed to me for the first time. + </p> + <p> + And when the curtain fell on the opening act, the intoxicating human + quality of an operatic success was equally revealed to me for the first + time. How cold and distant the success of a novelist compared to this! The + auditorium was suddenly bathed in bright light, and every listening face + awoke to life as from an enchantment, and flushed and smiled, and the + delicatest hands in France clapped to swell the mighty uproar that filled + the theatre with praise. Paris, upstanding on its feet, and leaning over + balconies and cheering, was charmed and delighted by the fable and the + music, in which it found nothing but the sober and pretty elegance that it + loves. And Paris applauded feverishly, and yet with a full sense of the + value of its applause—given there in the only French theatre where + the claque has been suppressed. And then the curtain rose, and La Vallière + and Louis tripped mincingly forward to prove that after all they were + Morenita and Montfériot, the darlings of their dear Paris, and utterly + content with their exclusively Parisian reputation. Three times they came + forward. And then the applause ceased, for Paris is not Naples, and it is + not Madrid, and the red curtain definitely hid the stage, and the theatre + hummed with animated chatter as elegant as Diaz’ music, and my ear, + that loves the chaste vivacity of the French tongue, was caressed on every + side by its cadences. + </p> + <p> + ‘This is the very heart of civilization,’ I said to myself. ‘And + even in the forest I could not breathe more freely.’ + </p> + <p> + I stared up absently at Benjamin Constant’s blue ceiling, + meretricious and still adorable, expressive of the delicious decadence of + Paris, and my eyes moistened because the world is so beautiful in such + various ways. + </p> + <p> + Then the door of the <i>baignoire</i> opened. It was Diaz himself who + appeared. He had not forgotten me in the excitements of the stage and the + dressing-rooms. He put his hand lightly on my shoulder, and I glanced at + him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well?’ he murmured, and gave me a box of bonbons elaborately tied + with rich ribbons. + </p> + <p> + And I murmured, ‘Well?’ + </p> + <p> + The glory of his triumph was upon him. But he understood why my eyes were + wet, and his fingers moved soothingly on my shoulder. + </p> + <p> + ‘You won’t come round?’ he asked. ‘Both Villedo and + Morenita are dying to meet you.’ + </p> + <p> + I shook my head, smiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re satisfied?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘More than satisfied,’ I answered. ‘The thing is wonderful.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think it’s rather charming,’ he said. ‘By the way, I’ve + just had an offer from New York for it, and another from Rome.’ + </p> + <p> + I nodded my appreciation. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t want anything?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing, thanks,’ I said, opening the box of bonbons, ‘except + these. Thanks so much for thinking of them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well—’ + </p> + <p> + And he left me again. + </p> + <p> + In the second act the legend—has not the tale of La Vallière + acquired almost the quality of a legend?—grew in persuasiveness and + in magnificence. It was the hour of La Vallière’s unwilling + ascendancy, and it foreboded also her fall. The situations seemed to me to + be poignantly beautiful, especially that in which La Vallière and + Montespan and the Queen found themselves together. And Morenita had + perceived my meaning with such a sure intuition. I might say that she + showed me what I had meant. Diaz, too, had given to my verse a voice than + which it appeared impossible that anything could be more appropriate. The + whole effect was astonishing, ravishing. And within me—far, far + within the recesses of my glowing heart—a thin, clear whisper spoke + and said that I, and I alone, was the cause of that beauty of sight and + sound. Not Morenita, and not Montfériot, not Diaz himself, but Magda, the + self-constituted odalisque, was its author. I had thought of it; I had + schemed it; I had fashioned it; I had evoked the emotion in it. The others + had but exquisitely embroidered my theme. Without me they must have been + dumb and futile. On my shoulders lay the burden and the glory. And though + I was amazed, perhaps naively, to see what I had done, nevertheless I had + done it—I! The entire opera-house, that complicated and various + machine, was simply a means to express me. And it was to my touch on their + heartstrings that the audience vibrated. With all my humility, how proud I + was—coldly and arrogantly proud, as only the artist can be! I wore + my humility as I wore my black gown. Even Diaz could not penetrate to the + inviolable place in my heart, where the indestructible egoism defied the + efforts of love to silence it. And yet people say there is nothing + stronger than love. + </p> + <p> + At the close of the act, while the ringing applause, much more + enthusiastic than before, gave certainty of a genuine and extraordinary + success, I could not help blushing. It was as if I was in danger of being + discovered as the primal author of all that fleeting loveliness, as if my + secret was bound to get about, and I to be forced from my seclusion in + order to receive the acclamations of Paris. I played nervously and + self-consciously with my fan, and I wrapped my humility closer round me, + until at length the tumult died away, and the hum of charming, eager + chatter reassured my ears again. + </p> + <p> + Diaz did not come. The entr’acte stretched out long, and the chatter + lost some of its eagerness, and he did not come. Perhaps he could not + come. Perhaps he was too much engaged, too much preoccupied, to think of + the gallantry which he owed to his mistress. A man cannot always be + dreaming of his mistress. A mistress must be reconciled to occasional + neglect; she must console herself with chocolates. And they were + chocolates from Marquis’s, in the Passage des Panoramas.... + </p> + <p> + Then he came, accompanied. + </p> + <p> + A whirl of high-seasoned, laughing personalities invaded my privacy. Diaz, + smiling humorously, was followed by a man and a cloaked woman. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dear lady,’ he said, with an intimate formality, ‘I present + Mademoiselle Morenita and Monsieur Villedo. They insisted on seeing you. + Mademoiselle, Monsieur—Mademoiselle Peel.’ + </p> + <p> + I stood up. + </p> + <p> + ‘All our excuses,’ said Villedo, in a low, discreet voice, as he + carefully shut the door. ‘All our excuses, madame. But it was + necessary that I should pay my respects—it was stronger than I.’ + </p> + <p> + And he came forward, took my hand, and raised it to his lips. He is a + little finicking man, with a little gray beard, and the red rosette in his + button-hole, and a most consummate ease of manner. + </p> + <p> + ‘Monsieur,’ I replied, ‘you are too amiable. And you, madame. + I cannot sufficiently thank you both.’ + </p> + <p> + Morenita rushed at me with a swift, surprising movement, her cloak + dropping from her shoulders, and taking both my hands, she kissed me + impulsively. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have genius,’ she said; ‘and I am proud. I am ashamed + that I cannot read English; but I have the intention to learn in order to + read your books. Our Diaz says wonderful things of them.’ + </p> + <p> + She is a tall, splendidly-made, opulent creature, of my own age, born for + the footlights, with an extremely sweet and thrilling voice, and that + slight coarseness or exaggeration of gesture and beauty which is the + penalty of the stage. She did not in the least resemble a La Vallière as + she stood there gazing at me, with her gleaming, pencilled eyes and heavy, + scarlet lips. It seemed impossible that she could refine herself to a La + Vallière. But that woman is the drama itself. She would act no matter + what. She has always the qualities necessary to a rôle. And the gods have + given her green eyes, so that she may be La Vallière to the very life. + </p> + <p> + I began to thank her for her superb performance. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is I who should thank you,’ she answered. ‘It will be my + greatest part. Never have I had so many glorious situations in a part. Do + you like my limp?’ + </p> + <p> + She smiled, her head on one side. Success glittered in those orbs. + </p> + <p> + ‘You limp adorably,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is my profession to make compliments,’ Villedo broke in; and + then, turning to Morenita, ‘<i>N’est-ce pas, ma belle créature</i>? + But really’—he turned to me again—‘but very + sincerely, all that there is of most sincerely, dear madame, your libretto + is made with a virtuosity astonishing. It is <i>du théâtre</i>. And with + that a charm, an emotion...! One would say—’ + </p> + <p> + And so it continued, the flattering stream, while Diaz listened, touched, + and full of pride. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah!’ I said. ‘It is not I who deserve praise.’ + </p> + <p> + An electric bell trembled in the theatre. + </p> + <p> + Morenita picked up her cloak. + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Mon ami</i>,’ she warned Villedo. ‘I must go. Diaz, <i>mon + petit</i>! you will persuade Mademoiselle Peel to come to the room of the + Directeur later. Madame, a few of us will meet there—is it not so, + Villedo? We shall count on you, madame. You have hidden yourself too long.’ + </p> + <p> + I glanced at Diaz, and he nodded. As a fact, I wished to refuse; but I + could not withstand the seduction of Morenita. She had a physical + influence which was unique in my experience. + </p> + <p> + ‘I accept,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>A tout à l’heure</i>, then,’ she twittered gaily; and they + left as they had come, Villedo affectionately toying with Morenita’s + hand. + </p> + <p> + Diaz remained behind a moment. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am so glad you didn’t decline,’ he said. ‘You see, + here in this theatre Morenita is a queen. I wager she has never before in + all her life put herself out of the way as she has done for you to-night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Really!’ I faltered. + </p> + <p> + And, indeed, as I pondered over it, the politeness of these people + appeared to be marvellous, and so perfectly accomplished. Villedo, who has + made a European reputation and rejuvenated his theatre in a dozen years, + is doubtless, as he said, a professional maker of compliments. In his + position a man must be. But, nevertheless, last night’s triumph is + officially and very genuinely Villedo’s. While as for Morenita and + Diaz, the mere idea of these golden stars waiting on me, the librettist, + effacing themselves, rendering themselves subordinate at such a moment, + was fantastic. It passed the credible.... A Diaz standing silent and + deferential, while an idolized prima donna stepped down from her throne to + flatter me in her own temple! All that I had previously achieved of renown + seemed provincial, insular. + </p> + <p> + But Diaz took his own right place in the spacious salon of Villedo + afterwards, after all the applause had ceased, and the success had been + consecrated, and the enraptured audience had gone, and the lights were + extinguished in the silent auditorium. It is a room that seems to be + furnished with nothing but a grand piano and a large, flat writing-table + and a few chairs. On the walls are numberless signed portraits of singers + and composers, and antique playbills of the Opéra Comique, together with + strange sinister souvenirs of the great fires which have destroyed the + house and its patrons in the past. When Diaz led me in, only Villedo and + the principal artists and Pouvillon, the conductor, were present. + Pouvillon, astonishingly fat, was sitting on the table, idly swinging the + electric pendant over his head; while Morenita occupied Villedo’s + armchair, and Villedo talked to Montfériot and another man in a corner. + But a crowd of officials of the theatre ventured on Diaz’ heels. And + then came Monticelli, the <i>première danseuse</i>, in a coat and skirt, + and then some of her rivals. And as the terrible Director did not protest, + the room continued to fill until it was full to the doors, where stood a + semicircle of soiled, ragged scene-shifters and a few fat old women, who + were probably dressers. Who could protest on such a night? The democracy + of a concerted triumph reigned. Everybody was joyous, madly happy. + Everybody had done something; everybody shared the prestige, and the rank + and file might safely take generals by the hand. + </p> + <p> + Diaz was then the centre of attraction. It was recognised that he had + entered that sphere from a wider one, bringing with him a radiance + brighter than he found there. He was divine last night. All felt that he + was divine. He spoke to everyone with an admirable modesty, gaily, his + eyes laughing. Several women kissed him, including Morenita. Not that I + minded. In the theatre the code is different, coarser, more banal. He + alone raised this crowd above its usual level and gave it distinction. + </p> + <p> + Someone suggested that, as the piano was there, he should play, and the + demand ran from mouth to mouth. Villedo, appreciating its audacity, made a + gesture to indicate that such a thing could not be asked. But Diaz + instantly said that, if it would give pleasure, he would play with + pleasure. + </p> + <p> + And he sat down to the piano, and looked round, smiling, and the room was + hushed in a moment, and each face was turned towards him. + </p> + <p> + ‘What?’ he ejaculated. And then, as no definite recommendation was + offered, he said: ‘Do you wish that I improvise?’ + </p> + <p> + The idea was accepted with passionate, noisy enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + A cold perspiration broke out over my whole body. I must have turned very + pale. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are not ill, madame?’ asked that ridiculous fop, Montfèriot, + who had been presented to me, and was whispering the most fatuous + compliments. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I thank you.’ + </p> + <p> + The fact was that Diaz, since his retirement, had not yet played to anyone + except myself. This was his first appearance. I was afraid for him. I + trembled for him. I need not have done. He was absolutely master of his + powers. His fingers announced, quite simply, one of the most successful + airs from <i>La Vallière</i>, and then he began to decorate it with an + amazing lacework of variations, and finished with a bravura display such + as no pianist could have surpassed. The performance, marvellous in itself, + was precisely suited to that audience, and it electrified the audience; it + electrified even me. Diaz fought his way through kisses and embraces to + Villedo, who stood on his toes and wept and put his arms round Diaz’ + neck. + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Cher maître</i>,’ he cried, ‘you overwhelm us!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are too kind, all of you,’ said Diaz. ‘I must ask + permission to retire. I have to conduct Mademoiselle Peel to her hotel, + and there is much for me to do during the night. You know I start very + early to-morrow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Hélas!</i> Morenita sighed. + </p> + <p> + I had blushed. Decidedly I behaved like a girl last night. But, indeed, + the new, swift realization, as Diaz singled me out of that multitude, that + after all he utterly belonged to me, that he was mine alone, was more than + I could bear with equanimity. I was the proudest woman in the universe. I + scorned the lot of all other women. + </p> + <p> + The adieux were exchanged, and there were more kisses. ‘<i>Au + revoir! Bon voyage</i>! Much success over there.’ + </p> + <p> + The majority of these good, generous souls were in tears. + </p> + <p> + Villedo opened a side-door, and we escaped into a corridor, only Morenita + and one or two others accompanying us to the street. + </p> + <p> + And on the pavement a carpet had been laid. The electric brougham was + waiting. I gathered up my skirt and sprang in. Diaz followed, smiling at + me. He put his head out of the window and said a few words. Morenita blew + a kiss. Villedo bowed profoundly. The carriage moved in the direction of + the boulevard.... I had carried him off. Oh, the exquisite dark intimacy + of the interior of that smooth-rolling brougham! When, after the theatre, + a woman precedes a man into a carriage, does she not publish and glory in + the fact that she is his? Is it not the most delicious of avowals? There + is something in the enforced bend of one’s head as one steps in. And + when the man shuts the door with a masculine snap— + </p> + <p> + I wondered idly what Morenita and Villedo thought of our relations. They + must surely guess. + </p> + <p> + We went down the boulevard and by the Rue Royale into the Place de la + Concorde, where vehicles flitted mysteriously in a maze of lights under + the vast dome of mysterious blue. And Paris, in her incomparable toilette + of a June night, seemed more than ever the passionate city of love that + she is, recognising candidly, with the fearless intellectuality of the + Latin temperament, that one thing only makes life worth living. How soft + was the air! How languorous the pose of the dim figures that passed us + half hidden in other carriages! And in my heart was the lofty joy of work + done, definitely accomplished, and a vista of years of future pleasure. My + happiness was ardent and yet calm—a happiness beyond my hopes, + beyond what a mortal has the right to dream of. Nothing could impair it, + not even Diaz’ continued silence as to a marriage between us, not + even the imminent brief separation that I was to endure. + </p> + <p> + ‘My child,’ said Diaz suddenly, ‘I’m very hungry. I’ve + never been so hungry.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You surely didn’t forget to have your dinner?’ I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I did,’ he admitted like a child; ‘I’ve just + remembered.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Diaz!’ I pouted, and for some strange reason my bliss was + intensified, ‘you are really terrible! What can I do with you? You will + eat before you leave me. I must see to that. We can get something for you + at the hotel, perhaps.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose we go to a supper restaurant?’ he said. + </p> + <p> + Without waiting for my reply, he seized the dangling end of the + speaking-tube and spoke to the driver, and we swerved round and regained + the boulevard. + </p> + <p> + And in the private room of a great, glittering restaurant, one of a long + row of private rooms off a corridor, I ate strawberries and cream and + sipped champagne while Diaz went through the entire menu of a supper. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your eyes look sad,’ he murmured, with a cigar between his teeth. + ‘What is it? We shall see each other again in a fortnight.’ + </p> + <p> + He was to resume his career by a series of concerts in the United States. + A New York agent, with the characteristic enterprise of New York agents, + had tracked Diaz even into the forest and offered him two hundred and + fifty thousand dollars for forty concerts on the condition that he played + at no concert before he played in New York. And in order to reach New York + in time for the first concert, it was imperative that he should catch the + <i>Touraine</i> at Havre. I was to follow in a few days by a + Hamburg-American liner. Diaz had judged it more politic that we should not + travel together. In this he was undoubtedly right. + </p> + <p> + I smiled proudly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am both sad and happy,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + He moved his chair until it touched mine, and put his arm round my neck, + and brought my face close to his. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look at me,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + And I looked into his large, splendid eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mustn’t think,’ he whispered, ‘that, because I don’t + talk about it, I don’t feel that I owe everything to you.’ + </p> + <p> + I let my face fall on his breast. I knew I had flushed to the ears. + </p> + <p> + ‘My poor boy,’ I sobbed, ‘if you talk about that I shall never + forgive you.’ + </p> + <p> + It was heaven itself. No woman has ever been more ecstatically happy than + I was then. + </p> + <p> + He rang for the bill. + </p> + <p> + We parted at the door of my hotel. In the carriage we had exchanged one + long, long kiss. At the last moment I wanted to alter the programme, go + with him to his hotel to assist in his final arrangements, and then see + him off at early morning at the station. But he refused. He said he could + not bear to part from me in public. Perhaps it was best so. Just as I + turned away he put a packet into my hand. It contained seven banknotes for + ten thousand francs each, money that it had been my delight to lend him + from time to time. Foolish, vain, scrupulous boy! I knew not where he had + obtained— + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + It is now evening. Diaz is on the sea. While writing those last lines I + was attacked by fearful pains in the right side, and cramp, so that I + could not finish. I can scarcely write now. I have just seen the old + English doctor. He says I have appendicitis, perhaps caused by pips of + strawberries. And that unless I am operated on at once—And that even + if—He is telephoning to the hospital. Diaz! No; I shall come safely + through the affair. Without me Diaz would fall again. I see that now. And + I have had no child. I must have a child. Even that girl in the blue <i>peignoir</i> + had a—Chance is a strange— + </p> + <p> + <i>Extract translated from ‘Le Temps,’ the Paris Evening Paper</i>. + </p> + <p> + OBSEQUIES OF MISS PELL (<i>sic</i>). + </p> + <p> + The obsequies of Mademoiselle Pell, the celebrated English poetess, and + author of the libretto of <i>La Vallière</i>, were celebrated this morning + at eleven o’clock in the Church of St. Honoré d’Eylau. + </p> + <p> + The chief mourners were the doctor who assisted at the last moments of + Mademoiselle Pell, and M. Villedo, director of the Opéra-Comique. + </p> + <p> + Among the wreaths we may cite those of the Association of Dramatic + Artists, of Madame Morenita, of the management of the Opéra-Comique, and + of the artists of the Opéra-Comique. + </p> + <p> + Mass was said by a vicar of the parish, and general absolution given by M. + le Curé Marbeau. + </p> + <p> + During the service there was given, under the direction of M. Lêtang, + chapel-master, the <i>Funeral March</i> of Beethoven, the <i>Kyrie</i> of + Neidermeyer, the <i>Pie Jesu</i> of Stradella, the <i>Ego Sum</i> of + Gounod, the <i>Libera Me</i> of S. Rousseau. + </p> + <p> + M. Deep officiated at the organ. + </p> + <p> + After the ceremony the remains were transported to the cemetery of + Père-Lachaise and cremated. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <pre> + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE *** + + +******* This file should be named 11360-h.htm or 11360-h.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/3/6/11360 + + +E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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