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Locke + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .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%;} + 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 {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne, by William J. Locke + +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: The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne + +Author: William J. Locke + +Release Date: April 19, 2009 [EBook #5051] +Last Updated: November 11, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MORALS OF MARCUS ORDEYNE *** + + + + +Produced by Polly Stratton, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE MORALS OF MARCUS ORDEYNE + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + by William J. Locke + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_PART"> <b>PART I</b> </a><br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>PART II</b> </a><br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + PART I + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + For reasons which will be given later, I sit down here, in Verona, to + write the history of my extravagant adventure. I shall formulate and + expand the rough notes in my diary which lies open before me, and I shall + begin with a happy afternoon in May, six months ago. + </p> + <p> + May 20th. + </p> + <p> + <i>London</i>:—To-day is the seventh anniversary of my release from + captivity. I will note it every year in my diary with a sigh of + unutterable thanksgiving. For seven long blessed years have I been free + from the degrading influences of Jones Minor and the First Book of Euclid. + Some men find the modern English boy stimulating, and the old Egyptian + humorous. Such are the born schoolmasters, and schoolmasters, like poets, + <i>nascuntur non fiunt</i>. What I was born passes my ingenuity to fathom. + Certainly not a schoolmaster—and my many years of apprenticeship did + not make me one. They only turned me into an automaton, feared by myself, + bantered by my colleagues, and sometimes good-humouredly tolerated by the + boys. + </p> + <p> + Seven years ago the lawyer’s letter came. The post used to arrive just + before first school. I opened the letter in the class-room and sat down at + my desk, sick with horror. The awful wholesale destruction of my relatives + paralysed me. My form must have seen by my ghastly face that something had + happened, for, contrary to their usual practice, they sat, thirty of them, + in stony silence, waiting for me to begin the lesson. As far as I remember + anything, they waited the whole hour. The lesson over, I passed along the + cloister on my way to my rooms. I overheard one of my urchins, clattering + in front of me, shout to another: + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure he’s got the sack!” + </p> + <p> + Turning round he perceived me, and grew as red as a turkey-cock. I laughed + aloud. The boy’s yell was a clarion announcement from the seventh heaven. + I <i>had got the sack</i>! <i>I</i> should never teach him quadratic + equations again. I should turn my back forever upon those hateful walls + and still more abominated playing-fields. And I was not leaving my prison, + as I had done once or twice before, in order to continue my servitude + elsewhere. I was free. I could go out into the sunshine and look my + fellow-man in the face, free from the haunting, demoralising sense of + incapacity. I was free. Until that urchin’s shriek I had not realised it. + My teeth chattered with the thrill. + </p> + <p> + I was fortunately out of school the second hour. I employed most of it in + balancing myself. A perfectly reasonable creature, I visited the chief. He + was a chubby, rotund man, with a circular body and a circular visage, and + he wore great circular gold spectacles. He looked like a figure in the + Third Book of Euclid. But his eyes sparkled like bits of glass in the sun. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Ordeyne?” he inquired, looking up from letters to parents. + </p> + <p> + “I have come to ask you to accept my resignation,” said I. “I would like + you to release me at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, things are not as bad as all that,” said he, kindly. + </p> + <p> + I looked stupidly at him for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I know you’ve got one or two troublesome forms,” he continued. + </p> + <p> + Then I winced. His conjecture hurt me horribly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s nothing to do with my incompetence,” I interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, then?” + </p> + <p> + “My grandfather, two uncles, two nephews and a valet were drowned a day or + two ago in the Mediterranean,” I answered, calmly. + </p> + <p> + I have since been struck by the crudity of this announcement. It took my + chief’s breath away. + </p> + <p> + “I deeply sympathise with you,” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “A terrible catastrophe. No wonder it has upset you. Horrible! Six living + human beings! Three generations of men!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just it,” said I. “Three generations of my family swept away, + leaving me now at the head of it.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment the chief’s wife came into the library with the morning + paper in her hand. On seeing me she rushed forward. + </p> + <p> + “Have you had bad news?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Is it in the paper?” + </p> + <p> + “I was coming to show my husband. The name is an uncommon one. I wondered + if they might be relatives of yours.” + </p> + <p> + I bowed acquiescence. The chief looked at the paragraph below his wife’s + indicating thumb, then he looked at me as if I, too, had suffered a + seachange. + </p> + <p> + “I had no idea—” he said. “Why, now—now you are Sir Marcus + Ordeyne!” + </p> + <p> + “It sounds idiotic, doesn’t it?” said I, with a smile. “But I suppose I + -am.” + </p> + <p> + And so came my release from captivity. I was profoundly affected by the + awful disaster, but it would be sheer hypocrisy if I said that I felt + personal grief. I knew none of the dead, of whom I verily believe the + valet was the worthiest man. My grandfather and uncles had ignored my + existence. Not a helping hand had they stretched out to my widowed mother + in her poverty, when one kindly touch would have meant all. + </p> + <p> + They do not seem to have been a lovable race, the Ordeynes. What my + father, the youngest son, was like, I have no idea, as he died when I was + two years old, but my mother, who was somewhat stern and puritanical, + spoke of him very much as she would have spoken of the prophet Joel, had + he been a personal acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + Seven years to-day have I been a free man. + </p> + <p> + Feeling at peace with all the world I called this afternoon on my Aunt + Jessica, Mrs. Ordeyne, who has borne me no malice for stepping into the + place that should have been the inheritance of her husband and of her son. + Rather has she devised to adopt me, to guide my ambitions and to point out + my duties as the head of the house. If I refuse to be adopted, avoid + ambitions and disclaim duties, the fault lies not with her good-will. She + is a well-preserved worldly woman of fifty-five, and having begun to dye + her hair in the peroxide of hydrogen era has not the curiosity to abandon + the practice and see what colour will result. I wish I could like her. I + can’t. She purrs. Some day I feel she will scratch. She received me + graciously. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Marcus. At last! Didn’t you know I have been in town ever since + Easter?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said I. “I am afraid I didn’t.” Which was true. “Why didn’t you tell + me?” + </p> + <p> + “I would have asked you to dinner, but you will never come. As for At Home + cards I never dream of sending them to you. It is a waste of precious + half-penny stamps.” + </p> + <p> + “You might have written me a nice little letter about nothing at all,” I + suggested. + </p> + <p> + “For you to say ‘What is that woman worrying me with her silly letters + for?’ I know what you men are.” She looked arch. + </p> + <p> + This is precisely what I should have said. As I am not an inventive liar, + I could only smile feebly. I am never at my ease with Aunt Jessica. I am + not the kind of person to afford her entertainment. I do not belong to her + world of opulence, and if even I desired it, which the gods forbid, my + means would not enable me to make the necessary display. My uncle, + thinking to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the title, amassed enormous + wealth as a company promoter, while I, on whom the title has descended, am + perfectly contented with its fallen fortunes. I have scarcely a thought or + taste in common with my aunt. In fact, I must bore her exceedingly. Yet + she hides her boredom beneath a radiant countenance and leads me to + understand that my society gives her inexpressible joy. I wonder why. + </p> + <p> + She is always be-guide-philosopher-and-friending me. I resent it. A man of + forty does not need the counsels of an elderly woman destitute of + intellect. I believe there are some women who are firmly convinced that + their sheer sex has imbued them with all the qualities of genius. To-day + my aunt tackled me on the subject of marriage. I ought to marry. I asked + why. It appeared it was every man’s duty. + </p> + <p> + “From what point of view?” I asked. “The mere propagation of the human + race, or the providing of a superfluous young woman with a means of + livelihood? If it is the former, then, in my opinion, there are too many + people in the world already; and if the latter, I’m afraid I’m not + sufficiently altruistic.” + </p> + <p> + “You are so <i>funny!</i>” laughed my aunt. + </p> + <p> + I was not aware of being the least bit funny. + </p> + <p> + “But, seriously,” she continued, “you <i>must</i> marry.” She is a woman + who has an irritating way of speaking in Italics. “Are you aware that if + you have no son the title will become extinct?” + </p> + <p> + “And if it does,” I cried, “who on this earth will care a half-penny-bun?” + </p> + <p> + I am growing tired of the title. At first it was rather amusing. Now it + appears it is registered in Heaven’s chancery and hedged about with divine + ordinances. Only the other day an unknown parson requested me to open a + church bazaar, and I gathered he had received his instructions direct from + the Almighty. + </p> + <p> + “Why, every one would care,” exclaimed my aunt, genuinely shocked. “It + would be monstrous. You owe it to your descendants as well as to your + ancestors. Besides,” she added, with apparent irrelevance, “a man in your + position ought to live up to it.” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” said I, “just up to it.” + </p> + <p> + “Now you are pretending you don’t understand me. You ought to marry + money!” + </p> + <p> + I smiled and shook my head. I don’t think my aunt likes me to smile and + shake my head, for I saw a flicker in her eyes. “No, my dear aunt; + emphatically no. It would be comfortless. If I kissed it, it would be + cold. If I put my arms round it, it would be full of sharp edges which + would hurt. If I tried to get any emotion out of it, it would only + jingle.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want then?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. But if I must—let it be plain flesh and blood.” + </p> + <p> + “Cannibal!” said my aunt. + </p> + <p> + We both laughed. + </p> + <p> + “But you can have plenty of flesh and blood, with money as well, for the + asking,” she insisted; and thereupon my two cousins, Dora and Gwendolen, + entered the drawingroom and interrupted the conversation. They are both + bouncing, fresh-faced girls, in the early twenties. They ride and shoot + and bicycle and golf and dance, and the elder writes little stories for + the magazines. As I do none of these things, I am convinced they regard me + as a poor sort of creature. When they hand me a cup of tea I almost expect + them to pat me on the head and say, “Good dog!” I am long, lean, stooping, + hatchet-faced, hawknosed, near-sighted. I have not the breezy air of the + jolly young stockbrokers they are in the habit of meeting. They rather + alarm me. Moreover, they have managed to rear a colossal pile of wholly + incorrect information on every subject under the sun, and are addicted to + letting chunks of it fall about one’s ears. This stuns me, rendering + conversation difficult. + </p> + <p> + As I had not seen Dora since her return from Rome, where she had spent the + early spring, I asked, in some trepidation, for her impressions. Before I + could collect myself, I was listening to a lecture on St. Peter’s. She + told me it was built by Michael Angelo. I suggested that some credit might + be given to Bramante, not to speak of Rosellino, Baldassare Peruzzi and + the two San Gallo’s. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said my young lady, with a superb air of omniscience. “It was all + Michael Angelo’s design. <i>The others only tinkered away at it afterwards</i>.” + </p> + <p> + After receiving this brickbat I took my leave. + </p> + <p> + To console myself I looked up, during the evening, Michael Angelo’s noble + letter about Bramante. + </p> + <p> + “One cannot deny,” says he, “that Bramante was as excellent in + architecture as any one has been from the ancients to now. He placed the + first stone of St. Peter’s, not full of confusion, but clear, neat, and + luminous, and isolated all round in such a way that it injured no part of + the palace, and was held to be a beautiful thing, as is still apparent, in + such a way that any one who has departed from the said order of Bramante, + as San Gallo has done, has departed from the truth.” + </p> + <p> + Michael Angelo did not like San Gallo; neither did he like Bramante-who + was his senior by thirty years-but this makes his appreciation of the + elder’s work all the more generous. + </p> + <p> + Tinkered away at it, indeed! + </p> + <p> + May 21st. + </p> + <p> + I spent all the morning at work by the open window. + </p> + <p> + I have a small house in Lingfield Terrace, on the north side of the + Regent’s Park, so that my drawing-room, on the first floor, has a southern + aspect. It has been warm and sunny for the past few days, and the elms and + plane-trees across the road are beginning to riot in their green bravery, + as if intoxicated with the golden wine of spring. My French window is + flung wide open, and on the balcony a triangular bit of sunlight creeps + round as the morning advances. My work-table is drawn up to the window. I + am busy over the first section of my “History of Renaissance Morals,” for + which I think my notes are completed. I have a delicious sense of + isolation from the world. Away over those tree-tops is a faint purpurine + pall, and below it lies London, with its strife and its misery, its + wickedness and its vanity. Twenty minutes would take me into the heart of + it. And if I chose I could be as struggling, as wretched, as much imbued + with wickedness and vanity as anybody. I could gamble on the stock + exchange, or play the muddy game of politics, or hawk my precious title + for sale among the young women of London society. My Aunt Jessica once + told me that London was at my feet. I am quite content that it should stay + there. I have much the same nervous dread of it as I have of an angry sea + breaking in surf on the shingle. If I ventured out in it I should be + tossed hither and thither and broken on the rocks, and I should perish. I + prefer to stand aloof and watch. If I had a little more of daring in my + nature I might achieve something. I am afraid I am but a waster in the + world’s factory; but kind Fate, instead of pitching me on the + rubbish-heap, has preserved me, perhaps has set me under a glass case, in + her own museum, as a curiosity. Well, I am happy in my shelter. + </p> + <p> + I was interrupted in my writing by the entrance of my cook and + housekeeper, Antoinette. She was sorry to disturb me, but did Monsieur + like sorrel? She was preparing some <i>veau a l’oseille</i> for lunch, and + Stenson (my man) had informed her that it was disgusting stuff and that + Monsieur would not eat it. + </p> + <p> + “Antoinette,” said I, “go and inform Stenson that as he looks after my + outside so do you look after my inside, and that I have implicit + confidence in both of you in your respective spheres of action.” + </p> + <p> + “But does Monsieur like sorrel?” Antoinette inquired, anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “I adore it even,” said I, and Antoinette made her exit in triumph. + </p> + <p> + What a reverential care French women have for the insides of their + masters! At times it is pathetic. Before now, I have thrown dainty morsels + which I could not eat into the fire, so as to avoid hurting Antoinette’s + feelings. + </p> + <p> + I came across her three years ago in a tiny hostelry in a tiny town in the + Loire district. She cooked the dinner and conversed about it afterwards so + touchingly that we soon became united in bonds of the closest affection. + Suddenly some money was stolen; Antoinette, accused, was dismissed without + notice. I had a shrewd suspicion of the thief—a suspicion which was + afterwards completely justified—and indignantly championed + Antoinette’s cause. + </p> + <p> + But Antoinette, coming from a village some eighty miles away, was a + stranger and an alien. I was her only friend. It ended in my inviting her + to come to England, the land of the free and the refuge of the downtrodden + and oppressed, and become my housekeeper. She accepted, with smiles and + tears. And they were great big smiles, that went into creases all over her + fat red face, forming runnels for the great big tears which dropped off at + unexpected angles. She was alone in the world. Her only son had died + during his military service in Madagascar. Although her man was dead, the + law would not regard her as a widow because she had never been married, + and therefore refused to exempt her only son. “<i>On ne peut-etre Jeune + qu’une fois, n’est-ce pas, Monsieur?</i>” she said, in extenuation of her + early fault. + </p> + <p> + “And Jean-Marie,” she added, “was as brave a fellow and as devoted a son + as if I had been married by the Saint-Pere himself.” + </p> + <p> + I waved my hand in deprecation and told her it did not matter in the + least. The della Scalas, supreme lords of Verona for many generations, + were every man jack of them so parented. Even William the Conqueror— + </p> + <p> + “<i>Tiens</i>,” cried Antoinette, consoled, “and he became Emperor of + Germany—he and Bismarck!” + </p> + <p> + Antoinette’s historical sense is rudimentary. I have not tried since to + develop it. + </p> + <p> + When I brought my victim of foreign tyranny to Lingfield Terrace, Stenson, + I believe, nearly fainted. He is the correctest of English valets, and his + only vice, I believe, is the accordion, on which he plays jaunty + hymn-tunes when I am out of the house. When he had recovered he asked me, + respectfully, how they were to understand each other. I explained that he + would either have to learn French or teach Antoinette English. What they + have done, I gather, is to invent a nightmare of a <i>lingua franca</i> in + which they appear to hold amicable converse. Now and again they have + differences of opinion, as to-day, over my taste for <i>veau a l’oseille</i>; + but, on the whole, their relations are harmonious, and she keeps him in a + good-humour: Naturally, she feeds the brute. + </p> + <p> + The duty-impulse, stimulated by my call yesterday on one aunt by marriage, + led my footsteps this afternoon to the house of the other, Mrs. Ralph + Ordeyne. She is of a different type from her sister-in-law, being a devout + Roman Catholic, and since the terrible affliction of two years ago has + concerned herself more deeply than ever in the affairs of her religion. + She lives in a gloomy little house in a sunless Kensington by-street. Only + my Cousin Rosalie was at home. She gave me tea made with tepid water and + talked about the Earl’s Court Exhibition, which she had not visited, and a + new novel, of which she had vaguely heard. I tried in vain to infuse some + life into the conversation. I don’t believe she is interested in anything. + She even spoke lukewarmly of Farm Street. + </p> + <p> + I pity her intensely. She is thin, thirty, colourless, bosomless. I should + say she was passionless—a predestined spinster. She has never drunk + hot tea or lived in the sun or laughed a hearty laugh. I remember once, at + my wit’s end for talk, telling her the old story of Theodore Hook + accosting a pompous stranger on the street with the polite request that he + might know whether he was anybody in particular. She said, without a + smile, “Yes, it was astonishing how rude some people could be.” + </p> + <p> + And her godfathers and godmothers gave her the name of Rosalie. Mine might + just as well have called me Hercules or Puck. + </p> + <p> + She told me that her mother intended to ask me to dine with them one + evening next week. When was I free? I chose Thursday. Oddly enough I enjoy + dining there, although we are on the most formal terms, not having got + beyond the “Sir Marcus” and “Mrs. Ordeyne.” But both mother and daughter + are finely bred gentlewomen, and one meets few, oh, very, very few among + the ladies of to-day. + </p> + <p> + I reached home about six and found a telegram awaiting me. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Sorry can’t give you dinner. Cook in an impossible condition. Come + later.</i> Judith.” + </p> + <p> + I must confess to a sigh of relief. I am fond of Judith and sorry for her + domestic infelicities, though why she should maintain that alcoholized + wretch in her kitchen passes my comprehension. If there is one thing women + do not understand it is the selection, the ordering, and the treatment of + domestic servants. The mere man manages much better. But, that aside, + Antoinette has spoiled me for Judith’s cook’s cookery. I breathed a little + sigh of content and summoned Stenson to inform him that I would dine at + home. + </p> + <p> + A great package of books from a second-hand bookseller arrived during + dinner. Among them were the nine volumes of Pietro Gianone’s <i>Istoria + Civile del Regno di Napoli</i>, a copy of which I ought to have possessed + long ago. It is dedicated to the “Most Puissant and Felicitous Prince + Charles VI, the Great, by God crowned Emperor of the Romans, King of + Germany, Spain, Naples, Hungary, Bohemia, Sicily, <i>etcetera</i>.” Is + there a living soul in God’s universe who has a spark of admiration for + this most puissant and most felicitous monarch crowned by God Emperor and + King of the greater part of Europe (and docked of most of his pretensions + by the Treaty of Utrecht)? We only remember the forcible-feeble person by + his Pragmatic Sanction, and otherwise his personality has left in history + not the remotest trace. And yet, on the 12th February, 1723, a profoundly + erudite, subtle, and picturesque historian grovels before the man and + subscribes himself “Of your Holy Caesarean and Catholic Majesty the most + humble and most devoted and most obsequious vassal and slave Pietro + Gianone.” What ruthless judgments posterity passes on once enormous + reputations! In Gianone’s admirable introduction we hear of “<i>il celebre + Arthur Duck, il quale oltro a’ con confini della sua Inghilterra volle in + altri a piu lontani Paesi andav rintracciando l’uso a l’autorita delle + romane leggi ne’ nuovi domini de’ Principi cristiani; e di quelle di + ciascheduna Nazione volle ancora aver conto: le ricerco nella vicina + Scozia, e nell’ Ibernia; trapasso nella Francia, e nella Spagna; in + Germania, in Italia, a nel nostro Regno ancora: si stese in oltre in + Polonia, Boemia, in Ungheria, Danimarca, nella Svezia, ed in piu remote + parti</i>.” A devil of a fellow this celebrated English Arthur Duck, who + besides writing a learned treatise <i>De Usu et Auth. Jur. Civ. Rom. in + Dominiis Principum Christianorum</i>, was a knight, a member of + Parliament, chancellor of the diocese of London, and a master in chancery. + Gianone flattens himself out for a couple of pages before this prodigy + whom he lovingly calls <i>Ariuro</i>, as who should say Raffaelo or + Giordano; and now, where in the hearts of men lingers Sir Arthur Duck? For + one thing he had a bad name. Our English sense of humour revolts from + making a popular hero of a man called Duck. Yet we made one of Drake. But + there was something masculine about the latter: in fact, everything. + </p> + <p> + I am afraid it was rather late when I got to Judith. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + May 22d. + </p> + <p> + I wonder whether I should be happier now if I had lived in a garret “in + the brave days when I was twenty-one,” if I had undergone the lessons of + misery with the attendant compensations of “<i>une folle maitresse, de + francs amis et l’amour des chansons</i>,” and had joyous-heartedly mounted + my six flights of stairs. I lived modestly, it is true; but never for a + moment was I doubtful as to my next meal, and I have always enjoyed the + creature comforts of the respectable classes; never did Lisette pin her + shawl curtain-wise across my window. Sometimes, nowadays, I almost wish + she had. I never dreamed of glory, love, pleasure, madness, or spent my + lifetime in a moment, like the singer of the immortal song. Often the + weary moments seemed a lifetime. + </p> + <p> + And now that I am forty, “it is too late a week.” Boon companions, of whom + I am thankful to say I have none, would drive me crazy with their + intolerable heartiness. I once spent an evening at the Savage Club. As for + the <i>folle maitresse</i>—as a concomitant of my existence she + transcends imagination. + </p> + <p> + “What are you thinking of?” asked Judith. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking how the <i>‘Dans un grenier qu’on est bien a vingt ans’’</i> + principle would have worked in my own case,” I answered truthfully, for + the above reflections had been Passing through my mind. + </p> + <p> + Judith laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You in a garret? Why, you haven’t got a temperament!” + </p> + <p> + I suppose I haven’t. It never occurred to me before. Beranger omitted that + from his list of attendant compensations. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the difference between us,” she added, after a pause. “I have a + temperament and you haven’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you find it a great comfort.” + </p> + <p> + “It is ten times more uncomfortable than a conscience. It is the bane of + one’s existence.” + </p> + <p> + “Why be so proud of having it?” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t understand if I told you,” said Judith. + </p> + <p> + I rose and walked to the window and gazed meditatively at the rain which + swept the uninspiring little street. Judith lives in Tottenham Mansions, + in the purlieus of the Tottenham Court Road. The ground floor of the + building is a public-house, and on summer evenings one can sit by the open + windows, and breathe in the health-giving fumes of beer and whisky, and + listen to the sweet, tuneless strains of itinerant musicians. When my new + fortunes enabled me to give the dear woman just the little help that + allowed her to move into a more commodious flat, she had the many mansions + of London to choose from. Why she insisted on this abominable locality I + could never understand. It isn’t as if the flat were particularly cheap; + indeed the fact of its being situated over a public-house seems to enhance + the rent. She said she liked the shape of the knocker and the pattern of + the bathroom taps. I dimly perceive that it must have had something to do + with the temperament. + </p> + <p> + “It always seems to rain when we propose an outing together. This is the + fourth time since Easter,” I remarked. + </p> + <p> + We had planned a sedate country jaunt, but as the day was pouring wet we + remained at home. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps this is the way the <i>bon Dieu</i> has of expressing his + disapproval of us,” said Judith. + </p> + <p> + “Why should he disapprove?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + A shrug of her shoulders ended in a shiver. + </p> + <p> + “I am chilled through.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear girl,” I cried, “why on earth haven’t you lit the fire?” + </p> + <p> + “The last time I lit it you said the room was stuffy.” + </p> + <p> + “But then it was beautiful blazing sunshine, you illogical woman,” I + exclaimed, searching my pockets for a match-box. + </p> + <p> + I struck a match. To apply it to the fire I had to kneel by her chair. She + stretched out her hand—she has delicate white hands with slender + fingers—and lightly touched my head. + </p> + <p> + “How long have we known each other?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “About eight years.” + </p> + <p> + “And how long shall we go on?” + </p> + <p> + “As long as you like,” said I, intent on the fire. + </p> + <p> + Judith withdrew her hand. I knelt on the hearthrug until the merry blaze + and crackle of the wood assured me of successful effort. + </p> + <p> + “These are capital grates,” I said, cheerfully, drawing a comfortable + arm-chair to the front of the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Excellent,” she replied, in a tone devoid of interest. + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence. To me this is one of the great charms of human + intercourse. Is there not a legend that Tennyson and Carlyle spent the + most enjoyable evenings of their lives enveloped in impenetrable silence + and tobacco-smoke, one on each side of the hob? A sort of Whistlerian + nocturne of golden fog! + </p> + <p> + I offered Judith a cigarette. She declined it with a shake of the head. I + lit one myself and leaning back contentedly in my chair watched her face + in half-profile. Most people would call her plain. I can’t make up my mind + on the point. She is what is termed a negative blonde—that is to + say, one with very fair hair (in marvellous abundance—it is one of + her beauties), a sallow complexion and deep violet eyes. Her face is thin, + a little worn, that of the woman who has suffered—temperament again! + Her mouth, now, as she looks into the new noisy flames, is drawn down at + the corners. Her figure is slight but graceful. She has pretty feet. One + protruded from her skirt, and a slipper dangled from the tip. At last it + fell off. I knew it would. She has a craze for the minimum of material in + slippers—about an inch of leather (I suppose it’s leather) from the + toe. I picked the vain thing up and balanced it again on her + stocking-foot. + </p> + <p> + “Will you do that eight years hence?” said Judith. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, as I’ve done it eight thousand times the last eight years, I + suppose I shall,” I replied, laughing. “I’m a creature of habit.” + </p> + <p> + “You may marry, Marcus.” + </p> + <p> + “God forbid!” I ejaculated. + </p> + <p> + “Some pretty fresh girl.” + </p> + <p> + “I abominate pretty fresh girls. I would just as soon talk to a baby in a + perambulator.” + </p> + <p> + “The women men are crazy to marry are not always those they particularly + delight to converse with, my friend,” said Judith. + </p> + <p> + I lit another cigarette. “I think the sex feminine has marriage on the + brain,” I exclaimed, somewhat heatedly. “My Aunt Jessica was worrying me + about it the day before yesterday. As if it were any concern of hers!” + </p> + <p> + Judith laughed below her breath and called me a simpleton. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Because you haven’t got a temperament.” + </p> + <p> + This was a foolish answer, having no bearing on the question. I told her + so. She replied that she was years older than I, and had learned the + eternal relevance of all things. I pointed out that she was years younger. + </p> + <p> + “How many heart-beats have you had in your life—real, wild, + pulsating heart-beats—eternity in an hour?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s Blake,” I murmured. + </p> + <p> + “I’m aware of it. Answer my question.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a silly question.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t. The next time you see a female baby in a perambulator, take off + your hat respectfully.” + </p> + <p> + I am afraid I am clumsy at repartee. + </p> + <p> + “And the next time you engage a cook, my dear Judith,” said I, “send for a + mere man.” + </p> + <p> + She coloured up. I dissolved myself in apologies. Her wounded + susceptibilities required careful healing. The situation was somewhat odd. + She had not scrupled to attack the innermost weaknesses of my character, + and yet when I retaliated by a hit at externals, she was deeply hurt, and + made me feel a ruffianly blackguard. I really think if Lisette had pinned + up that curtain I should have learned something more about female human + nature. But Judith is the only woman I have known intimately all my life + long, and sometimes I wonder whether I shall ever know her. I told her so + once. She answered: “If you loved me you would know me.” Very likely she + was right. Honestly speaking, I don’t love Judith. I am accustomed to her. + She is a lady, born and bred. She is an educated woman and takes quite an + intelligent interest in the Renaissance. Indeed she has a subtler + appreciation of the Venetian School of Painting than I have. She first + opened my eyes, in Italy, to the beauties, as a gorgeous colourist, of + Palma Vecchio in his second or Giorgionesque manner. She is in every way a + sympathetic and entertaining companion. Going deeper, to the roots of + human instinct, I find she represents to me—so chance has willed it—the + <i>ewige weibliche</i> which must complement masculinity in order to + produce normal existence. But as for the “<i>zieht uns hinan</i>”—no. + It would not attract me hence—out of my sphere. I could commit an + immortal folly for no woman who ever made this planet more lustrous to its + Bruderspharen. + </p> + <p> + I don’t understand Judith. It doesn’t very greatly matter. Many things I + don’t understand, the spiritual attitude towards himself, for example, of + the intelligent juggler who expends his life’s energies in balancing a cue + and three billiard-balls on the tip of his nose. But I know that Judith + understands me, and therein lies the advantage I gain from our intimacy. + She gauges, to an absurdly subtle degree, the depth of my affection. She + is really an incomparable woman. So many insist upon predilection + masquerading as consuming passion. There is nothing theatrical about + Judith. + </p> + <p> + Yet to-day she appeared a little touchy, moody, unsettled. She broke + another pleasant spell of fireside silence, that followed expiation of my + offence, by suddenly calling my name. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said I, inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “I want to tell you something. Please promise me you won’t be vexed.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Judith,” said I, “my great and imperial namesake, in whose + meditations I have always found ineffable comfort, tells me this: ‘If + anything external vexes you, take notice that it is not the thing which + disturbs you, but your notion about it, which notion you may dismiss at + once, if you please!’ So I promise to dismiss all my notions of your + disturbing communication and not to be vexed.” + </p> + <p> + “If there is one platitudinist I dislike more than another, it is Marcus + Aurelius,” said Judith. + </p> + <p> + I laughed. It was very comfortable to sit before the fire, which + protested, in a fire’s cheery, human way, against the depression of the + murky world outside, and to banter Judith. + </p> + <p> + “I can quite understand it,” I said. “A man sucks in the consolations of + philosophy; a woman solaces herself with religion.” + </p> + <p> + “I can do neither,” she replied, changing her attitude with an exaggerated + shaking down of skirts. “If I could, I shouldn’t want to go away.” + </p> + <p> + “Go away?” I echud. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You mustn’t be vexed with me. I haven’t got a cook—” + </p> + <p> + “No one would have thought it, from the luncheon you gave me, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + The alcoholized domestic, by the way, was sent out, bag and baggage, last + evening, when she was sober enough to walk. + </p> + <p> + “And so it is a convenient opportunity,” Judith continued, ignoring my + compliment—and rightly so; for as soon as it had been uttered, I was + struck by an uneasy conviction that she had herself disturbed the French + caterers in the Tottenham Court Road from their Sabbath repose in order to + provide me with food. + </p> + <p> + “I can shut up the flat without any fuss. I am never happy at the + beginning of a London season. I know I’m silly,” she went on, hurriedly. + “If I could stand your dreadful Marcus Aurelius I might be wiser—I + don’t mind the rest of the year; but in the season everybody is in town—people + I used to know and mix with—I meet them in the streets and they cut + me and it—hurts—and so I want to get away somewhere by myself. + When I get sick of solitude I’ll come back.” + </p> + <p> + One of her quick, graceful movements brought her to her knees by my side. + She caught my hand. + </p> + <p> + “For pity’s sake, Marcus, say that you understand why it is.” + </p> + <p> + I said, “I have been a blatant egoist all the afternoon, Judith. I didn’t + guess. Of course I understand.” + </p> + <p> + “If you didn’t, it would be impossible for us.” + </p> + <p> + “Have no doubt,” said I, softly, and I kissed her hand. + </p> + <p> + I came into her life when she counted it as over and done with—at + eight and twenty—and was patiently undergoing premature interment in + a small pension in Rome. How long her patience would have lasted I cannot + say. If circumstances had been different, what would have happened? is the + most futile of speculations. What did happen was the drifting together of + us two bits of flotsam and our keeping together for the simple reason that + there were no forces urging us apart. She was past all care for social + sanctions, her sacred cap of good repute having been flung over the + windmills long before; and I, friendless unit in a world of shadows, why + should I have rejected the one warm hand that was held out to me? As I + said to her this afternoon, Why should the <i>bon Dieu</i> disapprove? I + pay him the compliment of presuming that he is a broad-minded deity. + </p> + <p> + When my fortune came, she remarked, “I am glad I am not free. If I were, + you would want to marry me, and that would be fatal.” + </p> + <p> + The divine, sound sense of the dear woman! Honour would compel the offer. + Its acceptance would bring disaster. + </p> + <p> + Marriage has two aspects. The one, a social contract, a <i>quid</i> of + protection, maintenance, position and what not, for a <i>quo</i> of the + various services that may be conveniently epitomized in the phrase <i>de + mensa et thoro</i>. The other, the only possible existence for two beings + whose passionate, mutual attraction demands the perfect fusion of their + two existences into a common life. Now to this passionate attraction I + have never become, and, having no temperament (thank Heaven!), shall never + become, a party. Before the turbulence therein involved I stand affrighted + as I do before London or the deep sea. I once read an epitaph in a German + churchyard: “I will awake, O Christ, when thou callest me; but let me + sleep awhile, for I am very weary.” Has the human soul ever so poignantly + expressed its craving for quietude? I fancy I should have been a heart’s + friend of that dead man, who, like myself, loved the cool and quiet + shadow, and was not allowed to enjoy it in this world. I may not get the + calm I desire, but at any rate my existence shall not be turned upside + down by mad passion for a woman. As for the social-contract aspect of + marriage, I want no better housekeeper than Antoinette; and my + dining-table having no guests does not need a lady to grace its foot; I + have no <i>a priori</i> craving to add to the population. “If children + were brought into the world by an act of pure reason alone,” says + Schopenhauer, “would the human race continue to exist? Would not a man + rather have so much sympathy with the coming generation as to spare it the + burden of existence? or at any rate not take it upon himself to impose + that burden upon it in cold blood?” By bringing children into the world by + means of a marriage of convenience I should be imposing the burden of + existence upon them in cold blood. I agree with Schopenhauer. + </p> + <p> + And the dreadful bond of such a marriage! To have in the closest physical + and moral propinquity for one hundred and eighty-six hours out of the + week, each hour surcharged with an obligatory exchange of + responsibilities, interests, sacrifices of every kind, a being who is not + the utter brother of my thoughts and sister of my dreams—no, never! + <i>Au grand non, au grand jamais!</i> + </p> + <p> + Judith is an incomparable woman, but she is not the utter brother of my + thoughts and the sister of my dreams; nor am I of hers. + </p> + <p> + But the comradeship she gives me is as food and drink, and my affection + fulfils a need in her nature. The delicate adjustment of reciprocals is + our sanction. Marriage, were it possible, would indeed be fatal. Our + pleasant, free relations, unruffled by storm, are ideal for us both. + </p> + <p> + Why, I wonder, did she think her proposal to go away for a change would + vex me? + </p> + <p> + The idea implies a right of veto which is repugnant to me. Of all the + hateful attitudes towards a woman in which a decent man can view himself + that of the Turkish bashaw is the most detestable. Women seldom give men + credit for this distaste. + </p> + <p> + I kissed the white hand of Judith that touched my wrist, and told her not + to doubt my understanding. She cried a little. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t make your path rougher, Judith?” I whispered. + </p> + <p> + She checked her tears and her eyes brightened wonderfully. + </p> + <p> + “You? You do nothing but smooth it and level it.” + </p> + <p> + “Like a steam-roller,” said I. + </p> + <p> + She laughed, sprang to her feet, and carried me off gaily to the kitchen + to help her get the tea ready. My assistance consisted in lighting the + gas-stove beneath a waterless kettle. After that I sprawled against the + dresser and, with my heart in my mouth, watched her cut thin + bread-and-butter in a woman’s deliciously clumsy way. Once, as the bright + blade went perilously near her palm, I drew in my breath. + </p> + <p> + “A man would never dream of doing it like that!” I cried, in rebuke. + </p> + <p> + She calmly dropped the wafer on to the plate and handed me the knife and + loaf. + </p> + <p> + “Do it your way,” she said, with a smile of mock humility. + </p> + <p> + I did it my way, and cut my finger. + </p> + <p> + “The devil’s in the knife!” I cried. “But that’s the right way.” + </p> + <p> + Judith said nothing, but bound up my wound, and, like the well-conducted + person of the ballad, went on cutting bread-and-butter. Her smile, + however, was provoking. + </p> + <p> + “And all this time,” I said, half an hour later, “you haven’t told me + where you are going.” + </p> + <p> + “Paris. To stay with Delphine Carrere.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you said you wanted solitude.” + </p> + <p> + I have met Delphine Carrere—<i>brave femme</i> if ever there was + one, and the loyalest soul in the world, the only one of Judith’s early + women friends who has totally ignored the fact of the Sacred Cap of Good + Repute having been thrown over the windmills (indeed who knows whether + dear, golden-hearted Delphine herself could conscientiously write the + magic initials S.C.G.R. after her name?); but Delphine has never struck me + as a person in whose dwelling one could find conventual seclusion. Judith, + however, explained. + </p> + <p> + “Delphine will be painting all day, and dissipating all night. I can’t + possibly disturb her in her studio, for she has to work tremendously hard—and + I’m decidedly not going to dissipate with her. So I shall have my days and + nights to my sequestered and meditative self.” + </p> + <p> + I said nothing: but all the same I am tolerably certain that Judith, being + Judith, will enjoy prodigious merrymaking in Paris. She is absolutely + sincere in her intentions—the earth holds no sincerer woman—but + she is a self-deceiver. Her about-to-be-sequestered and meditative self + was at that moment sitting on the arm of a chair and smoking a cigarette, + with undisguised relish of the good things of this life. The blue smoke + wreathing itself amid her fair hair resembled, so I told her in the + relaxed intellectual frame of mind of the contented man, incense mounting + through the nimbus of a saint. She affected solicitude lest the life-blood + of my intelligence should be pouring out through my cut finger. No, I am + convinced that the <i>recueillement</i> (that beautiful French word for + which we have no English equivalent, meaning the gathering of the soul + together within itself) of the rue Boissy d’Anglais is the very happiest + delusion wherewith Judith has hitherto deluded herself. I am glad, + exceedingly glad. Her temperament—I have got reconciled to her + affliction—craves the gaiety which London denies her. + </p> + <p> + “And when are you going?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? I wired Delphine this morning. I had to go out to get something + for lunch (my conviction, it appears, was right), and I thought I might as + well take an omnibus to Charing Cross and send a telegram.” + </p> + <p> + “But when are you going to pack?” + </p> + <p> + “I did that last night. I didn’t get to bed till four this morning. I only + made up my mind after you had gone,” she added, in anticipation of a + possible question. + </p> + <p> + It is better that we are not married. These sudden resolutions would throw + my existence out of gear. My moral upheaval would be that of a hen in + front of a motor-car. When I go abroad, I like at least a fortnight to + think of it. One has to attune one’s mind to new conditions, to map out + the pleasant scheme of days, to savour in anticipation the delights that + stand there, awaiting one’s tasting, either in the mystery of the unknown + or in the welcoming light of familiarity. I love the transition that can + be so subtly gradated by the spirit between one scene and another. The man + who awakens one fine morning in his London residence, scratches his head, + and says, “What shall I do to-day? By Jove! I’ll start for Timbuctoo!” is + to me an incomprehensible, incomplete being. He lacks an aesthetic sense. + </p> + <p> + I did not dare tell Judith she lacked an aesthetic sense. I might just as + well have accused her of stealing silver spoons. I said I should miss her + (which I certainly shall), and promised to write to her once a week. + </p> + <p> + “And you,” said I, “will have heaps of time to write me the History of a + Sequestered and Meditative Self—meanwhile, let us go out somewhere + and dine.” + </p> + <p> + When I got home, I found a card on my hall-table. “Mr. Sebastian + Pasquale.” + </p> + <p> + I am sorry I missed Pasquale. I haven’t seen him for two or three years. + He is a fascinating youth, a study in reversion. I will ask him to dinner + here some day soon. It will be quieter than at the club. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + May 24th. + </p> + <p> + Something has happened. Something fantastic, inconceivable. I am in a + condition to be surprised at nothing. If a witch on a broomstick rode in + through my open window and lectured me on quaternions, I should accept her + visit as a normal occurrence. + </p> + <p> + I have spent hours walking up and down this book-lined room, wondering + whether the universe or I were mad. Sometimes I laughed, for the thing is + sheerly ridiculous. Sometimes I cursed at the impertinence of the thing in + happening at all. Once I stumbled over a volume of Muratori lying on the + floor, and I kicked it across the room. Then I took it up, and wept over + the loosened binding. + </p> + <p> + The question is: What on earth am I to do? Why has Judith chosen this + particular time to shut up her flat and sequester herself in Paris? Why + did my lawyers appoint this particular morning for me to sign their silly + documents? Why did I turn up three hours late? Why did I walk down the + Thames Embankment? And why, oh, why, did I seat myself on a bench in the + gardens below the terrace of the National Liberal Club? + </p> + <p> + Yesterday was one of the most peaceful and happy days of my existence. I + worked contentedly at my history; I gossiped with Antoinette who came to + demand permission to keep a cat. + </p> + <p> + “What kind of a cat?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps Monsieur does not like cats?” she inquired, anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “The cat was worshipped as a god by the ancient Egyptians,” I remarked. + </p> + <p> + “But this one, Monsieur,” she said in breathless reassurance, “has only + one eye.” + </p> + <p> + I would sooner talk to Antoinette than the tutorial staff of Girton. If + she woke up one morning and found she had a mind she would think it a + disease. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon I strolled into Regent’s Park and meeting the McMurray’s + nine-year-old son in charge of the housemaid, around whom seemed to be + hovering a sheepish individual in a bowler hat, I took him off to the + Zoological Gardens. On the way he told me, with great glee, that his + German governess was in bed with an awful sore throat; that he wasn’t + doing any lessons; that the sheepish hoverer was Milly’s young man, and + that the silly way they went on was enough to make one sick. When he had + fed everything feedable and ridden everything ridable, I drove him to the + Wellington Road and deposited him with his parents. I love a couple of + hours with a child when it is thoroughly happy and on its best behaviour. + And the enjoyment is enhanced by the feeling of utter thankfulness that he + is not my child, but somebody else’s. + </p> + <p> + In the evening I read and meditated on the happiness of my lot. The years + of school drudgery have already lost their sharp edge of remembered + definition, and sometimes I wonder whether it is I who lived through them. + I had not a care in the world, not a want that I could not gratify. I + thought of Judith. I thought of Sebastian Pasquale. I amused myself by + seeking a Renaissance type of which he must be the reincarnation. I fixed + upon young Olgiati, one of the assassins of Gian Galeazzo Sforza. Of the + many hundreds of British youths who passed before my eyes during my + slavery, he is the only one who has sought me out in his manhood. And + strange to say we had only a few months together, during my first year’s + apprenticeship to the dismal craft, he being in the sixth form, and but + three or four years younger than I. He was the maddest, oddest, most + diabolical and most unpopular boy in the school. The staff, to whom the + conventional must of necessity be always the Divine, loathed him. I alone + took to the creature. I think now that my quaint passion for the + cinquecento Italian must have had something to do with my attraction. In + externals he is as English as I am, having been brought up in England by + an English mother, but there are thousands of Hindoos who are more British + than he. The McMurrays were telling me dreadful stories about him this + afternoon. Sighing after an obdurate Viennese dancer, he had lured her + coachman into helpless intoxication, had invested himself in the + domestic’s livery, and had driven off with the lady in the darkness after + the performance to the outskirts of the town. What happened exactly, the + McMurrays did not know; but there was the devil to pay in Vienna. And yet + this inconsequent libertine did the following before my own eyes. We were + walking down Piccadilly together one afternoon in the hard winter of 1894. + It was a black frost, agonizingly cold. A shivering wretch held out + matches for sale. His hideous red toes protruded through his boots. “My + God, my God!” cried Pasquale, “I can’t stand this!” He jumped into a + crawling hansom, tore off his own boots, flung them to the petrified + beggar and drove home in his stocking-feet. I stood on the curb and, with + mingled feelings, watched the recipient, amid an interested group of + bystanders, match the small shapely sole against his huge foot, and with a + grin tuck the boots under his arm and march away with them to the nearest + pawnbroker. If Pasquale had been an equally compassionate Briton, he would + have stopped to think, and have tossed the man a sovereign. <i>But he + didn’t stop to think.</i> That was my cinquecento Pasquale. And I loved + him for it. + </p> + <p> + I went to bed last night, as I have indicated, the most contented of + created beings. I awoke this morning with no greater ruffle on my + consciousness than the appointment with my lawyers. The sun shone. A + thrush sang lustily in the big elm opposite my bedroom windows. The tree, + laughed and shook out its finery at me like a woman, saying: “See how + green I am, after Sunday’s rain.” Antoinette’s one eyed black cat (a + hideous beast) met me in the hall and arching its back welcomed me affably + to its new residence. And on my breakfast-table I found a copy of the + first edition of Cristoforo da Costa’s “<i>Elogi delle Donne Illustri</i>,” + a book which, in great diffidence, I had asked Lord Carnforth, a perfect + stranger, to allow me the privilege of consulting in his library, and + which Lord Carnforth, with a scholar’s splendid courtesy, had sent me to + use at my convenience. + </p> + <p> + Filled with peace and good-will to all men, like a personification of + Christmas in May, I started out this morning to see my lawyers. I reached + them at three o’clock, having idled at second-hand bookstalls and lunched + on the road. I signed their unintelligible document, and wandered through + the Temple Gardens and along the Embankment. When I had passed under + Hungerford Bridge, it struck me that I was warm, a little leg-weary, and + the Victoria Embankment Gardens smiled an invitation to repose. I struck + the shady path beneath the terrace of the National Liberal Club, and sat + myself down on a comfortable bench. The only other occupant was a female + in black. As I take no interest in females in black, I disregarded her + presence, and gave myself up to the contemplation, of the trim lawns and + flower-beds, the green trees masking the unsightly Surrey side of the + river, and the back of the statue of Sir Bartle Frere. A continued survey + of the last not making for edification (a statue that turns its back on + you being one of the dullest objects made by man), I took from my pocket a + brown leather-covered volume which I had fished out of a penny box: “<i>Suite + de l’Histoire du Gouvernement de Venise ou L’Histoire des Uscoques, par le + Sieur Houssaie, Amsterdam, MDCCV.</i>” A whole complete scholarly history + of a forgotten people for a penny. The Uscoques were originally Dalmatians + who settled at Segna on the Adriatic and became the most pestiferous + colony of pirates and desperadoes of sixteenth century Europe. I opened + the yellow-stained pages and savoured their acrid musty smell. How much + learning, thought I, bought with the heart’s-blood, how many million hours + of fierce intellectual struggle appeal to mankind nowadays but as an + odour, an odour of decay, in the nostrils of here and there a casual + student. I thought this, and my eye caught, repeated many times, the name + of the Frangipani, once lords of Segna. As men, their achievements are + wiped out of commonly remembered history; but their name is distilled into + a sensuous perfume which perchance may be found in the penny scent + fountains of to-day. I was smiling over this quaint olfactory coincidence, + and wondering whether any human being alive at that moment had ever read + the Sieur Houssaie’s book, when a tug at my arm, such as a neglected + terrier gives with his paw, brought me back to the workaday world. I + turned sharply and met a pair of melting, brown, piteous, imploring dog’s + eyes, belonging not to a terrier, but to the disregarded female in black. + </p> + <p> + “Will you please, sir, to tell me what I must do.” + </p> + <p> + I stared. She was not in the least like what my half-conscious glance at + the female in black had taken her to be. She was quite young, remarkably + good looking. Even at the first instant I was struck by her eyes and the + mass of bronze hair and the twitching of a childish mouth. But she had an + untidy, touzled, raffish appearance, due to I knew not what investiture of + disrepute. Her hands—for she wore no gloves—wanted washing. + </p> + <p> + “What a young girl like yourself must not do,” said I, “is to enter into + conversation with men in public places.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I shall have to die,” she said, forlornly, edging away from my side. + </p> + <p> + She had the oddest little foreign accent. I looked at her again more + critically, and discovered what it was that made her look so disreputable. + She was wearing an old black dress many sizes too big for her. Great + pleats of it were secured by pins in unexpected places, so that quaint + chaos was made of the scheme of decoration—black velvet and bugles—on + the bodice. Instinctively I felt that a middle-aged, fat, + second-hand-clothes-dealing Jewess had built it many years ago for + synagogue wear. On the girlish figure it looked preposterous. Preposterous + too was her head-gear, an amorphous bonnet trimmed in black, with a cheap + black feather drooping brokenly. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes gave me a reproachful glance and turned away again. Then she + shrugged her shoulders and sniffed. My mother had a housemaid once who + always sniffed like that before beginning to cry. My position was + untenable. I could not remain stonily on the seat while this grotesquely + attired damsel wept; and for the life of me I could not get up and leave + her. She looked at me again. Those swimming, pleading eyes were scarcely + human. I capitulated. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t cry. Tell me what I can do for you,” I said. + </p> + <p> + She moved a few inches nearer. + </p> + <p> + “I want to find Harry,” she said; “I have lost him.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s Harry?” I naturally inquired. + </p> + <p> + “He is to be my husband.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s his other name?” + </p> + <p> + “I have forgotten,” she said, spreading out her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know any one else in London?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head mournfully. “And I am getting so hungry.” + </p> + <p> + I suggested that there were restaurants in London. + </p> + <p> + “But I have no money,” she objected. “No money and nothing at all but + this.” She designated her dress. “Isn’t it ugly?” + </p> + <p> + “It is decidedly not becoming,” I admitted. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what must I do? You tell me and I do it. If you don’t tell me, I + must die.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned back placidly, having thus put upon my shoulders the + responsibility of her existence. I did not know which to admire more, her + cool assurance or the stoic fortitude with which she faced dissolution. + </p> + <p> + “I can give you some money to keep you going for a day or two,” said I, + “but as for finding Harry, without knowing his name—” + </p> + <p> + “After all I don’t want so very much to find him,” said this amazing young + person. “He made me stay in my cabin all the time I was in the steamer. At + first I was glad, for it went up and down, side to side, and I thought I + would die, for I was so sick; but afterwards I got better—” + </p> + <p> + “But where did you come from?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “From Alexandretta.” + </p> + <p> + “What were you doing there?” + </p> + <p> + “I used to sit in a tree and look over the wall—” + </p> + <p> + “What wall?” + </p> + <p> + “The wall of my house-my father’s house. He was not my father, but he + married my mother. I am English.” She announced the fact with a little air + of finality. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed?” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Father, mother—both English. He was Vice-Consul. He died + before I was born. Then his friend Hamdi Effendi took my mother and + married her. You see?” + </p> + <p> + I confessed I did not. “Where does Harry come in?” I inquired. + </p> + <p> + She looked puzzled. “Come in?” she echoed. + </p> + <p> + I perceived her knowledge of the English vernacular was limited. I turned + my question differently. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she said with more animation. “He used to pass by the wall, and I + talked to him when there was no one looking. He was so pretty—prettier + than you,” she paused. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible?” I said, ironically. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” she replied with profound gravity. “He had a moustache, but he + was not so long.” + </p> + <p> + “Well? You talked to Harry. What then?” + </p> + <p> + In her artless way she told me. A refreshing story, as old as the + crusades, with the accessories of orthodox tradition; a European disguise, + purchased at a slop dealer’s by the precious Harry, a rope, a midnight + flitting, a passage taken on board an English ship; the anchor weighed; + and the lovers were free on the bounding main. A most refreshing story! I + put on a sudden air of sternness, and shot a question at her like a + bullet. + </p> + <p> + “Are you making all this up, young woman?” + </p> + <p> + She started-looked quite scared. + </p> + <p> + “You mean I tell lies? But no. It is all true. Why shouldn’t it be true? + How else could I have come here?” + </p> + <p> + The question was unanswerable. Her story was as preposterous as her + garments. But her garments were real enough. I looked long into her great + innocent eyes. Yes, she was telling me the truth. She babbled on for a + little. I gathered that her step-father, Hamdi Effendi, was a Turkish + official. She had spent all her life in the harem from which she had + eloped with this pretty young Englishman. + </p> + <p> + “And what must I do?” she reiterated. + </p> + <p> + I told her to give me time. One is not in the habit of meeting abducted + Lights of the Harem in the Embankment Gardens, beneath the National + Liberal Club. It was, in fact, a bewildering occurrence. I looked around + me. Nothing seemed to have happened during the last ten minutes. A pale + young man on the next bench, whom I had noticed when I entered, was + reading a dirty pink newspaper. Pigeons and sparrows hopped about + unconcernedly. On the file of cabs, just perceptible through the foliage, + the cabmen lolled in listless attitudes. Sir Bartle Frere stolidly kept + his back to me, not the least interested in this Gilbert a Becket story. I + always thought something was wrong with that man’s character. + </p> + <p> + What on earth could I tell her to do? The best course was to find the + infernal Harry. I asked her how she came to lose him. It appears he + escorted her ashore at Southampton, after having scarcely set eyes on her + during the voyage, put her into a railway carriage with strict injunctions + not to stir until he claimed her, and then disappeared into space. + </p> + <p> + “Did he give you your ticket?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “What a young blackguard!” I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like him at all,” she said. + </p> + <p> + How she managed to elude the ticket collector at Vauxhall I could not + exactly discover. Apparently she told him, in her confiding manner, that + Harry had it, and when he found no Harry in the train and came back to say + so, she turned her dewy imploring eyes on him and the sentimental varlet + melted. At Waterloo a man had told her she must get out of the carriage—she + had travelled alone in it—and she had meekly obeyed. She had + wandered out of the station and across a bridge and had eventually found + herself in the Embankment Gardens. Then she had asked me how to find + Harry. Really she was ridiculously like Thomas a Becket’s Saracen mother + crying in London for Gilbert. And the most ludicrous part of the + resemblance was that she did not know the creature’s surname. + </p> + <p> + “By the way,” said I, “what is your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta what?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “I have no other name.” + </p> + <p> + “Your father—the Vice-Consul—had one.” + </p> + <p> + She wrinkled her young forehead in profound mental effort. + </p> + <p> + “Ramsbotham,” she said at last, triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + “Now look here, Miss Ramsbotham—no,” I broke off. “Such an + appellation is anachronistic, incongruous, and infinitely absurd. I can’t + use it. I must take the liberty of addressing you as Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’ve told you that Carlotta is my name,” she said, in uncomprehending + innocence. + </p> + <p> + “And mine is Sir Marcus Ordeyne. People call me ‘Sir Marcus.’” + </p> + <p> + “Seer Marcous,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + She did not seem at all impressed with the fact that she was talking to a + member of the baronetage. + </p> + <p> + “Quite so,” said I. “Now, Carlotta,” I resumed, “our first plan is to set + out in search of Harry. He may have missed his train, and have followed by + a later one, and be even now rampaging about Waterloo station. If we hear + nothing of him, I will drive you to the Turkish Consulate, give you in + charge there, and they will see you safely home to Alexandretta. The good + Hamdi Effendi is doubtless distracted, and will welcome you back with open + arms.” + </p> + <p> + I meant to be urbane and friendly. + </p> + <p> + She rose to her feet, grew as white as paper, opened her great eyes, + opened her baby mouth, and in the middle of the Embankment Gardens plumped + on her knees before me and clasped her hands above her head. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake get up!” I shrieked, wrenching her back acrobatically to + the bench beside me. “You mustn’t do things like that. You’ll have the + whole of London running to look at us.” + </p> + <p> + Indeed the sight had so far roused the pale young man from his lethargy + that he laid his dirty pink paper on his knees. I kept hold of Carlotta’s + wrists. She began to moan incoherently. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t send me back—Hamdi will kill me—oh please don’t + send me back—he will make me marry his friend Mustapha—Mustapha + has only two teeth—and he is seventy years old—and he has a + wife already—I only went with Harry to avoid Mustapha. Hamdi would + kill me, he would beat me, he would make me marry Mustapha.” + </p> + <p> + That is what I gathered from her utterances. She was frightened out of her + wits, even into anticlimax. + </p> + <p> + “But the Turkish Consul is your natural protector,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t be so cruel,” she sobbed. The guttural sonority with which + she rolled the “r” in “cruel” made the epithet appear one of revolting + barbarity. She fixed those confounded eyes upon me. + </p> + <p> + I wonder whether such a fool as I has ever lived. + </p> + <p> + I promised, on my honour, not to hand her over to the Turkish consulate. + </p> + <p> + I took a four-wheeled cab from the rank on the Embankment and drove her to + Waterloo. On the way she reminded me that she was hungry. I gave her food + at the buffet. It appears she has a passion for hard-boiled eggs and + lemonade. She did not seem very much concerned about finding Harry, but + chattered to me about the appointments of the bar. The beer-pulls amused + her particularly. She made me order a glass of bitter (a beverage which I + loathe) in order to see again how it was done, and broke into gleeful + laughter. The smart but unimaginative barmaid stared at her in + bewilderment. The two or three bar-loafers also stared. I was glad to + escape to the platform. + </p> + <p> + There, however, a group of idlers followed us about and stood in a ring + round us when we stopped to interview a railway official. The beautiful, + bronze-haired, ox-eyed young woman in her disreputable attire—I have + never seen a broken black feather waggle more shamelessly—was a + sight indeed to strike wonderment into the cockney mind. And perhaps her + association with myself added to the incongruity. I am long and lean and + unlovely, I know; but it is my consolation that I look irreproachably + respectable. Of the two I was infinitely the more disturbed by the public + attention. “Calm and unembarrassed as a fate” she returned the popular + gaze, and appeared somewhat bored by my efforts to find Harry. In the + midst of an earnest discussion with the station-master she begged me for a + penny to put into an automatic sweetmeat machine, which she had seen a + small boy work successfully. I refused, curtly, and turned to the + station-master. A roar of laughter interrupted me again. Carlotta, with + outstretched hand and pleading eyes, like an organ-grinder’s monkey, had + induced the boy to part with the sticky bit of toffee, and was in the act + of conveying it to her mouth. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll call to-morrow morning,” said I hurriedly to the station-master. “If + the gentleman should come meanwhile, tell him to leave his name and + address.” + </p> + <p> + Then I took Carlotta by the arm and, accompanied by my train of + satellites, I thrust her into the first hansom-cab I could see. + </p> + <p> + There was no sign or token of Harry. No pretty young man was hanging + dejectedly about the station. None had torn his hair before the officials + asking for news of a lost female in frowsy black. There was no Harry. + There was no further need therefore to afford the British public a + gratuitous entertainment. + </p> + <p> + “Drive,” said I to the cabman. “Drive like the devil.” + </p> + <p> + “Where to, sir?” + </p> + <p> + I gasped. Where should I drive? I lost my head. + </p> + <p> + “Go on driving round and round till I tell you to stop.” The philosophic + cabman did not regard me as eccentric, for he whipped up his horse + cheerfully. When we had slid down the steep incline and got free of the + precincts of that hateful station, I breathed more freely and collected my + wits. Carlotta sucked her sticky thumbs and wiped them on her dress. + </p> + <p> + “Where are we going?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Across Waterloo Bridge,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “What to do?” + </p> + <p> + “To dispose of you somehow,” I replied, grimly. “But how, I haven’t a + notion. There’s a Home for Lost Dogs and a Home for Stray Cats, and a Lost + Property Office at Scotland Yard, but as you are neither a dog nor a cat + nor an umbrella, these refuges are unavailable.” + </p> + <p> + The cab reached the Strand. + </p> + <p> + “East or west, sir?” inquired the driver. + </p> + <p> + “West,” said I, at random. + </p> + <p> + We drove down the Strand at a leisurely pace. I passed through a phase of + agonised thought. By my side was a helpless, homeless, friendless, + penniless young woman, as beautiful as a goddess and as empty-minded as a + baby. What in the world could I do with her? I looked at her in despair. + She met my glance with a contented smile; just as if we were old + acquaintances and I were taking her out to dinner. The unfamiliar roar and + bustle of London impressed her no more than it would have impressed a + little dog who had found a kind master. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I gave you some money and put you down here and left you?” I + inquired. + </p> + <p> + “I should die,” she answered, fatalistically. “Or, perhaps, I should find + another kind gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you have such a thing as a soul,” said I. + </p> + <p> + She plucked at her gown. “I have only this—and it is very ugly,” she + remarked again. “I should like a pink dress.” + </p> + <p> + We crossed Trafalgar Square, and I saw by Big Ben that it was a quarter to + six. I could not drive through London with her for an indefinite period. + Besides, my half past seven dinner awaited me. + </p> + <p> + Why, oh, why has Judith gone to Paris? Had she been in town I could have + shot Carlotta into Tottenham Mansions, and gone home to my dinner and + Cristoforo da Costa with a light heart. Judith would have found Carlotta + vastly entertaining. She would have washed her body and analysed her + temperament. But Judith was in retreat with Delphine Carrere, and has left + me alone to bear the responsibilities of life—and Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + The cab slowly mounted Waterloo Place. I had thought of my aunts as + possible helpers, and rejected the idea. I had thought of a police + station, a hotel, my lawyers (too late), a furnished lodging, a hospital. + My mind was an aching blank. + </p> + <p> + “Where do you live?” asked Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + I looked at her and groaned. It was the only solution. “Up Regent’s Park + way,” I replied, aware that she was none the wiser for the information. + </p> + <p> + I gave the address to the cabman through the trap-door in the roof. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to take you home with me for to-night,” I said, severely. “I + have an excellent French housekeeper who will look after your comfort. And + to-morrow if that infernal young scoundrel of a lover of yours is not + found, it will not be the fault of the police force of Great Britain.” + </p> + <p> + She laid her grubby little hand on mine. It was very soft and cool. + </p> + <p> + “You are cross with me. Why?” + </p> + <p> + I removed her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t do that again,” said I. “No; I am not in the least cross with + you. But I hope you are aware that this event is of an unprecedented + character.” + </p> + <p> + “What is an unprecedented character?” she asked, stumbling over the long + words. + </p> + <p> + “A thing that has never happened before and I devoutly hope will not + happen again.” + </p> + <p> + Her face was turned to me. The lower lip trembled a little. The dog-look + came into those wonderful eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You will be kind to me?” she said, in her childish monosyllables, each + word carefully articulated with a long pause between. + </p> + <p> + I felt I had behaved like a heartless brute, ever since I thrust her into + the cab at Waterloo. I relented and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “If you are a good girl and do as I tell you,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Seer Marcous is my lord and I am his slave,” was her astounding reply. + </p> + <p> + Then I realised that she had been brought up by Hamdi Effendi. There is + something salutary, after all, in the training of the harem. + </p> + <p> + “I’m very glad to hear it,” I said. + </p> + <p> + She closed her eyes. I saw now she was very tired. I thought she had gone + to sleep and I looked in front of me puzzling out the problem. Presently + the cab-doors were thrust violently open, and if I had net held her back, + she would have jumped out of the vehicle. + </p> + <p> + “Look!” she cried, in great excitement. “There! There’s Harry’s name!” + </p> + <p> + She pointed to a butcher’s cart immediately in front of us, bearing, in + large letters, the name of “E. Robinson.” + </p> + <p> + “We must stop,” she went on. “He will tell us about Harry.” + </p> + <p> + It took me from Oxford Circus to Portman Square to convince her that there + were many thousands of Robinsons in London and that the probability of the + butcher’s cart being a clue to Harry’s whereabouts was exceedingly remote. + </p> + <p> + At Baker Street station she asked, wearily: “Is it still far to your + house?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said I, encouragingly. “Not very far.” + </p> + <p> + “But one can drive for many days through streets in London, and there will + be still streets, still houses? So they tell me in Alexandretta. London is + as big as the moon, not so?” + </p> + <p> + I felt absurdly pleased. She was capable of an idea. I had begun to wonder + whether she were not merely half-witted. The fact of her being able to + read had already cheered me. + </p> + <p> + “Many hours, yes,” I corrected, “not many days. London seems big to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” she said, passing her hand over her eyes. “It makes all go + round in my head. One day you will take me for a drive through these + wonderful streets. Now I am too tired. They make my head ache.” + </p> + <p> + Then she shut her eyes again and did not open them until we stopped at + Lingfield Terrace. I modified my first impression of her animal + unimpressionability. She is quite sane. If Boadicea were to be brought + back to life and be set down suddenly at Charing Cross, her psychological + condition would not be far removed from that of an idiot. Yet in her own + environment Boadicea was quite a sane and capable lady. + </p> + <p> + My admirable man Stenson opened the door and admitted us without moving a + muscle. He would betray no incorrect astonishment if I brought home a + hippogriff to dinner. I have an admiration for the trained serving-man’s + imperturbability. It is the guardian angel of his self-respect. I ordered + him to send Antoinette to me in the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “Antoinette,” said I, “this young lady has travelled all the way from Asia + Minor, where the good St. Paul had so many adventures, without changing + her things.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>C’est y Dieu possible</i>!” said Antoinette. + </p> + <p> + “Give her a nice hot bath, and perhaps you will have the kindness to lend + her the underlinen that your sex is in the habit of wearing. You will put + her into the spare bedroom, as she is going to pass the night here, and + you will look generally after her comfort.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Bien, M’sieu</i>,” said Antoinette, regarding Carlotta in + stupefaction. + </p> + <p> + “And put that hat and dress into the dust-bin.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Bien, M’sieu.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “And as Mademoiselle is broken with fatigue, having come without stopping + from Asia Minor, she will go to bed as soon as possible.” + </p> + <p> + “The poor angel,” said Antoinette. “But will she not join Monsieur at + dinner?” + </p> + <p> + “I think not,” said I, dryly. + </p> + <p> + “But the young ducklings that are roasting for the dinner of Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “If they were not roasting they might be growing up into ducks,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, la, la!” murmured Antoinette, below her breath. + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta,” said I, turning to the girl who had seated herself humbly on a + straight-backed chair, “you will go with Antoinette and do as she tells + you. She doesn’t talk English, but she is used to making people understand + her.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mais, moi parley Francais un peu</i>,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Then you will win Antoinette’s heart, and she will lend you her finest. + Good-night,” said I, abruptly. “I hope you will have a pleasant rest.” + </p> + <p> + She took my outstretched hand, and, to my great embarrassment, raised it + to her lips. Antoinette looked on, with a sentimental moisture in her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “The poor angel,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + Later, I gave Stenson a succinct account of what had occurred. I owed it + to my reputation. Then I went upstairs and dressed for dinner. I consider + I owe that to Stenson. It was eight o’clock before I sat down, but + Antoinette’s ducklings were delicious and brought consolation for the + upheaval of the day. I was unfolding the latest edition of <i>The + Westminster Gazette</i> with which I always soothe the digestive half-hour + after dinner, when Antoinette entered to report progress. + </p> + <p> + She was sound asleep, the poor little one. Oh, but she was tired. She had + eaten some <i>consomme</i>, a bit of fish and an omelette. But she was + beautiful, gentle as a lamb; and she had a skin <i>on dirait du satin</i>. + Had not Monsieur noticed it? + </p> + <p> + I replied, with some over-emphasis, that I had not. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur rather regards the inside of his books,” said Antoinette. + </p> + <p> + “They are generally more worth regarding,” said I. + </p> + <p> + Antoinette said nothing; but there was a feminine quiver at the corners of + her fat lips. + </p> + <p> + She was comfortably disposed of for the night. I drew a breath of relief. + To-morrow Great Scotland Yard should set out on the track of the + absconding Harry. Carlotta’s happy recollection of his surname facilitated + the search. I lit a cigarette and opened <i>The Westminster Gazette</i>. + </p> + <p> + A few moments later I was staring at the paper in blank horror and dismay. + </p> + <p> + Harry was found. There was no mistake. Harry Robinson, junior partner of + the firm of Robinson & Co., of Mincing Lane. Vain, indeed, would it be + to seek the help of Great Scotland Yard. Harry had blown out his brains in + the South Western Hotel at Southampton. + </p> + <p> + I have read the newspaper paragraph over and over again to-night. There is + no possible room for doubt that it is the same Harry. + </p> + <p> + The ways of man are past interpretation. Here is an individual who lures a + girl from an oriental harem, attires her in disgusting garments, smuggles + her on board a steamer, where he claps her, so to speak, under hatches, + and has little if anything to do with her, sets her penniless and + ticketless in a London train, and then goes off and blows his brains out. + Where is the sense of it? + </p> + <p> + I have not a spark of sympathy for Harry—a callow, egotistical + dealer in currants. He ought to have blown out his brains a year ago. He + has behaved in a most unconscionable manner. How does he expect me to + break the news to Carlotta? His selfishness is appalling. There he lies, + comfortably dead in the South Western Hotel, while Carlotta has literally + not a rag to her back, her horrific belongings having been dropped into + the dust-bin. Who does he think is going to provide Carlotta with food and + shelter and a pink dress? What does he imagine is to become of the poor + waif? In all my life I have never heard of a more cynical suicide. + </p> + <p> + I have walked about for hours, laughing and cursing and kicking the + binding loose of my precious Muratori. I have wondered whether the + universe or I were mad. For there is one thing that is clear to me—Carlotta + is here, and here Carlotta must remain. + </p> + <p> + Devastating though it be to the well-ordered quietude of my life, I must + adopt Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + There is no way out of it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + May 25th. + </p> + <p> + Shall I be accused of harbouring a bevy of odalisques at No. 20 Lingfield + Terrace? Calumny and Exaggeration walk abroad, arm in arm, even on the + north side of Regent’s Park. If they had spied Carlotta at my window this + morning, they would have looked in for afternoon tea at my Aunt Jessica’s + and have waylaid Mrs. Ralph Ordeyne outside the Oratory. The question is: + Shall Truth anticipate them? I think not. Every family has its + irrepressible, impossible, unpractical member, its <i>enfant terrible</i>, + who is forever doing the wrong thing with the best intentions. Truth is + the <i>enfant terrible</i> of the Virtues. Some times it puts them to the + blush and throws them into confusion; at others it blusters like a blatant + liar; at others, again, it stutters and stammers like a detected thief. + There is no knowing how Truth may behave, so I shall not let it visit my + relations. + </p> + <p> + I must confess, however, that I feared the possible passing by of the two + decrepit cronies, when Carlotta stood at my open French window this + morning. She is really indecently beautiful. She was wearing a deep red + silk peignoir, open at the throat, unashamedly Parisian, which clung to + every salient curve of her figure. I wondered where, in the name of + morality, she had procured the garment. I learned later that it was the + joy and pride of Antoinette’s existence; for once, in the days long ago, + when she was <i>femme de chambre</i> to a luminary of the cafes concerts, + it had met around her waist. She had treasured the cast-off finery of this + burned-out star—she beamed in the seventies—for all these + years, and now its immortal devilry transfigured Carlotta. She was also + washed specklessly clean. An aroma that no soap or artificial perfume + could give disengaged itself from her as she moved. Her gold-bronze hair + was superbly ordered. I noticed her arms which the sleeves of the gay + garment left bare to the elbows; the skin was like satin. “<i>Et sa peau! + On dirait du satin.</i>” Confound Antoinette! She had the audacity, too, + to come down with bare feet. It was a revelation of pink, undreamed-of + loveliness in tus. + </p> + <p> + I repeat she is indecently beautiful. A chit of a girl of eighteen (for + that I learn is her age) has no right to flaunt the beauty that should be + the appanage of the woman of seven and twenty. She should be modestly + well-favoured, as becomes her childish stage of development. She looked + incongruous among my sober books, and I regarded her with some resentment. + I dislike the exotic. I prefer geraniums to orchids. I have a row of pots + of the former on my balcony, and the united efforts of Stenson, + Antoinette, and myself have not yet succeeded in making them bloom; but I + love the unassuming velvety leaves. Carlotta is a flaring orchid and + produces on my retina a sensation of disquiet. + </p> + <p> + I broke the tidings of the tragedy as gently as I could. I had news of + Harry, I said, gravely. She merely looked interested and asked me when he + was coming. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid he will never come,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “If he does not come, then I can stay here with you?” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes betrayed a quiver of anxiety. For the life of me I could not + avoid the ironical. + </p> + <p> + “If you will condescend to dwell as a member of my family beneath my + humble roof.” + </p> + <p> + The irony was lost on her. She uttered a joyous little cry and held out + both her hands to me. Her eyes danced. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am glad he is not coming. I don’t like him any more. I love to stay + here with you.” + </p> + <p> + I took both the hands in mine. Mortal man could not have done otherwise. + </p> + <p> + “Have you thought why it is that you will never see Harry again?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her beautiful head and held it to one side and puckered up her + brows, like a wistful terrier. + </p> + <p> + “Is he dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Would it grieve you, if he were?” + </p> + <p> + “No-o,” she replied, thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said I, dropping her hands and turning away, “Harry is dead.” + </p> + <p> + She stood silent for a couple of minutes, regarding the row of pink toes + that protruded beneath the peignoir. At last her bosom shook with a sigh. + She glanced up at me sweetly. + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad,” she said. + </p> + <p> + That is all she has vouchsafed to say with regard to the unhappy young + man. “She was so glad!” She has not even asked how he met his death. She + has simply accepted my statement. Harry is dead. He has gone out of her + life like yesterday’s sunshine or yesterday’s frippery. If I had told her + that yesterday’s cab-horse had broken his neck, she could not be more + unconcerned. Nay, she is glad. Harry had not treated her nicely. He had + boxed her up in a cabin where she had been sick, and had subjected her to + various other discomforts. I, on the contrary, had surrounded her with + luxuries and dressed her in red silk. She rather dreaded Harry’s coming. + When she learned that this was improbable she was relieved. His death had + turned the improbable into the impossible. It was the end of the matter. + She was so glad! + </p> + <p> + Yet there must have been some tender passage in their brief intercourse. + He must have kissed her during their flight from home to steamer. Her + young pulses must have throbbed a little faster at the sight of his comely + face. + </p> + <p> + What kind of a mythological being am I housing? Did she come at all out of + Hamdi Effendi’s harem? Is she not rather some strange sea-creature that + clambered on board the vessel and bewitched the miserable boy, sucked the + soul out of him, and drove him to destruction? Or is she a Vampire? Or a + Succubus? Or a Hamadryad? Or a Salamander? + </p> + <p> + One thing, I vow she is not human. + </p> + <p> + If only Judith were here to advise me! And yet I have an uneasy feeling + that Judith will suggest, with a certain violence that is characteristic + of her, the one course which I cannot follow: to send Carlotta back to + Hamdi Effendi. But I cannot break my word. I would rather, far rather, + break Carlotta’s beautiful neck. I have not written to Judith. Nor, by the + way, have I received a letter from her. Delphine has been whirling her off + her legs, and she is ashamed to confess the delusion of the sequestered + life. I wish I were enjoying myself half as much as Judith. + </p> + <p> + “I have adopted Mademoiselle,” said I to Antoinette this morning. “If she + returned to Asia Minor they would put a string round her neck, tie her up + in a sack, and throw her into the sea.” + </p> + <p> + “That would be a pity,” said Antoinette, warmly. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Cela depend</i>,” said I. “Anyhow she is here, and here she remains.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case,” said Antoinette, “has Monsieur considered that the poor + angel will need clothes and articles of toilette—and this and that + and the other?” + </p> + <p> + “And shoes to hide her shameless tus,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “They are the most beautiful toes I have ever seen!” cried Antoinette in + imbecile admiration. She has bewitched that old woman already. + </p> + <p> + I put on my hat and went to Wellington Road to consult Mrs. McMurray. + Heaven be thanked, thought I, for letting me take her little boy the day + before yesterday to see the other animals, and thus winning a mother’s + heart. She will help me out of my dilemma. Unfortunately she was not + alone. Her husband, who is on the staff of a morning newspaper, was + breakfasting when I arrived. He is a great ruddy bearded giant with a + rumbling thunder of a laugh like the bass notes of an organ. His assertion + of the masculine principle in brawn and beard and bass somewhat overpowers + a non-muscular, clean-shaven, and tenor person like myself. Mrs. McMurray, + on the contrary, is a small, bright bird of a woman. + </p> + <p> + I told my amazing story from beginning to end, interrupted by many + Hoo-oo-oo-oo’s from McMurray. + </p> + <p> + “You may laugh,” said I, “but to have a mythical being out of Olympiodorus + quartered on you for life is no jesting matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Olymp—?” began McMurray. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I snapped. + </p> + <p> + “Bring her this afternoon, Sir Marcus, when this unsympathetic wretch has + gone to his club,” said his wife, “and I’ll take her out shopping.” + </p> + <p> + “But, dear lady,” I cried in despair, “she has but one garment—and + that a silk dressing-gown of horrible depravity that belonged to a dancer + of the second Empire! She is also barefoot.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll come round myself and see what can be done.” + </p> + <p> + “And by Jove, so will I!” cried McMurray. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll do such thing,” said his wife + </p> + <p> + “If I gave you a cheque for 100,” said I, “do you think you could get her + what she wants, to go on with?” + </p> + <p> + “A hundred pounds!” The little lady uttered a delighted gasp and I thought + she would have kissed me. McMurray brought his sledgehammer of a hand down + on my shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Man!” he roared. “Do you know what you are doing—casting a + respectable wife and mother of a family loose among London drapery shops + with a hundred pounds in her pocket? Do you think she will henceforward + give a thought to her home or husband? Do you want to ruin my domestic + peace, drive me to drink, and wreck my household?” + </p> + <p> + “If you do that again,” said I, rubbing my shoulder, “I’ll give her two + hundred.” + </p> + <p> + When I returned Carlotta was sitting, Turkish fashion, on a sofa, smoking + a cigarette (to which she had helped herself out of my box) and turning + over the pages of a book. This sign of literary taste surprised me. But I + soon found it was the second volume of my <i>edition de luxe</i> of + Louandre’s <i>Les Arts Somptuaires</i>, to whose place on the shelves + sheer feminine instinct must have guided her. I announced Mrs. McMurray’s + proposed visit. She jumped to her feet, ravished at the prospect, and sent + my beautiful book (it is bound in tree-calf and contains a couple of + hundred exquisitely coloured plates) flying onto the floor. I picked it up + tenderly, and laid it on my writing-table. + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta,” said I, “the first thing you have to learn here is that books + in England are more precious than babies in Alexandretta. If you pitch + them about in this fashion you will murder them and I shall have you + hanged.” + </p> + <p> + This checked her sumptuary excitement. It gave her food for reflection, + and she stood humbly penitent, while I went further into the subject of + clothes. + </p> + <p> + “In fact,” I concluded, “you will be dressed like a lady.” She opened the + book at a gaudy picture, “<i>France, XVI(ieme) Siecle—Saltimbanque + et Bohemmienne</i>,” and pointed to the female mountebank. This young + person wore a bright green tunic, bordered with gold and finished off at + the elbows and waist with red, over an undergown of flaring pink, the + sleeves of which reached her wrist; she was crowned with red and white + carnations stuck in ivy. + </p> + <p> + “I will get a dress like that,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + I wondered how far Mrs. McMurray possessed the colour-sense, and I + trembled. I tried to explain gently to Carlotta the undesirability of such + a costume for outdoor wear in London; but with tastes there is no + disputing, and I saw that she was but half-convinced. She will require + training in aesthetics. + </p> + <p> + She is very submissive. I said, “Run away now to Antoinette,” and she went + with the cheerfulness of a child. I must rig up a sitting-room for her, as + I cannot have her in here. Also for the present she must take her meals in + her own apartments. I cannot shock the admirable Stenson by sitting down + at table with her in that improper peignoir. Besides, as Antoinette + informs me, the poor lamb eats meat with her fingers, after the fashion of + the East. I know what that is, having once been present at an Egyptian + dinner-party in Cairo, and pulled reeking lumps of flesh out of the leg of + mutton. Ugh! But as she has probably not sat down to a meal with a man in + her life, her banishment from my table will not hurt her feelings. She + must, however, be trained in Christian table-manners, as well as in + aesthetics; also in a great many other things. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. McMurray arrived with a tape-measure, a pencil, and a notebook. + </p> + <p> + “First,” she announced, “I will measure her all over. Then I will go out + and procure her a set of out-door garments, and tomorrow we will spend the + whole livelong day in the shops. Do you mind if I use part of the 100 for + the hire of a private brougham?” + </p> + <p> + “Have a coach and six, my dear Mrs. McMurray,” I said. “It will doubtless + please Carlotta better.” + </p> + <p> + I summoned Carlotta and performed the ceremony of introduction. To my + surprise she was perfectly at her ease and with the greatest courtesy of + manner invited the visitor to accompany her to her own apartments. + </p> + <p> + When Mrs. McMurray returned to the drawing-room she wore an expression + that can only be described as indescribable. + </p> + <p> + “What, my dear Sir Marcus, do you think is to be the ultimate destiny of + that young person?” + </p> + <p> + “She shall learn type-writing,” said I, suddenly inspired, “and make a + fair copy of my Renaissance Morals.” + </p> + <p> + “She would make a very fair copy indeed of Renaissance Morals,” returned + the lady, dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Is she so very dreadful?” I asked in alarm. “The peignoir, I know—” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that has something to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, for heaven’s sake,” said I, “dress her in drabs and greys and + subfusc browns. Cut off her hair and give her a row of buttons down the + back.” + </p> + <p> + My friend’s eyes sparkled. + </p> + <p> + “I am going,” said she, “to have the day of my life tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta had already gone to sleep, so Antoinette informed me, when the + results of Mrs. McMurray’s shopping came home. I am glad she has early + habits. It appears she has spent a happy and fully occupied afternoon over + a pile of French illustrated comic papers in the possession of my + excellent housekeeper. + </p> + <p> + I wonder whether it is quite judicious to make French comic papers her + initiation into the ideas of Western civilisation. Into this I must + inquire. I must also talk seriously to her with a view to her ultimate + destiny. But as my view would be distorted by the red dressing-gown, I + shall wait until she is decently clad. I think I shall have to set apart + certain hours of the day for instructive conversation with Carlotta. I + shall have to develop her mind, of which she distinctly has the rudiments. + For the rest of the day she must provide entertainment out of her own + resources. This her oriental habits of seclusion will render an easy task, + for I will wager that Hamdi Effendi did not concern himself greatly as to + the way in which the ladies of his harem filled up their time. And now I + come to think of it, he certainly did not allow Carlotta to sprawl about + his own private and particular drawing-room. I will not westernise her too + rapidly. The Turkish educational system has its merits. + </p> + <p> + This, in its way is comforting. If only I could accept her as a human + creature. But when I think of her callous reception of the tidings of the + unhappy boy’s death, my spirit fails me. Such a being would run a + carving-knife into you, as you slept, without any compunction, and when + you squeaked, she would laugh. Look at her base ingratitude to the good + Hamdi Effendi, who took her in before she was born and has treated her as + a daughter all her life. No: her spiritual attitude all through has been + that of the ladies who used to visit St. Anthony—in the leisure + moments when they were not actively engaged in temptation. I don’t believe + her father was an English vice-consul. He was Satan. + </p> + <p> + I wonder what she told Mrs. McMurray. + </p> + <p> + I have been thinking over the matter to-night. The good lady was wrong. + Whatever were the morals of the Renaissance, personalities were + essentially positive. They were devilishly wicked or angelically good. + There was nothing <i>rosse</i>, non-moral about the Renaissance Italian. + The women were strongly tempered. I love to believe the story told by + Machiavelli and Muratori of Catherine Sforza in the citadel of Forli. + “Surrender or we slay your children which we hold as hostages,” cried the + besiegers. “Kill them if you like. I can breed more to avenge them.” It is + the speech of a giant nature. It awakens something enthusiastic within me; + although such a lady would be an undesirable helpmeet for a mild mannered + man like myself. + </p> + <p> + And then again there is Bonna, the woman for whose career I desired to + consult the prime authority Cristoforo da Costa. I have been sketching her + into my chapter tonight. Here is a peasant girl caught up to his + saddle-bow by a condottiere, Brunoro, during some village raid. She fights + like a soldier by his side. He is imprisoned in Valencia by Alfonso of + Naples, languishes in a dungeon for ten years. And for ten years Bonna + goes from court to court in Europe and from prince to prince, across seas + and mountains, unwearying, unyielding, with the passion of heaven in her + heart and the courage of hell in her soul, urging and soliciting her man’s + release. After ten long years she succeeds. And then they are married. + What were her tumultuous feelings as she stood by that altar? The old + historian does not say; but the very glory of God must have flooded her + being when, in the silence of the bare church, the little bell tinkled to + tell her that the Host was raised, and her love was made blessed for all + eternity. And then she goes away with him and fights in the old way by his + side for fifteen years. When he is killed, she languishes and dies within + the year. Porcelli sees them in 1455. Brunoro, an old, squinting, + paralysed man. Bonna, a little shrivelled, yellow old woman, with a quiver + on her shoulder, a bow in her hand; her grey hair is covered by a helmet + and she wears great military boots. The picture is magical. There is + infinite pathos in the sight of the two withered, crippled, grotesque + forms from which all the glamour of manhood and beauty have departed, and + infinite awe in the thought of the holy communion of the unconquerable and + passionate souls. I wonder it has not come down to us as one of the great + love-stories of the world. + </p> + <p> + Elements such as these sway the Morals of the Renaissance. + </p> + <p> + But I am taking Mrs. McMurray too seriously; and it is really not a bad + idea to have Carlotta taught type-writing. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + May 26th. + </p> + <p> + This morning a letter from Judith. + </p> + <p> + “Do not laugh at me,” she writes. “The road to Paris is paved with good + intentions. I really could not help it. Delphine put her great arm round + my would-be sequestered and meditative self and carried it off bodily, and + here it is in the midst of lunches, picture-shows, dinners, suppers, + theatres and dances; and if you laugh, you will make me humiliated when I + confess that it is thoroughly enjoying itself.” + </p> + <p> + Laugh at her, dear woman? I am only too glad that she can fling her Winter + Garment of Repentance into the Fires of Paris Springtide. She has little + enough enjoyment in friendless London. Fill your heart with it, my dear, + and lay up a store for use in the dull months to come. For my part, + however, I am content to be beyond the reach of Delphine’s great arm. I + must write to Judith. I shall have to explain Carlotta; but for that I + think I shall wait until she becomes a little more explicable. In dealing + with women it is well to employ discrimination. You are never quite sure + whether they are not merely simple geese or the most complex of created + beings. Perhaps they are such a curious admixture that you cannot tell at + a given moment which side, the simple or the complex, you are touching. + May not there be the deepest of all allegories in Eve standing midway + between the innocent apple and the guileful serpent? I shall have to see + more of Carlotta before I can safely explain her to Judith. + </p> + <p> + At any rate she is no longer attired like an odalisque of the Second + Empire, and Mrs. McMurray has saved her from the lamentable errors of + taste shown by the female mountebank of sixteenth century France. My + excellent friend safely delivered up an exhausted and bewildered charge at + half-past seven last evening, assuring me that her task had been easy, and + that her anticipations of it being the day of her life had been fulfilled. + It had been like dressing a doll, she explained, beaming. + </p> + <p> + An edifying pastime for an adult woman! I did not utter this sentiment, + for she would rightly have styled me the most ungrateful of unhung + wretches. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta, then, had followed her about like a perambulatory doll, upon + which she had fitted all the finery she could lay her hands on. Apparently + the atmosphere of the great shops had acted on Carlotta like an + anaesthetic. She had moved in a sensuous dream of drapery, wherein the + choice-impulse was paralysed. The only articles upon which, in an + unclouded moment, she had set her heart—and that with a sudden + passion of covetousness—were a pair of red, high-heeled shoes and a + cheap red parasol. + </p> + <p> + “You have no idea what it means,” said Mrs. McMurray, “to buy <i>everything</i> + that a woman needs.” + </p> + <p> + I replied that I had a respectful distaste for transcendental philosophy. + </p> + <p> + “From a paper of pins to an opera-cloak,” she continued. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid, dear Mrs. McMurray, an opera-cloak is not the superior limit + of a woman’s needs,” said I. “I wish it were.” + </p> + <p> + She called me a cynic and went. + </p> + <p> + This morning Carlotta interrupted me in my work. + </p> + <p> + “Will Seer Marcous come to my room and see my pretty things?” + </p> + <p> + In summer blouse and plain skirt she looked as demure as any damsel in St. + John’s Wood. She hung her head a little to one side. For the moment I felt + paternal, and indulgently consented. Words of man cannot describe the mass + of millinery and chiffonery in that chamber. The spaces that were not + piled high with vesture gave resting spots for cardboard boxes and + packing-paper. Antoinette stood in a corner gazing at the spoil with a + smile of beatific idiocy. I strode through the cardboard boxes which + crackled like bracken, and remained dumb as a fish before these mysteries. + Carlotta tried on hats. She shewed me patent leather shoes. She exhibited + blouses and petticoats until my eyes ached. She brandished something in + her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me if I must wear it” (I believe the sophisticated call it “them”). + “Mrs. McMurray says all ladies do. But we never wear it in Alexandretta, + and it hurts.” + </p> + <p> + She clasped herself pathetically and turned her great imploring eyes on + me. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Il faut souffrir pour etre belle</i>,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “But with the figure of Mademoiselle, it is stupid!” cried Antoinette. + </p> + <p> + “It is outrageous that I should be called upon to express an opinion on + such matters,” I said, loftily. And so it was. My assertion of dignity + impressed them. + </p> + <p> + Then, with characteristic frankness, my young lady shakes out before me + things all frills, embroidery, ribbons, diaphaneity, which the ordinary + man only examines through shop-front windows when a philosophic mood + induces him to speculate on the unfathomable vanity of woman. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Les beaux dessous!</i>” breathed Antoinette. + </p> + <p> + “The same ejaculation,” I murmured, “was doubtless uttered by an + enraptured waiting-maid, when she beheld the stout linen smocks of the + ladies of the Heptameron.” + </p> + <p> + I reflected on the relativity of things mundane. The waiting-maid no doubt + wore some horror made of hemp against her skin. If Carlotta’s gossamer + follies had been thrown into the vagabond court of the Queen of Navarre, I + wonder whether those delectable stories would have been written? + </p> + <p> + As Antoinette does not understand literary English, and as Carlotta did + not know what in the world I was talking about, I was master of the + conversational situation. Carlotta went to the mantel-piece and returned + with a glutinous mass of sweet stuff between her fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Will Seer Marcous have some? It is nougat.” I declined. “Oh!” she said, + tragically disappointed. “It is good.” + </p> + <p> + There is something in that silly creature’s eyes that I cannot resist. She + put the abominable morsel into my mouth—it was far too sticky for me + to hold—and laughingly licked her own fingers. + </p> + <p> + I went down to work again with an uneasy feeling of imperilled dignity. + </p> + <p> + May 29th. + </p> + <p> + I sent her word that I would take her for a drive this afternoon. She was + to be ready at three o’clock. It will be wholesome for her to regard her + outings with me as rare occurrences to be highly valued. Ordinarily she + will go out with Antoinette—for the present at least—as she + did yesterday. + </p> + <p> + At three o’clock Stenson informed me that the cab was at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Go up and call Mademoiselle,” said I. + </p> + <p> + In two or three minutes she came down. I have not had such a shock in my + life. I uttered exclamations of amazement in several languages. I have + never seen on the stage or off such a figure as she presented. Her cheeks + were white with powder, her lips dyed a pomegranate scarlet, her eyebrows + and lashes blackened. In her ears she wore large silver-gilt earrings. She + entered the room with an air of triumph, as who should say: “See how + captivatingly beautiful I am!” + </p> + <p> + At my stare of horror her face fell. At my command to go upstairs and wash + herself clean, she wept. + </p> + <p> + “For heaven’s sake, don’t cry,” I exclaimed, “or you will look like a + rainbow.” + </p> + <p> + “I did it to please you,” she sobbed. + </p> + <p> + “It is only the lowest class of dancing-women who paint their faces in + England,” said I, <i>splendide mendax.</i> “And you know what they are in + Alexandretta.” + </p> + <p> + “They came to Aziza-Zaza’s wedding,” said Carlotta, behind her + handkerchief. “But all our ladies do this when they want to make + themselves look nice. And I have put on this nasty thing that hurts me, + just to please Seer Marcous.” + </p> + <p> + I felt I had been brutal. She must have spent hours over her adornment. + Yet I could not have taken her out into the street. She looked like + Jezebel, who without her paint must have been, like Carlotta, a remarkably + handsome person. + </p> + <p> + “It strikes me, Carlotta,” said I, “that you will find England is + Alexandretta upside down. What is wrong there is right here, and vice + versa. Now if you want to please me run away and clean yourself and take + off those barbaric and Brummagem earrings.” + </p> + <p> + She went and was absent a short while. She returned in dismay. Water would + not get it off. I rang for Antoinette, but Antoinette had gone out. It + being too delicate a matter for Stenson, I fetched a pot of vaseline from + my own room, and as Carlotta did not know what to make of it, I with my + own hands cleansed Carlotta. She screamed with delight, thinking it vastly + amusing. Her emotions are facile. I cannot deny that it amused me too. But + I am in a responsible position, and I am wondering what the deuce I shall + be doing next. + </p> + <p> + I enjoyed the drive to Richmond, where I gave her tea at the Star and + Garter and was relieved to see her drink normally from the cup, instead of + lapping from the saucer like a kitten. She was much more intelligent than + during our first drive on Tuesday. The streets have grown more familiar, + and the traffic does not make her head ache. She asks me the ingenuous + questions of a child of ten. The tall guardsmen we passed particularly + aroused her enthusiasm. She had never seen anything so beautiful. I asked + her if she would like me to buy one and give it her to play with. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, would you, Seer Marcous?” she exclaimed, seizing my hand rapturously. + I verily believe she thought I was in earnest, for when I turned aside my + jest, she pouted in disappointment and declared that it was wrong to tell + lies. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad you have some elementary notions of ethics,” said I. It was + during our drive that it occurred to me to ask her where she had procured + the paint and earrings. She explained, cheerfully, that Antoinette had + supplied the funds. I must talk seriously to Antoinette. Her attitude + towards Carlotta savours too much of idolatry. Demoralisation will soon + set in, and the utter ruin of Carlotta and my digestion will be the + result. I must also make Carlotta a small allowance. + </p> + <p> + During tea she said to me, suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “Seer Marcous is not married?” + </p> + <p> + I said, no. She asked, why not? The devil seems to be driving all + womankind to ask me that question. + </p> + <p> + “Because wives are an unmitigated nuisance,” said I. + </p> + <p> + A curious smile came over Carlotta’s face. It was as knowing as Dame + Quickly’s. + </p> + <p> + “Then-” + </p> + <p> + “Have one of these cakes,” said I, hurriedly. “There is chocolate outside + and the inside is chock-full of custard.” + </p> + <p> + She bit, smiled in a different and beatific way, and forgot my matrimonial + affairs. I was relieved. With her oriental training there is no telling + what Carlotta might have said. + </p> + <p> + May 31st. + </p> + <p> + To-day I have had a curious interview. Who should call on me but the + father of the hapless Harry Robinson. My first question was a natural one. + How on earth did he connect me with the death of his son? How did he + contrive to identify me as the befriender of the young Turkish girl whose + interests, he declared, were the object of his visit? It appeared that the + police had given him the necessary information, my adventures at Waterloo + having rendered their tracing of Carlotta an easy matter. I had been + wondering somewhat at the meagre newspaper reports of the inquest. No + mention was made, as I had nervously anticipated, of the mysterious lady + for whom the deceased had bought a ticket at Alexandretta, and with whom + he had come ashore. Very little evidence appeared to have been taken, and + the jury contented themselves with giving the usual verdict of temporary + insanity. I touched on this as delicately as I could. “We succeeded in + hushing things up,” said my visitor, an old man with iron-grey whiskers + and a careworn sensitive face. “I have some influence myself, and his + wife’s relations—” + </p> + <p> + “His wife!” I ejaculated. The ways of men are further than ever from + interpretation. The fellow was actually married! + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he sighed. “That is what would have made such a terrible scandal. + Her relatives are powerful people. We averted it, thank Heaven, and his + poor wife will never know. My boy is dead. No public investigation into + motives would bring him back to life again.” + </p> + <p> + I murmured words of condolence. + </p> + <p> + “He must have been out of his mind, poor lad, when he induced the girl to + run away with him. But, as my son has ruined her,” he set his teeth as if + the boy’s sin stabbed him, “I must look after her welfare.” + </p> + <p> + “You may set your mind at rest on that point,” said I. “He smuggled her at + once aboard the ship, and seems scarcely to have said how d’ye do to her + afterwards. That is the mad part of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Can I be sure?” + </p> + <p> + “I would stake my life on it,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Frankness—I may say embarrassing frankness is one of the young + lady’s drawbacks.” + </p> + <p> + He looked greatly relieved. I acquainted him with Carlotta’s antecedents, + and outlined the part I had played in the story. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said he, “I will see the child back to her home. I will take her + there myself. I cannot allow you any longer to have the burden of + befriending her, when it is my duty to repair my boy’s wrongdoing.” + </p> + <p> + I explained to him the terror of Hamdi Effendi’s clutches, and told him of + my promise. + </p> + <p> + “Then what is to be done?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “If any kind people could be found to receive her into their family, and + bring her up like a Christian, I should hand her over with the greatest of + pleasure. If there is one thing I do not require in this house, it is an + idle and irresponsible female. But philanthropists are rare. Who will take + her?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I’m not prepared to do that.” + </p> + <p> + “I never dreamed of having the bad taste to propose it,” said I. “I merely + stated the only alternative to my guardianship.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be willing—only too willing—to contribute towards + her support,” said Mr. Robinson. + </p> + <p> + I thanked him. But of course this was impossible. I might as well have + allowed the good man to pay my gas bill. + </p> + <p> + “I know of a nice convent home kept by the Little Sisters of St. Bridget,” + said he, tentatively. + </p> + <p> + “If it were St. Bridget herself,” said I, “I would agree with pleasure. + She is a saint for whom I have a great fascination. She could work + miracles. When an Irish chieftain made her a facetious grant of as much + land as she could cover with her mantle, she bade four of her nuns each + take a corner and run north, west, south and east, until her cloak covered + several roods. She could have done the same with the soul of Carlotta. But + the age of miracles is past, and I fear the Little Sisters would only + break their gentle hearts over her. She is an extraordinary creature.” + </p> + <p> + I know I ought to have given some consideration to the proposal; but I + think I must suffer from chronic inflammation of the logical faculty. It + revolted against the suggested congruity of Carlotta and the Little + Sisters of St. Bridget. + </p> + <p> + “What can she be like?” asked the old man, wonderingly. + </p> + <p> + “Would it pain you to see her?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, in a low voice. “It would. But perhaps it would bring me + nearer to my unhappy boy. He seems so far away.” + </p> + <p> + I rang the bell and summoned Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you had better not say who you are,” I suggested. + </p> + <p> + When Carlotta entered, he rose and looked at her—-oh, so wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “This, Carlotta,” said I, “is a friend of mine, who would like to make + your acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + She advanced shyly and held out a timid hand. Obviously she was on her + best behaviour. I thanked heaven she had tried her unsuccessful experiment + of powder and paint on my vile body and not on that of a stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Do you—do you like England?” asked the old man. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very—very much. Every one is so kind to me. It is a nice + place.” + </p> + <p> + “It is the best place in the world to be young in,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Is it?” said Carlotta, with the simplicity of a baby. + </p> + <p> + “The very best.” + </p> + <p> + “But is it not good to be old in?” + </p> + <p> + “No country is good for that.” + </p> + <p> + The old man sighed and took his leave. I accompanied him to the front + door. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what to say, Sir Marcus. She moves me strangely. I never + expected such sweet innocence. For my boy’s sake, I would take her in—but + his mother knows nothing about it—save that the boy is dead. It + would kill her.” + </p> + <p> + The tears rolled down the old man’s cheeks. I grasped him by the hand. + </p> + <p> + “She shall come to no manner of harm beneath my roof,” said I. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta was waiting for me in the drawing-room. She looked at me in a + perplexed, pitiful way. + </p> + <p> + “Seer Marcous?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Am I to marry him?” + </p> + <p> + “Marry whom?” + </p> + <p> + “That old gentleman. I must, if you tell me. But I do not want to marry + him.” + </p> + <p> + It took me a minute or two to arrive at her oriental point of view. No + woman could be shown off to a man except in the light of a possible bride. + I think it sometimes good to administer a shock to Carlotta, by way of + treatment. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know who that old gentleman was?” said I. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “It was Harry’s father.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she said, with a grimace. “I am sorry I was so nice to him.” + </p> + <p> + What the deuce am I to do with her? + </p> + <p> + I lectured her for a quarter of an hour on the ethics of the situation. I + think I only succeeded in giving her the impression that I was in a bad + temper. So much did I sympathise with Harry that I forbore to acquaint her + with the fact that he was a married man when he enticed her away from + Alexandretta. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + June 1st + </p> + <p> + Sebastian Pasquale dined with me this evening. Antoinette, forgetful of + idolatrous practices, devoted the concentration of her being to the + mysteries of her true religion. The excellence of the result affected + Pasquale so strongly that with his customary disregard of convention he + insisted on Antoinette being summoned to receive his congratulations. He + rose, made her a bow as if she were a Marquise of pre-revolutionary days. + </p> + <p> + “It is a meal,” said he, bunching up his fingers to his mouth and kissing + them open, “that one should have taken not sitting, but kneeling.” + </p> + <p> + “You stole that from Heine,” said I, when the enraptured creature had + gone, “and you gave it out to Antoinette as if it were your own.” + </p> + <p> + “My good Ordeyne,” said he, “did you ever hear of a man giving anything + authentic to a woman?” + </p> + <p> + “You know much more about the matter than I do,” I replied, and Pasquale + laughed. + </p> + <p> + It has been a pleasure to see him again—a creature of abounding + vitality whom time cannot alter. He is as lithe-limbed as when he was a + boy, and as lithe-witted. I don’t know how his consciousness could have + arrived at appreciation of Antoinette’s cooking, for he talked all through + dinner, giving me an account of his mirific adventures in foreign cities. + Among other things, he had been playing juvenile lead, it appears, in the + comic opera of Bulgarian politics. I also heard of the Viennese dancer. My + own little chronicle, which he insisted on my unfolding, compared with his + was that of a caged canary compared with a sparrowhawk’s. Besides, I am + not so expansive as Pasquale, and on certain matters I am silent. He also + gesticulates freely, a thing which is totally foreign to my nature. As + Judith would say, he has a temperament. His moustaches curl fiercely + upward until the points are nearly on a level with his flashing dark eyes. + Another point of dissimilarity between us is that he seems to have been + poured molten into his clothes, whereas mine hang as from pegs clumsily + arranged about my person. By no conceivable freak of outer circumstance + could I have the adventures of Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + And yet he thinks them tame! Lord! If I found myself hatching conspiracies + in Sofia on a nest made of loaded revolvers, I should feel that the wild + whirl of Bedlam had broken loose around me. + </p> + <p> + “But man alive!” I cried. “What in the name of tornadoes do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to fight,” said he. “The earth has grown too grey and peaceful. + Life is anaemic. We need colour—good red splashes of it—good + wholesome bloodshed.” + </p> + <p> + Said I, “All you have to do is to go into a Berlin cafe and pull the noses + of all the lieutenants you see there. In that way you’ll get as much gore + as your heart could desire.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove!” said he, springing to his feet. “What a cause for a man to + devote his life to—the extermination of Prussian lieutenants!” + </p> + <p> + I leaned back in my arm-chair—it was after dinner—and smiled + at his vehemence. The ordinary man does not leap about like that during + digestion. + </p> + <p> + “You would have been happy as an Uscoque,” said I. (I have just finished + the prim narrative.) + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” he asked. I told him. + </p> + <p> + “The interesting thing about the Uscoques,” I added, “is that they were a + Co-operative Pirate Society of the sixteenth century, in which priests and + monks and greengrocers and women and children—the general public, in + fact, of Senga—took shares and were paid dividends. They were also a + religious people, and the setting out of the pirate fleet at the festivals + of Easter and Christmas was attended by ecclesiastical ceremony. Then they + scoured the high seas, captured argosies, murdered the crews—their + only weapons were hatchets and daggers and arquebuses—landed on + undefended shores, ravaged villages and carried off comely maidens to + replenish their stock of womenkind at home. They must have been a live lot + of people.” + </p> + <p> + “What a second-hand old brigand you are,” cried Pasquale, who during my + speech had been examining the carpet by the side of his chair. + </p> + <p> + I laughed. “Hasn’t a phase of the duality of our nature ever struck you? + We have a primary or everyday nature—a thing of habit, tradition, + circumstance; and we also have a secondary nature which clamours for + various sensations and is quite contented with vicarious gratification. + There are delicately fibred novelists who satisfy a sort of secondary + Berserkism by writing books whose pages reek with bloodshed. The most + placid, benevolent, gold-spectacled paterfamilias I know, a man who thinks + it cruel to eat live oysters, has a curious passion for crime and + gratifies it by turning his study into a <i>musee maccabre</i> of + murderers’ relics. From the thumb-joint of a notorious criminal he can + savour exquisitely morbid emotions, while the blood-stains on an + assassin’s knife fill him with the delicious lust of slaughter. In the + same way predestined spinsters obtain vicarious enjoyment of the tender + passion by reading highly coloured love-stories.” + </p> + <p> + “Just as that philosophical old stick, Sir Marcus Ordeyne, dus from this + sort of thing,” said Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + And he fished from the side of his chair, and held up by the tip of a + monstrous heel, the most audacious, high-instepped, red satin slipper I + ever saw. + </p> + <p> + I eyed the thing with profound disgust. I would have given a hundred + pounds for it to have vanished. In its red satin essence it was + reprehensible, and in its feminine assertion it was compromising. How did + it come there? I conjectured that Carlotta must have been trespassing in + the drawing-room and dropped it, Cinderella-like, in her flight, when she + heard me enter the house before dinner. + </p> + <p> + Pasquale held it up and regarded me quizzically. I pretend to no austerity + of morals; but a burglar unjustly accused of theft suffers acuter qualms + of indignation than if he were a virtuous person. I regretted not having + asked Pasquale to dinner at the club. I particularly did not intend to + explain Carlotta to Pasquale. In fact, I see no reason at all for me to + proclaim her to my acquaintance. She is merely an accident of my + establishment. + </p> + <p> + I rose and rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + “That slipper,” said I, “does not belong to me, and it certainly ought not + to be here.” + </p> + <p> + Pasquale surrendered it to my outstretched hand. + </p> + <p> + “It must fit a remarkably pretty foot,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “I assure you, my dear Pasquale,” I replied dryly, “I have never looked at + the foot that it may fit.” Nor had I. A row of pink toes is not a foot. + </p> + <p> + “Stenson,” said I, when my man appeared, “take this to Miss Carlotta and + say with my compliments she should not have left it in the drawing-room.” + </p> + <p> + Stenson, thinking I had rung for whisky, had brought up decanter and + glasses. As he set the tray upon the small table, I noticed Pasquale look + with some curiosity at my man’s impassive face. But he said nothing more + about the slipper. I poured out his whisky and soda. He drank a deep + draught, curled up his swaggering moustache and suddenly broke into one of + his disconcerting peals of laughter. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t told you of the Grefin von Wentzel; I don’t know what put her + into my head. There has been nothing like it since the world began. Mind + you—a real live aristocratic Grefin with a hundred quarterings!” + </p> + <p> + He proceeded to relate a most scandalous, but highly amusing story. An + amazing, incredible tale; but it seemed familiar. + </p> + <p> + “That,” said I, at last, “is incident for incident a scene out of <i>L’Histoire + Comique de Francion.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Never heard of it,” said Pasquale, flashing. + </p> + <p> + “It was the first French novel of manners published about 1620 and written + by a man called Sorel. I don’t dream of accusing you of plagiarism, my + dear fellow—that’s absurd. But the ridiculous coincidence struck me. + You and the Grefin and the rest of you were merely reenacting a three + hundred year old farce.” + </p> + <p> + “Rubbish!” said Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll show you,” said I. + </p> + <p> + After wandering for a moment or two round my shelves, I remembered that + the book was in the dining-room. I left Pasquale and went downstairs. I + knew it was on one of the top shelves near the ceiling. Now, my + dining-room is lit by one shaded electrolier over the table, so that the + walls of the room are in deep shadow. This has annoyed me many times when + I have been book-hunting. I really must have some top lights put in. To + stand on a chair and burn wax matches in order to find a particular book + is ignominious and uncomfortable. The successive illumination of four wax + matches did not shed itself upon <i>L’Histoire Comique de Francion</i>. + </p> + <p> + If there is one thing that frets me more than another, it is not to be + able to lay my hand upon a book. I knew Francion was there on the top + shelves, and rather than leave it undiscovered, I would have spent the + whole night in search. I suppose every one has a harmless lunacy. This is + mine. I must have hunted for that book for twenty minutes, pulling out + whole blocks of volumes and peering with lighted matches behind, until my + hands were covered with dust. At last I found it had fallen to the rear of + a ragged regiment of French novels, and in triumph I took it to the area + of light on the table and turned up the scene in question. Keeping my + thumb in the place I returned to the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry to have—” I began. I stopped short. I could scarcely + believe my eyes. There, conversing with Pasquale and lolling on the sofa, + as if she had known him for years, was Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + She must have seen righteous disapprobation on my face, for she came + running up to me. + </p> + <p> + “You see, I’ve made Miss Carlotta’s acquaintance,” said Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + “So I perceive,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Stenson told me you wanted me to come to the drawing-room in my red + slippers,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid Stenson must have misdelivered my message,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Then you do not want me at all, and I must go away?” + </p> + <p> + Oh, those eyes! I am growing so tired of them. I hesitated, and was lost. + </p> + <p> + “Please let me stay and talk to Pasquale.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Pasquale,” I corrected. + </p> + <p> + She echoed my words with a cooing laugh, and taking my consent for + granted, curled herself up in a corner of the sofa. I resumed my seat with + a sigh. It would have been boorish to turn her out. + </p> + <p> + “This is much nicer than Alexandretta, isn’t it?” said Pasquale + familiarly. “And Sir Marcus is an improvement on Hamdi Effendi.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. Seer Marcous lets me do whatever I like,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “I’m shot if I do,” I exclaimed. “The confinement of your existence in the + East makes you exaggerate the comparative immunity from restriction which + you enjoy in England.” + </p> + <p> + I notice that Carlotta is always impressed when I use high sounding words. + </p> + <p> + “Still, if you could make love over garden walls, you must have had a + pretty slack time, even in Alexandretta,” said Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + Obviously Carlotta had saved me the trouble of explaining her. + </p> + <p> + “I once met our friend Hamdi,” Pasquale continued. “He was the politest + old ruffian that ever had a long nose and was pitted with smallpox.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes!” cried Carlotta, delighted. “That is Hamdi.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there any disreputable foreigner that you are not familiar with?” I + asked, somewhat sarcastically. + </p> + <p> + “I hope not,” he laughed. “You must know I had got into a deuce of a row + at Aleppo, about eighteen months ago, and had to take to my heels. + Alexandretta is the port of Aleppo and Hamdi is a sort of boss policeman + there.” + </p> + <p> + “He is very rich.” + </p> + <p> + “He ought to be. My interview with him cost me a thousand pounds—the + bald-headed scoundrel!” + </p> + <p> + “He is a shocking bad man,” said Carlotta, gravely. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid it is Mr. Pasquale who is the shocking bad man,” I said, + amused. “What had you been doing in Aleppo?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Maxime debetur</i>,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “English are very wicked when they go to Syria,” she remarked. + </p> + <p> + “How can you possibly know?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know,” replied Carlotta, with a toss of her chin. + </p> + <p> + “My friend,” said Pasquale, lighting a cigarette, “I have travelled much + in the East, and have had considerable adventures by the way; and I can + assure you that what the oriental lady doesn’t know about essential things + is not worth knowing. Their life from the cradle to the grave is a + concentration of all their faculties, mortal and immortal, upon the two + vital questions, digestion and sex.” + </p> + <p> + “What is sex?” asked Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “It is the Fundamental Blunder of Creation,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody tries to understand Sir Marcus,” said Pasquale, cheerfully. “We + just let him drivel on until he is aware no one is listening.” + </p> + <p> + “Seer Marcous is very wise,” said Carlotta, in serious defence of her lord + and master. “All day he reads in big books and writes on paper.” + </p> + <p> + I have been wondering since whether that is not as ironical a judgment as + ever was passed. Am I wise? Is wisdom attained by reading in big books and + writing on paper? Solomon remarks that wisdom dwells with prudence and + finds out knowledge of witty inventions; that the wisdom of the prudent is + to understand his way; that wisdom and understanding keep one from the + strange woman and the stranger which flattereth with her words. Now, I + have not been saved from the strange young woman who has begun to flatter + with her words; I don’t in the least understand my way, since I have no + notion what I shall do with her; and in taking her in and letting her loll + upon my sofa of evenings, so as to show off her red slippers to my guests, + I have thrown prudence to the winds; and my only witty invention was the + idea of teaching her typewriting, which is futile. If the philosophy of + the excellent aphorist is sound, I certainly have not much wisdom to boast + of; and none of the big books will tell me what a wise man would have done + had he met Carlotta in the Embankment Gardens. + </p> + <p> + I did not think, however, that my wisdom was a proper subject for + discussion. I jerked back the conversation by asking Carlotta why she + called Hamdi Effendi a shocking bad man. Her reply was startling. + </p> + <p> + “My mother told me. She used to cry all day long. She was sorry she + married Hamdi.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor thing!” said I. “Did he ill-treat her?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ye-es. She had small-pox, too, and she was no longer pretty, so Hamdi + took other wives and she did not like them. They were so fat and cruel. + She used to tell me I must kill myself before I married a Turk. Hamdi was + going to make me marry Mohammed Ali one—two years ago; but he died. + When I said I was so glad” (that seems to be her usual formula of + acknowledgment of news relating to the disasters of her acquaintance), + “Hamdi shut me up in a dark room. Then he said I must marry Mustapha. That + is why I ran away with Harry. See? Oh, Hamdi is shocking bad.” + </p> + <p> + From this and from other side-lights Carlotta has thrown on her + upbringing, I can realise the poor, pretty weak-willed baby of a thing + that was her mother, taking the line of least resistance, the husband dead + and the babe in her womb, and entering the shelter offered by the amorous + Turk. And I can picture her during the fourteen years of her imprisoned + life, the disillusion, the heart-break, the despair. No wonder the + invertebrate soul could do no more for her daughter than teach her + monosyllabic English and the rudiments of reading and writing. Doubtless + she babbled of western life with its freedom and joyousness for women; but + four years have elapsed since her death, and her stories are only elusive + memories in Carlotta’s mind. + </p> + <p> + It is strange that among the deadening influences of the harem she has + kept the hereditary alertness of the Englishwoman. She has a baby mouth, + it is true; she pleads to you with the eyes of a dog; her pretty ways are + those of a young child; but she has not the dull, soulless, sensual look + of the pure-bred Turkish woman, such as I have seen in Cairo through the + transparent veils. In them there is no attraction save of the flesh; and + that only for the male who, deformity aside, reckons women as merely so + much cubical content of animated matter placed by Allah at his disposal + for the satisfaction of his desires and the procreation of children. I + cannot for the life of me understand an Englishman falling in love with a + Turkish woman. But I can quite understand him falling in love with + Carlotta. The hereditary qualities are there, though they have been forced + into the channel of sex, and become a sort of diabolical witchery whereof + I am not quite sure whether she is conscious. For all that, I don’t think + she can have a soul. I have made up my mind that she hasn’t, and I don’t + like having my convictions disturbed. + </p> + <p> + Until I saw her perched in the corner of the sofa, with her legs tucked up + under her, and the light playing a game of magic amid the reds and golds + and browns of her hair, while she cheerily discoursed to us of Hamdi’s + villainy, I never noticed the dull decorum of this room. I was struck with + the decorative value of mere woman. + </p> + <p> + I must break myself of the habit of wandering off on a meditative tangent + to the circle of conversation. I was brought back by hearing Pasquale say: + </p> + <p> + “So you’re going to marry an Englishman. It’s all fixed and settled, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” laughed Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Have you made up your mind what he is to be like?” + </p> + <p> + I could see the unconscionable Don Juan instinctively preen himself + peacock fashion. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to marry Seer Marcous,” said Carlotta, calmly. + </p> + <p> + She made this announcement not as a jest, not as a wish, but as the + commonplace statement of a fact. There was a moment of stupefied silence. + Pasquale who had just struck a match to light a cigarette stared at me and + let the flame burn his fingers. I stared at Carlotta, speechless. The + colossal impudence of it! + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to contradict you,” said I, at last, with some acidity, “but + you are going to do no such thing.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not going to marry you?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Carlotta, in a tone of disappointment. + </p> + <p> + Pasquale rose, brought his heels together, put his hand on his heart and + made her a low bow. + </p> + <p> + “Will you have me instead of this stray bit of Stonehenge?” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + I seized Pasquale by the arm. “For goodness sake, don’t jest with her! She + has about as much sense of humour as a prehistoric cave-dweller. She + thinks you have made her a serious offer of marriage.” He made her another + bow. + </p> + <p> + “You hear what Sir Granite says? He forbids our union. If I married you + without his consent, he would flay me alive, dip me in boiling oil and + read me aloud his History of Renaissance Morals. So I’m afraid it is no + good.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I mustn’t marry him either?” asked Carlotta, looking at me. + </p> + <p> + “No!” I cried, “you are not going to marry anybody. You seem to have + hymenomania. People don’t marry in this casual way in England. They think + over it for a couple of years and then they come together in a sober, + God-fearing, respectable manner.” + </p> + <p> + “They marry at leisure and repent in haste,” interposed Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “What we call a marriage-bed repentance,” said Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + “I told you this poor child had no sense of humour,” I objected. + </p> + <p> + “You might as well kill yourself as marry without it.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not going to marry anybody, Carlotta,” said I, “until you can see + a joke.” + </p> + <p> + “What is a joke?” inquired Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Pasquale asked you to marry him. He didn’t mean it. That was a joke. + It was enormously funny, and you should have laughed.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I must laugh when any one asks me to marry him?” + </p> + <p> + “As loud as you can,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “You are so strange in England,” sighed Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + I smiled, for I did not want to make her unhappy, and I spoke to her + intelligibly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, when you have quite learned all the English ways, I’ll try + and find you a nice husband. Now you had better go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + She retired, quite consoled. When the door closed behind her, Pasquale + shook his head at me. + </p> + <p> + “Wasted! Criminally wasted!” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “That,” he answered, pointing to the door. “That bundle of bewildering + fascination.” + </p> + <p> + “That,” said I, “is an horrible infliction which only my cultivated sense + of altruism enables me to tolerate.” + </p> + <p> + “Her name ought to be Margarita.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ante porcos</i>,” said he. + </p> + <p> + Certainly Pasquale has a pretty wit and I admire it as I admire most of + his brilliant qualities, but I fail to see the aptness of this last gibe. + At the club this afternoon I picked up an entertaining French novel called + <i>En felons des Perles</i>. On the illustrated cover was a row of + undraped damsels sitting in oyster-shells, and the text of the book went + to show how it was the hero’s ambition to make a rosary of these pearls. + Now I am a dull pig. Why? Because I do not add Carlotta to my rosary. I + never heard such a monstrous thing in my life. To begin with, I have no + rosary. + </p> + <p> + I wish I had not read that French novel. I wish I had not gone downstairs + to hunt for its seventeenth century ancestor. I wish I had given Pasquale + dinner at the club. + </p> + <p> + It is all the fault of Antoinette. Why can’t she cook in a middle-class, + unedifying way? All this comes from having in the house a woman whose soul + is in the stew-pot. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + July 1st. + </p> + <p> + She has been now over five weeks under my roof, and I have put off the + evil day of explaining her to Judith; and Judith returns to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + I know it is odd for a philosophic bachelor to maintain in his + establishment a young and detached female of prepossessing appearance. For + the oddity I care not two pins. <i>Io son’ io</i>. But the question that + exercises me occasionally is: In what category are my relations with + Carlotta to be classified? I do not regard her as a daughter; still less + as a sister: not even as a deceased wife’s sister. For a secretary she is + too abysmally ignorant, too grotesquely incapable. What she knows would be + made to kick the beam against the erudition of a guinea-pig. Yet she must + be classified somehow. I must allude to her as something. At present she + fills the place in the house of a pretty (and expensive) Persian cat; and + like a cat she has made herself serenely at home. + </p> + <p> + A governess, a fat-checked girl, who I am afraid takes too humorous a view + of the position, comes of mornings to instruct Carlotta in the rudiments + of education. When engaging Miss Griggs, I told her she must be patient, + firm and, above all, strong-minded. She replied that she made a + professional specialty of these qualities, one of her present pupils being + a young lady of the Alhambra ballet who desires the particular shade of + cultivation that will match a new brougham. She teaches Carlotta to spell, + to hold a knife and fork, and corrects such erroneous opinions as that the + sky is an inverted bowl over a nice flat earth, and that the sun, moon, + and stars are a sort of electric light installation, put into the cosmos + to illuminate Alexandretta and the Regent’s Park. Her religious + instruction I myself shall attend to, when she is sufficiently advanced to + understand my teaching. At present she is a Mohammedan, if she is + anything, and believes firmly in Allah. I consider that a working Theism + is quite enough for a young woman in her position to go on with. In the + afternoon she walks out with Antoinette. Once she stole forth by herself, + enjoyed herself hugely for a short time, got lost, and was brought back + thoroughly frightened by a policeman. I wonder what the policeman thought + of her? The rest of the day she looks at picture-books and works + embroidery. She is making an elaborate bed-spread which will give her + harmless occupation for a couple of years. + </p> + <p> + For an hour every evening, when I am at home, she comes into the + drawing-room and drinks coffee with me and listens to my improving + conversation. I take this opportunity to rebuke her for faults committed + during the day, or to commend her for especial good behaviour. I also + supplement the instruction in things in general that is given her by the + excellent Miss Griggs. Oddly enough I am beginning to look forward to + these evening hours. She is so docile, so good-humoured, so spontaneous. + If she has a pain in her stomach, she says so with the most engaging + frankness. Sometimes I think of her only, in Pasquale’s words, as a bundle + of fascination, and forget that she has no soul. Nearly always, however, + something happens to remind me. She loves me to tell her stories. The + other night I solemnly related the history of Cinderella. She was + enchanted. It gave me the idea of setting her to read “Lamb’s Tales from + Shakespeare.” I was turning this over in my mind while she chewed the cud + of her enjoyment, when she suddenly asked whether I would like to hear a + Turkish story. She knew lots of nice, funny stories. I bade her proceed. + She curled herself up in her favourite attitude on the sofa and began. + </p> + <p> + I did not allow her to finish that tale. Had I done so, I should have been + a monster of depravity. Compared with it the worst of Scheherazade’s, in + Burton’s translation, were milk and water for a nunnery. She seemed + nonplussed when I told her to stop. + </p> + <p> + “Are oriental ladies in the habit of telling such stories?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes,” she replied with a candid air of astonishment. “It is a funny + story.” + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing funny whatever in it,” said I. “A girl like you oughtn’t + to know of the existence of such things.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” asked Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + I am always being caught up by her questions. I tried to explain; but it + was difficult. If I had told her that a maiden’s mind ought to be as pure + as the dewy rose she would not have understood me. Probably she would have + thought me a fool. And indeed I am inclined to question whether it is an + advantage to a maiden’s after career to be dewy-roselike in her + unsophistication. In order to play tunes indifferently well on the piano + she undergoes the weary training of many years; but she is called upon to + display the somewhat more important accomplishment of bringing children + into the world without an hour’s educational preparation. The difficulty + is, where to draw the line between this dewy, but often disastrous, + ignorance and Carlotta’s knowledge. I find it a most delicate and + embarrassing problem. In fact, the problems connected with this young + woman seem endless. Yet they do not disturb me as much as I had + anticipated. I really believe I should miss my pretty Persian cat. A man + must be devoid of all aesthetic sense to deny that she is delightful to + look at. + </p> + <p> + And she has a thousand innocent coquetries and cajoling ways. She has a + manner of holding chocolate creams to her white teeth and talking to you + at the same time which is peculiarly fascinating. And she must have some + sense. To-night she asked me what I was writing. I replied, “A History of + the Morals of the Renaissance.” “What are morals and what is the + Renaissance?” asked Carlotta. When you come to think of it, it is a + profound question, which philosophers and historians have wasted vain + lives in trying to answer. I perceive that I too must try to answer it + with a certain amount of definition. I have spent the evening remodelling + my Introduction, so as to define the two terms axiomatically with my + subsequent argument, and I find it greatly improved. Now this is due to + Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + The quantity of chocolate creams the child eats cannot be good for her + digestion. I must see to this. + </p> + <p> + July 2d. + </p> + <p> + A telegram from Judith to say she postpones her return to Monday. I have + been longing to see the dear woman again, and I am greatly disappointed. + At the same time it is a respite from an explanation that grows more + difficult every day. I hate myself for the sense of relief. + </p> + <p> + This morning came an evening dress for Carlotta which has taken a month in + the making. This, I am given to understand, is delirious speed for a + London dress-maker. To celebrate the occasion I engaged a box at the + Empire for this evening and invited her to dine with me. I sent a note of + invitation round to Mrs. McMurray. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta did not come down at half-past seven. We waited. At last Mrs. + McMurray went up to the room and presently returned shepherding a shy, + blushing, awkward, piteous young person who had evidently been crying. My + friend signed to me to take no notice. I attributed the child’s lack of + gaiety to the ordeal of sitting for the first time in her life at a + civilised dinner-table. She scarcely spoke and scarcely ate. I + complimented her on her appearance and she looked beseechingly at me, as + if I were scolding her. After dinner Mrs. McMurray told me the reason of + her distress. She had found Carlotta in tears. Never could she face me in + that low cut evening bodice. It outraged her modesty. It could not be the + practice of European women to bare themselves so immodestly before men. It + was only the evidence of her visitor’s own plump neck and shoulders that + convinced her, and she suffered herself to be led downstairs in an agony + of self-consciousness. + </p> + <p> + When we entered the box at the Empire, a troupe of female acrobats were + doing their turn. Carlotta uttered a gasp of dismay, blushed burning red, + and shrank back to the door. There is no pretence about Carlotta. She was + shocked to the roots of her being. + </p> + <p> + “They are naked!” she said, quiveringly. + </p> + <p> + “For heaven’s sake, explain,” said I to Mrs. McMurray, and I beat a hasty + retreat to the promenade. + </p> + <p> + When I returned, Carlotta had been soothed down. She was watching some + performing dogs with intense wonderment and delight. For the rest of the + evening she sat spell-bound. The exiguity of costume in the ballet caused + her indeed to glance in a frightened sort of way at Mrs. McMurray, who + reassured her with a friendly smile, but the music and the maze of motion + and the dazzle of colour soon held her senses captive, and when the + curtain came down she sighed like one awaking from a dream. + </p> + <p> + As we drove home, she asked me: + </p> + <p> + “Is it like that all day long? Oh, please to let me live there!” + </p> + <p> + A nice English girl of eighteen would not flaunt unconcerned about my + drawing-room in a shameless dressing-gown, and crinkle up her toes in + front of me; still less would she tell me outrageous stories; but she will + wear low-necked dresses and gaze at ladies in tights without the ghost of + an immodest thought. I was right when I told Carlotta England was + Alexandretta upside-down. What is immoral here is moral there, and + vice-versa. There is no such thing as absolute morality. I am very glad + this has happened. It shows me that Carlotta is not devoid of the better + kind of feminine instincts. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + July 4th. + </p> + <p> + Judith has come back. I have seen her and I have explained Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + All day long I felt like a respectable person about to be brought before a + magistrate for being drunk and disorderly. Now I have the uneasy + satisfaction of having been let off with a caution. I am innocent, but I + mustn’t do it again. + </p> + <p> + As soon as I entered the room Judith embraced me, and said a number of + foolish things. I responded to the best of my ability. It is not usual for + our quiet lake of affection to be visited by such tornadoes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am glad, I am glad to be back with you again. I have longed for + you. I couldn’t write it. I did not know I could long for any one so + much.” + </p> + <p> + “I have missed you immensely, my dear Judith,” said I. + </p> + <p> + She looked at me queerly for a moment; then with a radiant smile: + </p> + <p> + “I love you for not going into transports like a Frenchman. Oh, I am tired + of Frenchmen. You are my good English Marcus, and worth all masculine + Paris put together.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you, my dear, for the compliment,” said I, “but surely you must + exaggerate.” + </p> + <p> + “To me you are worth the masculine universe,” said Judith, and she seated + me by her side on the sofa, held my hands, and said more foolish things. + </p> + <p> + When the tempest had abated, I laughed. + </p> + <p> + “It is you that have acquired the art of transports in Paris,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I have. Shall I teach you?” + </p> + <p> + “You will have to learn moderation, my dear Judith,” I remarked. “You have + been living too rapidly of late and are looking tired.” + </p> + <p> + “It is only the journey,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + I am sure it is the unaccustomed dissipation. Judith is not a strong + woman, and late hours and eternal gadding about do not suit her + constitution. She has lost weight and there are faint circles under her + eyes. There are lines, too, on her face which only show in hours of + physical strain. I was proceeding to expound this to her at some length, + for I consider it well for women to have some one to counsel them frankly + in such matters, when she interrupted me with a gesture of impatience. + </p> + <p> + “There, there! Tell me what you have been doing with yourself. Your + letters gave me very little information.” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid,” said I, “I am a poor letter writer.” + </p> + <p> + “I read each ten times over,” she said. + </p> + <p> + I kissed her hand in acknowledgment. Then I rose, lit a cigarette and + walked about the room. Judith shook out her skirts and settled herself + comfortably among the sofa-cushions. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what crimes have you been committing the past few weeks?” + </p> + <p> + A wandering minstrel was harping “Love’s Sweet Dream” outside the + public-house below. I shut the window, hastily. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing so bad as that,” said I. “He ought to be hung and his wild harp + hung behind him.” + </p> + <p> + “You are developing nerves,” said Judith. “Is it a guilty conscience?” She + laughed. “You are hiding something from me. I’ve been aware of it all the + time.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? How?” + </p> + <p> + “By the sixth sense of woman!” + </p> + <p> + Confound the sixth sense of woman! I suppose it has been developed like a + cat’s whiskers to supply the deficiency of a natural scent. Also, like the + whiskers, it is obtrusive, and a matter for much irritatingly complacent + pride. Judith regarded me with a mock magisterial air, and I was put into + the dock at once. + </p> + <p> + “Something has happened,” I said, desperately. “A female woman has come + and taken up her residence at 26 Lingfield Terrace. A few weeks ago she + ate with her fingers and believed the earth was flat. I found her in the + Victoria Embankment Gardens beneath the terrace of the National Liberal + Club, and now she lives on chocolate creams and the ‘Child’s Guide to + Knowledge.’ She is eighteen and her name is Carlotta. There!” + </p> + <p> + As my cigarette had gone out, I threw it with some peevishness into the + grate. Judith’s expression had changed from mock to real gravity. She sat + bolt upright and looked at me somewhat stonily. + </p> + <p> + “What in the world do you mean, Marcus?” + </p> + <p> + “What I say. I’m saddled with the responsibility of a child of nature as + unsophisticated and perplexing as Voltaire’s Huron. She’s English and she + came from a harem in Syria, and she is as beautiful as the houris she + believes in and is unfortunately precluded from joining. One of these days + I shall be teaching her her catechism. I have already washed her face. + Kindly pity me as the innocent victim of fantastic circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see why I should pity you,” said Judith. + </p> + <p> + I felt I had not explained Carlotta tactfully. If there are ten ways of + doing a thing I have noticed that I invariably select the one way that is + wrong. I perceived that somehow or other the very contingency I had feared + had come to pass. I had prejudiced Judith against Carlotta. I had aroused + the Ishmaelite—her hand against every woman and every woman’s hand + against her—that survives in all her sex. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Judith,” said I, “if a wicked fairy godmother had decreed that a + healthy rhinoceros should be my housemate you would have extended me your + sympathy. But because Fate has inflicted on me an equally embarrassing + guest in the shape of a young woman—” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Marcus,” interrupted Judith, “the healthy rhinoceros would know + twenty times as much about women as you do.” This I consider one of the + silliest remarks Judith has ever made. “Do,” she continued, “tell me + something coherent about this young person you call Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + I told the story from beginning to end. + </p> + <p> + “But why in the world did you keep it from me?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I mistrusted the sixth sense of woman,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “The most elementary sense of woman or any one else would have told you + that you were doing a very foolish thing.” + </p> + <p> + “How would you have acted?” + </p> + <p> + “I should have handed her over at once to the Turkish consulate.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if you had seen her eyes.” + </p> + <p> + Judith tossed her head. “Men are all alike,” she observed. + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary,” said I, “that which characterises men as a sex is their + greater variation from type than women. It is a scientific fact. You will + find it stated by Darwin and more authoritatively still by later writers. + The highest common factor of a hundred women is far greater than that of a + hundred men. The abnormal is more frequent in the male sex. There are more + male monsters.” + </p> + <p> + “That I can quite believe,” snapped Judith. + </p> + <p> + “Then you agree with me that men are not all alike?” + </p> + <p> + “I certainly don’t. Put any one of you before a pretty face and a pair of + silly girl’s eyes and he is a perfect idiot.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Judith,” said I, “I don’t care a hang for a pretty face—except + yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really care about mine?” she asked wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said I, dropping on one knee by the sofa, and taking her hand, + “I’ve been longing for it for six weeks.” And I counted the weeks on her + fingers. + </p> + <p> + This put her in a good humour. Now that I come to think of it, there is + something adorably infantile in grown up women. Shall man ever understand + them? I have seen babies (not many, I am glad to say) crow with delight at + having their toes pulled, with a “this little pig went to market,” and so + forth; Judith almost crowed at having the weeks told off on her fingers. + Queer! + </p> + <p> + An hour was taken up with the account of her doings in Paris. She had met + all the nicest and naughtiest people. She had been courted and flattered. + An artist in a slouch hat, baggy corduroy breeches, floppy tie and general + 1830 misfit had made love to her on the top of the Eiffel Tower. + </p> + <p> + “And he said,” laughed Judith, “‘<i>Partons ensemble. Comme on dit en + Anglais</i>—fly with me!’ I remarked that our state when we got to + the Champs de Mars would be an effective disguise. He didn’t understand, + and it was delicious!” + </p> + <p> + I laughed. “All the same,” I observed, “I can’t see the fun of making + jokes which the person to whom you make them doesn’t see the point of.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, that’s your own peculiar form of humour,” she retorted. “I caught + the trick from you.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps she is right. I have noticed that people are slow in their + appreciation of my witticisms. I must really be a very dull dog. If she + were not fond of me I don’t see how a bright woman like Judith could + tolerate my society for half an hour. + </p> + <p> + I don’t think I contribute to the world’s humour; but the world’s humour + contributes much to my own entertainment, and things which appear amusing + to me do not appeal, when I point them out, to the risible faculties of + another. Every individual, I suppose, like every civilisation, must have + his own standard of humour. If I were a Roman (instead of an English) + Epicurean, I should have died with laughter at the sight of a fat + Christian martyr scudding round the arena while chased by a hungry lion. + At present I should faint with horror. Indeed, I always feel tainted with + savagery and enjoying a vicarious lust, when I smile at the oft-repeated + tale of the poor tiger in Dore’s picture that hadn’t got a Christian. On + the other hand, it tickles me immensely to behold a plethoric commonplace + Briton roar himself purple with impassioned platitude at a political + meeting; but I perceive that all my neighbours take him with the utmost + seriousness. Again, your literary journalist professes to wriggle in his + chair over the humour of Jane Austen; to me she is the dullest lady that + ever faithfully photographed the trivial. Years ago I happened to be + crossing Putney Bridge, in a frock-coat and silk hat, when a passing + member of the proletariat dug his elbows in his comrade’s ribs and, + quoting a music-hall tag of the period, shouted “He’s got ‘em on!” + whereupon both burst into peals of robustious but inane laughter. Now, if + I had turned to them, and said, “He would be funnier if I hadn’t,” and + paraphrased, however wittily, Carlyle’s ironical picture of a nude court + of St. James’s, they would have punched my head under the confused idea + that I was trying to bamboozle them. Which brings me to my point of + departure, my remark to Judith as to the futility of jesting to + unpercipient ears. + </p> + <p> + I did not take up her retort. + </p> + <p> + “And what was the end of the romance?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “He borrowed twenty francs of me to pay for the <i>dejeuner</i>, and his + <i>l’annee trente</i> delicacy of soul compelled him to blot my existence + forever from his mind.” + </p> + <p> + “He never repaid you?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “For a humouristic philosopher,” cried Judith, “you are delicious!” + </p> + <p> + Judith is too fond of that word “delicious.” She uses it in season and out + of season. + </p> + <p> + We have the richest language that ever a people has accreted, and we use + it as if it were the poorest. We hoard up our infinite wealth of words + between the boards of dictionaries and in speech dole out the worn bronze + coinage of our vocabulary. We are the misers of philological history. And + when we can save our pennies and pass the counterfeit coin of slang, we + are as happy as if we heard a blind beggar thank us for putting a pewter + sixpence into his hat. + </p> + <p> + I said something of the sort to Judith, after she had resumed her seat and + I had opened the window, the minstrel having wandered to the next + hostelry, where the process of converting “Love’s Sweet Dream” into a + nightmare was still faintly audible. Judith looked at me whimsically, as I + stood breathing the comparatively fresh air and enjoying the relative + silence. + </p> + <p> + “You are still the same, I am glad to see. Conversation with the young + savage from Syria hasn’t altered you in the least.” + </p> + <p> + “In the first place,” said I, “savages do not grow in Syria; and in the + second, how could she have altered me?” + </p> + <p> + “If the heavens were to open and the New Jerusalem to appear this moment + before you,” retorted Judith, with the relevant irrelevance of her sex, + “you would begin an unconcerned disquisition on the iconography of + angels.” + </p> + <p> + I sat on the sofa end and touched one of her little pink ears. She has + pretty ears. They were the first of things physical about her that + attracted me to her years ago in the Roman pension—they and the mass + of silken flax that is her hair, and her violet eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Did you learn that particular way of talking in Paris?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + She had the effrontery to say she was imitating me and that it was a very + good imitation indeed. + </p> + <p> + We talked about the book. I touched upon the great problem that requires + solution—the harmonising and justifying of the contradictory + opposites in Renaissance character: Fra Lippo Lippi breaking his own vows + and breaking a nun’s for her; Perugino leading his money-grubbing, morose + life and painting ethereal saints and madonnas in his <i>bottega</i>, + while the Baglioni filled the streets outside with slaughter; Lorenzo de’ + Medici bleeding literally and figuratively his fellow-citizens, going from + that occupation to his Platonic Academy and disputing on the immortality + of the soul, winding up with orgies of sensual depravity with his boon + companion Pulci, and all the time making himself an historic name for + statecraft; Pope Sixtus IV, at the very heart of the Pazzi conspiracy to + murder the Medici— + </p> + <p> + “And Pope Nicholas V when drunk ordering a man to be executed, and being + sorry for it when sober,” said Judith. + </p> + <p> + It is wonderful how Judith, with her quite unspecialised knowledge of + history can now and then put her finger upon something vital. I have been + racking my brain and searching my library for the past two or three days + for an illustration of just that nature. I had not thought of it. Here is + Tomaso da Sarzana, a quiet, retired schoolmaster, like myself, an editor + of classical texts, a peaceful librarian of Cosmo de’ Medici, a scholar + and a gentleman to the tips of his fingers; he is made Pope, a King Log to + save the cardinalate from a possible King Stork Colonna; the Porcari + conspiracy breaks out, is discovered and the conspirators are hunted over + Italy and put to death; a gentleman called Anguillara is slightly + inculpated; he is invited to Rome by Nicholas, and given a safe-conduct; + when he arrives the Pope is drunk (at least Stefano Infessura, the + contemporary diarist, says so); the next morning his Holiness finds to his + surprise and annoyance that the gentleman’s head has been cut off by his + orders. It is an amazing tale. To realise how amazing it is, one must + picture the fantastic possibility of it happening at the Vatican nowadays. + And the most astounding thing is this: that if all the dead and gone popes + were alive, and the soul of the saintly Pontiff of to-day were to pass + from him, the one who could most undetected occupy his simulacrum would be + this very Thomas of Sarzana. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, my dear Judith,” said I. “But this is a story lying somewhat + up one of the back-waters of history. Where did you come across it?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw it the other day in a French comic paper,” replied Judith. + </p> + <p> + I really don’t know which to admire the more: the inconsequent way in + which the French toss about scholarship, or the marvellous power of + assimilation possessed by Judith. + </p> + <p> + Before we separated she returned to the subject of Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Am I to see this young creature?” she asked. “That is just as you + choose,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! as far as I am concerned, my dear Marcus, I am perfectly + indifferent,” replied Judith, assuming the supercilious expression with + which women invariably try to mask inordinate curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said I, with a touch of malice, “there is no reason why you should + make her acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be able to see through her tricks and put you on your guard.” + </p> + <p> + “Against what?” + </p> + <p> + She shrugged her shoulders as if it were vain to waste breath on so obtuse + a person. + </p> + <p> + “You had better bring her round some afternoon,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Have I acted wisely in confessing Carlotta to Judith? And why do I use the + word “confess”? Far from having committed an evil action, I consider I + have exhibited exemplary altruism. Did I want a “young savage from Syria” + to come and interfere with my perfectly ordered life? Judith does not + realise this. I had a presentiment of the prejudice she would conceive + against the poor girl, and now it has been verified. I wish I had held my + tongue. As Judith, for some feminine reason known only to herself, has + steadily declined to put her foot inside my house, she might very well + have remained unsuspicious of Carlotta’s existence. And why not? The fact + of the girl being my pensioner does not in the least affect the + personality which I bring to Judith. The idea is absurd. Why wasn’t I wise + before the event? I might have spared myself considerable worry. + </p> + <p> + A letter from my Aunt Jessica enclosing a card for a fancy dress ball at + the Empress Rooms. The preposterous lady! + </p> + <p> + “Do come. It is not right for a young man to lead the life of a recluse of + seventy. Here we are in the height of the London season, and I am sure you + haven’t been into ten houses, when a hundred of the very best are open to + you—” I loathe the term “best houses.” The tinsel ineptitude of + them! For entertainment I really would sooner attend a mothers’ meeting or + listen to the serious British Drama—Have I read so and so’s novel? + Am I going to Mrs. Chose’s dance? Do I ride in the Park? Do I know young + Thingummy of the Guards, who is going to marry Lady Betty Something? What + do I think of the Academy? As if one could have any sentiment with regard + to the Academy save regret at such profusion of fresh paint! “You want + shaking up,” continued my aunt. Silly woman! If there is a thing I should + abhor it would be to be shaken up. “Come and dine with us at seven-thirty + <i>in costume</i>, and I’ll promise you a delightful time. And think how + proud the girls would be of showing off their <i>beau cousin</i>.” <i>Et + patiti et patita.</i> I am again reminded that I owe it to my position, my + title. God ha’ mercy on us! To bedeck myself like a decayed mummer in a + booth and frisk about in a pestilential atmosphere with a crowd of strange + and uninteresting young females is the correct way of fulfilling the + obligations that the sovereign laid upon the successors to the title, when + he conferred the dignity of a baronetcy on my great-grandfather! Now I + come to think of it the Prince Regent was that sovereign, and my ancestor + did things for him at Brighton. Perhaps after all there is a savage irony + of truth in Aunt Jessica’s suggestion! + </p> + <p> + And a <i>beau cousin</i> should I be indeed. What does she think I would + go as? A mousquetaire? or a troubadour in blue satin trunks and cloak, + white silk tights and shoes and a Grecian helmet, like Mr. Snodgrass at + Mrs. Leo Hunter’s <i>fete champetre?</i> + </p> + <p> + I wish I could fathom Aunt Jessica’s reasons for her attempts at involving + me in her social mountebankery. If the girls get no better dance-partners + than me, heaven help them! + </p> + <p> + Only a fortnight ago I drove with them to Hurlingham. My aunt and + Gwendolen disappeared in an unaccountable manner with another man, leaving + me under an umbrella tent to take charge of Dora. I had an hour and a half + of undiluted Dora. The dose was too strong, and it made my head ache. I + think I prefer neat Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + July 5th + </p> + <p> + I lunched at home, and read drowsily before the open window till four + o’clock. Then the splendour of the day invited me forth. Whither should I + go? I thought of Judith and Hampstead Heath; I also thought of Carlotta + and Hyde Park. The sound of the lions roaring for their afternoon tea + reached me through the still air, and I put from me a strong temptation to + wander alone and meditative in the Zoological Gardens close by. I must not + forget, I reflected, that I am responsible for Carlotta’s education, + whereas I am in no wise responsible for the animals or for Judith. If + Judith and I had claims one on the other, the entire charm of our + relationship would be broken. + </p> + <p> + I resolved to take Carlotta to the park, in order to improve her mind. She + would see how well-bred Englishwomen comport themselves externally. It + would be a lesson in decorum. + </p> + <p> + I do not despise convention. Indeed, I follow it up to the point when it + puts on the airs of revealed religion. My neighbours and I decide on a + certain code of manners which will enable us to meet without mutual + offence. I agree to put my handkerchief up to my nose when I sneeze in his + presence, and he contracts not to wipe muddy boots on my sofa. I undertake + not to shock his wife by parading my hideous immorality before her eyes, + and he binds himself not to aggravate my celibacy by beating her or + kissing her when I am paying a call. I agree, by wearing an arbitrarily + fixed costume when I dine with him, to brand myself with the stamp of a + certain class of society, so that his guests shall receive me without + question, and he in return gives me a well-ordered dinner served with the + minimum amount of inconvenience to myself that his circumstances allow. + Many folks make what they are pleased to call unconventionality a mere + cloak for selfish disregard of the feelings and tastes of others. + Bohemianism too often means piggish sloth or slatternly ineptitude. + </p> + <p> + Convention is solely a matter of manners. That is why I desire to instil + some convention into what, for want of a more accurate term, I may allude + to as Carlotta’s mind. It will save me much trouble in the future. + </p> + <p> + I summoned Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta,” I said, “I am going to take you to Hyde Park and show you the + English aristocracy wearing their best clothes and their best behaviour. + You must do the same.” + </p> + <p> + “My best clothes?” cried Carlotta, her face lighting up. + </p> + <p> + “Your very best. Make haste.” + </p> + <p> + I smiled. She ran from the room and in an incredibly short time reappeared + unblushingly bare-necked and bare-armed in the evening dress that had + caused her such dismay on Saturday. + </p> + <p> + I jumped to my feet. There is no denying that she looked amazingly + beautiful. She looked, in fact, disconcertingly beautiful. I found it hard + to tell her to take the dress off again. + </p> + <p> + “Is it wrong?” she asked Nvith a pucker of her baby lips. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed,” said I. “People would be shocked.” + </p> + <p> + “But on Saturday evening—” she began. + </p> + <p> + “I know, my child,” I interrupted. “In society you are scarcely + respectable unless you go about half naked at night; but to do so in the + daytime would be the grossest indecency. I’ll explain some other time.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never understand,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + Two great tears stood, one on each eyelid, and fell simultaneously down + her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “What on earth are you crying for?” I asked aghast. + </p> + <p> + “You are not pleased with me,” said Carlotta, with a choke in her voice. + </p> + <p> + The two tears fell like rain-drops on to her bosom, and she stood before + me a picture of exquisite woe. Then I did a very foolish thing. + </p> + <p> + Last week a little gold brooch in a jeweller’s window caught my fancy. I + bought it with the idea of presenting it to Carlotta, when an occasion + offered, as a reward for peculiar merit. Now, however, to show her that I + was in no way angry, I abstracted the bauble from the drawer of my + writing-table, and put it in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You please me so much, Carlotta,” said I, “that I have bought this for + you.” + </p> + <p> + Before I had completed the sentence, and before I knew what she was after, + her arms were round my neck and she was hugging me like a child. + </p> + <p> + I have never experienced such an odd sensation in my life as the touch of + Carlotta’s fresh young arms upon my face and the perfume of spring violets + that emanated from her person. I released myself swiftly from her + indecorous demonstration. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t do things like that,” said I, severely. “In England, young + women are only allowed to embrace their grandfathers.” Carlotta looked at + me wide-eyed, with the fox-terrier knitting of the forehead. + </p> + <p> + “But you are so good to me, Seer Marcous,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you’ll find many people good to you, Carlotta,” I answered. “But + if you continue that method of expressing your appreciation, you may + possibly be misunderstood.” + </p> + <p> + I had recovered from the momentary shock to my senses, and I laughed. She + fluttered a sidelong glance at me, and a smile as inscrutable as the Monna + Lisa’s hovered over her lips. + </p> + <p> + “What would they do if they did not understand?” + </p> + <p> + “They would take you,” I replied, fixing her sternly with my gaze, “they + would take you for an unconscionable baggage.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Hou!</i>” laughed Carlotta, suddenly. And she ran from the room. + </p> + <p> + In a moment she was back again. She came up to me demurely and plucked my + sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “Come and show me what I must put on so as to please you.” + </p> + <p> + I rang the bell for Antoinette, to whom I gave the necessary instructions. + Her next request would be that I should act the part of lady’s-maid. I + must maintain my dignity with Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + The lovely afternoon had attracted many people to the park, and the lawns + were thronged. We found a couple of chairs at the edge of one of the + cross-paths and watched the elegant assembly. Carlotta, vastly + entertained, asked innumerable questions. How could I tell whether a lady + was married or unmarried? Did they all wear stays? Why did every one look + so happy? Did I think that old man was the young girl’s husband? What were + they all talking about? Wouldn’t I take her for a drive in one of those + beautiful carriages? Why hadn’t I a carriage? Then suddenly, as if + inspired, after a few minutes’ silent reflection: + </p> + <p> + “Seer Marcous, is this the marriage market?” + </p> + <p> + “The what?” I gasped. + </p> + <p> + “The marriage market. I read it in a book, yesterday. Miss Griggs gave it + me to read aloud—Tack—Thack—” + </p> + <p> + “Thackeray?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es. They come here to sell the young girls to men who want wives.” She + edged away from me, with a little movement of alarm. “That is not why you + have brought me here—to sell me?” + </p> + <p> + “How much do you think you would be worth?” I asked, sarcastically. + </p> + <p> + She opened out her hands palms upward, throwing down her parasol, as she + did so, upon her neighbour’s little Belgian griffon, who yelped. + </p> + <p> + “Ch, lots,” she said in her frank way. “I am very beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + I picked up the parasol, bowed apologetically to the owner of the stricken + animal, and addressed Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, my good child. You are passably good-looking, but you are by no + means very beautiful. If I tried to sell you here, you might possibly + fetch half a crown—” + </p> + <p> + “Two shillings and sixpence?” asked the literal Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Just that. But as a matter of fact, no one would buy you. This is + not the marriage market. There is no such thing as a marriage market. + English mothers and fathers do not sell their daughters for money. Such a + thing is monstrous and impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it was all lies I read in the book?” + </p> + <p> + “All lies,” said I. + </p> + <p> + I hope the genial shade of the great satirist has forgiven me. + </p> + <p> + “Why do they put lies in books?” + </p> + <p> + “To accentuate the Truth, so that it shall prevail,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + This was too hard a nut for Carlotta to crack. She was silent for a + moment. She reverted, ruefully, to the intelligible. + </p> + <p> + “I thought I was beautiful,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Who told you so?” + </p> + <p> + “Pasquale.” + </p> + <p> + “Pasquale has no sense,” said I. “There are men to whom all women who are + not seventy and toothless and rheumy at the eyes are beautiful. Pasquale + has said the same to every woman he has met. He is a Lothario and a Don + Juan and a Caligula and a Faublas and a Casanova.” + </p> + <p> + “And he tells lies, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Millions of them,” said I. “He contracts with their father Beelzebub for + a hundred gross a day.” + </p> + <p> + “Pasquale is very pretty and he makes me laugh and I like him,” said + Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “I am very sorry to hear it,” said I. + </p> + <p> + The griffon, who had been sniffing at Carlotta’s skirts, suddenly leaped + into her lap. With a swift movement of her hand she swept the poor little + creature, as if it had been a noxious insect, yards away. + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta!” I cried angrily, springing to my feet. + </p> + <p> + The ladies who owned the beast rushed to their whining pet and looked + astonished daggers at Carlotta. When they picked it up, it sat dangling a + piteous paw. Carlotta rose, merely scared at my anger. I raised my hat. + </p> + <p> + “I am more than sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I hope the little + dog is not hurt. My ward, for whom I offer a thousand apologies, is a + Mohammedan, to whom all dogs are unclean. Please attribute the accident to + religious instinct.” + </p> + <p> + The younger of the two, who had been examining the paw, looked up with a + smile. + </p> + <p> + “Your ward is forgiven. Punch oughtn’t to jump on strange ladies’ laps, + whether they are Mohammedans or not. Oh! he is more frightened than hurt. + And I,” she added, with a twinkling eye, “am more hurt than frightened, + because Sir Marcus Ordeyne doesn’t recognise me.” + </p> + <p> + So Carlotta had nearly killed the dog of an unrecalled acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + “I do indeed recognise you now,” said I, mendaciously. I seem to have been + lying to-day through thick and thin. “But in the confusion of the disaster—” + </p> + <p> + “You sat next me at lunch one day last winter, at Mrs. Ordeyne’s,” + interrupted the lady, “and you talked to me of transcendental + mathematics.” + </p> + <p> + I remembered. “The crime,” said I, “has lain heavily on my conscience.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe a word of it,” she laughed, dismissing me with a bow. I + raised my hat and joined Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + It was a Miss Gascoigne, a flirtatious intimate of Aunt Jessica’s house. + To this irresponsible young woman I had openly avowed that I was the + guardian of a beautiful Mohammedan whose religious instinct compelled her + to destroy little dogs. I shall hear of this from my Aunt Jessica. + </p> + <p> + I walked stonily away with Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “You are cross with me,” she whimpered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am. You might have killed the poor little beast. It was very + wicked and cruel of you.” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta burst out crying in the midst of the promenade. + </p> + <p> + The tears did not romantically come into her eyes as they had done an hour + before; but she wept copiously, after the unrestrained manner of children, + and used her pocket-handkerchief. From their seats women put up their + lorgnons to look at her, passers-by turned round and stared. The whole of + the gaily dressed throng seemed to be one amused gaze. In’ a moment or two + I became conscious that reprehensory glances were being directed towards + myself, calling me, as plain as eyes could call, an ill-conditioned brute, + for making the poor young creature, who was at my mercy, thus break down + in public. It was a charming situation for an even-tempered philosopher. + We walked stolidly on, I glaring in front of me and Carlotta weeping. The + malice of things arranged that ne. neighbouring chair should be vacant, + and that the path should be unusually crowded. I had the satisfaction of + hearing a young fellow say to a girl: + </p> + <p> + “He? That’s Ordeyne—came into the baronetcy—mad as a dingo + dog.” + </p> + <p> + I was giving myself a fine advertisement. + </p> + <p> + “For heaven’s sake stop crying,” I said. Then a memory of far-off + childhood flashed its inspiration upon me. “If you don’t,” I added, + grimly, “I’ll take you out and give you to a policeman.” + </p> + <p> + The effect was magical. She turned on me a scared look, gasped, pulled + down her veil, which she had raised so as to dab her eyes with her + pocket-handkerchief, and incontinently checked the fountain of her tears. + </p> + <p> + “A policeman?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I, “a great, big, ugly blue policeman, who shuts up people who + misbehave themselves in prison, and takes off their clothes, and shaves + their heads, and feeds them on bread and water.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t cry any more,” she said, swallowing a sob. “Is it also wicked to + cry?” + </p> + <p> + “Any of these ladies here would sooner be burned alive with dyspepsia or + cut in two with tight-lacing,” I replied severely. “Let us sit down.” + </p> + <p> + We stepped over the low iron rail, and passing through the first two rows + of people, found seats behind where the crowd was thinner. + </p> + <p> + “Is Seer Marcous still angry with me?” asked Carlotta, and the simple + plaintiveness of her voice would have melted the bust of Nero. I lectured + her on cruelty to animals. That one had duties of kindness towards the + lower creation appealed to her as a totally new idea. Supposing the dog + had broken all its legs and ribs, would she not have been sorry? She + answered frankly in the negative. It was a nasty little dog. If she had + hurt it badly, so much the better. What did it matter if a dog was hurt? + She was sorry now she had hurled it into space, because it belonged to my + friends, and that had made me cross with her. + </p> + <p> + Of course I was shocked at the thoughtless cruelty of the action; but my + anger had also its roots in dismay at the public scandal it might have + caused, and in the discovery that I was known to the victim’s owner. It is + the sad fate of the instructors of youth that they must hypocritically + credit themselves with only the sublimest of motives. I spoke to Carlotta + like the good father in the “Swiss Family Robinson.” I gave vent to such + noble sentiments that in a quarter of an hour I glowed with pride in my + borrowed plumes of virtue. I would have taken a slug to my bosom and + addressed a rattlesnake as Uncle Toby did the fly. I wonder whether it is + not through some such process as this that parsons manage to keep + themselves good. + </p> + <p> + The soothing warmth of conscious merit restored me to good temper; and + when Carlotta slid her hand into mine and asked me if I had forgiven her, + I magnanimously assured her that all the past was forgotten. + </p> + <p> + “Only,” said I, “you will have to get out of this habit of tears. A wise + man called Burton says in his ‘Anatomy of Melancholy,’ a beautiful book + which I’ll give you to read when you are sixty, ‘As much count may be + taken of a woman weeping as a goose going barefoot.’” + </p> + <p> + “He was a nasty old man,” said Carlotta. “Women cry because they feel very + unhappy. Men are never unhappy, and that is the reason that men don’t cry. + My mamma used to cry all the time at Alexandretta; but Hamdi!—” she + broke into an adorable trill of a chuckle, “You would as soon see a goose + going with boots and stockings, like the Puss in the shoes—the fairy + tale—as Hamdi crying. <i>Hou</i>!” + </p> + <p> + Half an hour later, as we were driving homewards, she broke a rather long + silence which she had evidently been employing in meditation. + </p> + <p> + “Seer Marcous.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + She has a child’s engaging way of rubbing herself up against one when she + wants to be particularly ingratiating. + </p> + <p> + “It was so nice to dine with you on Saturday.” + </p> + <p> + “Really?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ye-es. When are you going to let me dine with you again, to show me + you have forgiven me?” + </p> + <p> + A hansom cab offers peculiar facilities for the aforesaid process of + ingratiation. + </p> + <p> + “You shall dine with me this evening,” said I, and Carlotta cooed with + pleasure. + </p> + <p> + I perceive that she is gradually growing westernised. + </p> + <p> + July 8th. + </p> + <p> + In obedience to a peremptory note from Judith, I took Carlotta this + afternoon to Tottenham Mansions. I shook hands with my hostess, turned + round and said + </p> + <p> + “This, my dear Judith, is Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + “I am very pleased to see you,” said Judith. + </p> + <p> + “So am I,” replied Carlotta, not to be outdone in politeness. + </p> + <p> + She sat bolt upright, most correctly, on the edge of a chair, and + responded monosyllabically to Judith’s questions. Her demeanour could not + have been more impeccable had she been trained in a French convent. Just + before we arrived, she had been laughing immoderately because I had + ordered her to spit out a mass of horrible sweetmeat which she had found + it impossible to masticate, and she had challenged me to extract it with + my fingers. But now, compared with her, Saint Nitouche was a Maenad. I was + entertained by Judith’s fruitless efforts to get behind this wall of + reserve. Carlotta said, “Oh, ye-es” or “No-o” to everything. It was not a + momentous conversation. As it was Carlotta in whom Judith was particularly + interested, I effaced myself. At last, after a lull in the spasmodic talk, + Carlotta said, very politely: + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Mainwaring has a beautiful house.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s only a tiny flat. Would you like to look over it?” asked Judith, + eagerly, flashing me a glance that plainly said, “Now that I shall have + her to myself, you may trust me to get to the bottom of her.” + </p> + <p> + “I would like it very much,” said Carlotta, rising. + </p> + <p> + I held the door open for them to pass out, and lit a cigarette. When they + returned ten minutes afterwards, Carlotta was smiling and self-possessed, + evidently very well pleased with herself, but Judith had a red spot on + each of her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + The sight of her smote me with an odd new feeling of pity. I cannot + dismiss the vision from my mind. All the evening I have seen the two women + standing side by side, a piteous parable. The light from the window shone + full upon them, and the dark curtain of the door was an effective + background. The one flaunted the sweet insolence of youth, health, colour, + beauty; of the bud just burst into full flower. The other wore the stamp + of care, of the much knowledge wherein is much sorrow, and in her eyes + dwelled the ghosts of dead years. She herself looked like a ghost-dressed + in white pique, which of itself drew the colour from her white face and + pale lips and mass of faint straw-coloured hair, the pallor of all which + was accentuated by the red spots on her cheeks and her violet eyes. + </p> + <p> + I saw that something had occurred to vex her. + </p> + <p> + “Before we go,” I said, “I should like a word with you. Carlotta will not + mind.” + </p> + <p> + We went into the dining-room. I took her hand which was cold, in spite of + the July warmth. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear,” said I. “What do you think of my young savage from Asia + Minor?” + </p> + <p> + Judith laughed—I am sure not naturally. + </p> + <p> + “Is that all you wanted to say to me?” + </p> + <p> + She withdrew her hand, and tidied her hair in the mirror of the + overmantel. + </p> + <p> + “I think she is a most uninteresting young woman. I am disappointed. I had + anticipated something original. I had looked forward to some amusement. + But, really, my dear Marcus, she is <i>bete a pleurer</i>—weepingly + stupid.” + </p> + <p> + “She certainly can weep,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, can she?” said Judith, as if the announcement threw some light on + Carlotta’s character. “And when she cries, I suppose you, like a man, give + in and let her have her own way?” And Judith laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Judith,” said I; “you have no idea of the wholesome discipline at + Lingfield Terrace.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly with one of her disconcerting changes of front, she turned and + caught me by the coat-lappels. + </p> + <p> + “Marcus dear, I have been so lonely this week. When are you coming to see + me?” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll have a whole day out on Sunday,” said I. + </p> + <p> + As I walked down the stairs with Carlotta, I reflected that Judith had not + accounted for the red spots. + </p> + <p> + “I like her,” said Carlotta. “She is a nice old lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Old lady! What on earth do you mean?” I was indeed startled. “She is a + young woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Pouf!” cried Carlotta. “She is forty.” + </p> + <p> + “She is no such thing,” I cried. “She is years younger than I.” + </p> + <p> + “She would not tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “You asked her age?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ye-es,” said Carlotta. “I was very polite. I first asked if she was + married. She said yes. Then I asked how her husband was. She said she + didn’t know. That was funny. Why does she not know, Seer Marcous?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” said I, “go on telling me how polite you were.” + </p> + <p> + “I asked how many children she had. She said she had none. I said it was a + pity. And then I said, ‘I am eighteen years old and I want to marry quite + soon and have children. How old are you?’ And she would not tell me. I + said, ‘You must be the same age as my mamma, if she were alive.’ I said + other things, about her husband, which I forget. Oh, I was very polite.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled up at me in quest of approbation. I checked a horrified rebuke + when I reflected that, according to the etiquette of the harem, she had + been “very polite.” But my poor Judith! Every artless question had been a + knife thrust in a sensitive spot. Her husband: the handsome blackguard who + had lured her into the divorce court, married her, and after two unhappy + years had left her broken; children: they would have kept her life sweet, + and did I not know how she had yearned for them? Her age: it is only the + very happily married woman who snaps her fingers at the approach of forty, + and even she does so with a disquieting sense of bravado. And the sweet + insolence of youth says: “I am eighteen: how old are you?” + </p> + <p> + My poor Judith! Once more, on our walk home, I discoursed to Carlotta on + the differences between East and West. + </p> + <p> + “Seer Marcous,” said Carlotta this evening at dinner—“I have decided + now that she shall dine regularly with me; it is undoubtedly agreeable to + see her pretty face on the opposite side of the table and listen to her + irresponsible chatter: chatter which I keep within the bounds of decorum + when Stenson is present, so as to save his susceptibilities, by the simple + device, agreed upon between us (to her great delight) of scratching the + side of my somewhat prominent nose—Seer Marcous, why does Mrs. + Mainwaring keep your picture in her bedroom?” + </p> + <p> + I am glad Stenson happened to be out of the room. His absence saved the + flaying of my nasal organ. I explained that it was the custom in England + for ladies to collect the photographs of their men friends, and use them + misguidedly for purposes of decoration. + </p> + <p> + “But this,” said Carlotta, opening out her arms in an exaggerated way, “is + such a big one.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that,” I answered, “is because I am very beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta shrieked with laughter. The exquisite comicality of the jest + occasioned bubbling comments of mirth during the rest of the meal, and her + original indiscreet question was happily forgotten. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + 10th July. + </p> + <p> + Judith and I have had our day in the country. We know a wayside station, + on a certain line of railway, about an hour and a half from town, where we + can alight, find eggs and bacon at the village inn and hayricks in a + solitary meadow, and where we can chew the cud of these delights with the + cattle in well-wooded pastures. Judith has a passion for eggs and bacon + and hayricks. My own rapture in their presence is tempered by the + philosophic calm of my disposition. She wore a cotton dress of a + forget-me-not blue which suits her pale colouring. She looked quite + pretty. When I told her so she blushed like a girl. I was glad to see her + in gay humour again. Of late months she has been subject to moodiness, + emotional variability, which has somewhat ruffled the smooth surface of + our companionship. But to-day there has been no trace of “temperament.” + She has shown herself the pleasant, witty Judith she knows I like her to + be, with a touch of coquetry thrown in on her own account. She even spoke + amiably of Carlotta. I have not had so thoroughly enjoyable a day with + Judith for a long time. + </p> + <p> + I don’t think she set herself deliberately to please me. That I should + resent. I know that women in order to please an unsuspecting male will + walk weary miles by his side with blisters on their feet and a beatific + smile on their faces. But Judith has far too much commonsense. + </p> + <p> + Another pleasing feature of the day’s jaunt has been the absence of the + appeal to sentimentality which Judith of late, especially since her return + from Paris, has been overfond of making. This idle habit of mind, for such + it is in reality, has been arrested by an intellectual interest. One of + her great friends is Willoughby, the economic statistician, who in his + humorous moments, writes articles for popular magazines, illustrated by + scale diagrams. He will draw, for instance, a series of men representing + the nations of the world, and varying in bulk and stature according to the + respective populations; and over against these he will set a series of + pigs whose sizes are proportionate to the amount of pork per head eaten by + the different nationalities. To these queer minds that live on facts (I + myself could as easily thrive on a diet of egg-shells) this sort of + pictorial information is peculiarly fascinating. But Judith, who like most + women has a freakish mental as well as physical digestion, delights in + knowing how many hogs a cabinet minister will eat during a lifetime, and + how much of the earth’s surface could be scoured by the world’s yearly + output of scrubbing-brushes. I don’t blame her for it any more than I + blame her for a love of radishes, which make me ill; it is not as if she + had no wholesome tastes. On the contrary, I commend her. Now, Willoughby, + it seems, has found the public appetite so great for these thought-saving + boluses of knowledge—unpleasant drugs, as it were, put up into + gelatine capsules—that he needs assistance. He has asked Judith to + devil for him, and I have to-day persuaded her to accept his offer. It + will be an excellent thing for the dear woman. It will be an absorbing + occupation. It will divert the current of her thoughts from the + sentimentality that I deprecate, and provided she does not serve up + hard-boiled facts to me at dinner, she will be the pleasanter companion. + </p> + <p> + The only return to it was when I kissed her at parting. + </p> + <p> + “That is the first, Marcus, for twelve hours,” she said; very sweetly, it + is true—but still reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + But Sacred Name of a Little Good Man! (as the depraved French people say), + what is the use of this continuous osculation between rational beings of + opposite sexes who set out to enjoy themselves? If only St. Paul, in the + famous passage when he says there is a time for this and a time for that, + had mentioned kissing, he would have done a great deal of practical good. + </p> + <p> + July 13th. + </p> + <p> + To-night, for the first time since I came into the family estates (such as + they are), I feel the paralysis of aspiration occasioned by poverty. If I + were very rich, I would buy the two next houses, pull them down and erect + on the site a tower forty foot high. At the very top would be one + comfortable room to be reached by a lift, and in this room I could have my + being, while it listed me, and be secure from all kinds of incursions and + interruptions. Antoinette’s one-eyed cat could not scratch for admittance; + Antoinette herself could not enter under pretext of domestic economics and + lure me into profitless gossip; and I could defy Carlotta, who is growing + to be as pervasive as the smell of pickles over Crosse & Blackwell’s + factory. She comes in without knocking, looks at picture-books, sprawls + about doing nothing, smokes my best cigarettes, hums tunes which she has + picked up from barrel-organs, bends over me to see what I am writing, + munching her eternal sweetmeats in my ear, and laughs at me when I tell + her she has irremediably broken the thread of my ideas. Of course I might + be brutal and turn her out. But somehow I forget to do so, until I realise—too + late—the havoc she has made with my work. + </p> + <p> + I did, however, think, when Miss Griggs mounted guard over Carlotta, and + Antoinette and her cat were busied with luncheon cook-pans, that my + solitude was unimperilled. I see now there is nothing for it but the + tower. And I cannot build the tower; so I am to be henceforward at the + mercy of anything feline or feminine that cares to swish its tail or its + skirts about my drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + I was arranging my notes, I had an illuminating inspiration concerning the + life of Francois Villon and the contemporary court of Cosmo de’ Medici; I + was preparing to fix it in writing when the door opened and Stenson + announced: + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Ordeyne and Miss Ordeyne.” + </p> + <p> + My Aunt Jessica and Dora came in and my inspiration went out. It hasn’t + come back yet. + </p> + <p> + My aunt’s apologies and Dora’s draperies filled the room. I must forgive + the invasion. They knew they were disturbing my work. They hoped I didn’t + mind. + </p> + <p> + “I wanted mamma to write, but she would come,” said Dora, in her hearty + voice. I murmured polite mendacities and offered chairs. Dora preferred to + stand and gaze about her with feminine curiosity. Women always seem to + sniff for Bluebeardism in a bachelor’s apartment. + </p> + <p> + “Why, what two beautiful rooms you have. And the books! There isn’t an + inch of wall-space!” + </p> + <p> + She went on a voyage of discovery round the shelves while my aunt + explained the object of their visit. Somebody, I forget who, had lent them + a yacht. They were making up a party for a summer cruise in Norwegian + fiords. The Thingummies and the So and So’s and Lord This and Miss That + had promised to come, but they were sadly in need of a man to play host—I + was to fancy three lone women at the mercy of the skipper. I did, and I + didn’t envy the skipper. What more natural, gushed my aunt, than that they + should turn to me, the head of the house, in their difficulty? + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid, my dear aunt,” said I, “that my acquaintance with + skipper-terrorising hosts is nil. I can’t suggest any one.” + </p> + <p> + “But who asked you to suggest any one?” she laughed. “It is you yourself + that we want to persuade to have pity on us.” + </p> + <p> + “I have—much pity,” said I, “for if it’s rough, you’ll all be + horribly seasick.” + </p> + <p> + Dora ran across the room from the book-case she was inspecting. + </p> + <p> + “I would like to shake him! He is only pretending he doesn’t understand. I + don’t know what we shall do if you won’t come with us.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t refuse, Marcus. It will be an ideal trip—and such a + comfortable yacht—and the deep blue fiords—and we’ve got a + French chef. You will be doing us such a favour.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, say ‘Yes,’” said Dora. + </p> + <p> + I wish she were not such a bouncing Juno of a girl. Large, athletic women + with hearty voices are difficult for one to deal with. I am a match for my + aunt, whom I can obfuscate with words. But Dora doesn’t understand my + satire; she gives a great, healthy laugh, and says, “Oh, rot!” which + scatters my intellectual armoury. + </p> + <p> + “It is exceedingly kind of you to think of me,” I said to my aunt, “and + the proposal is tempting—the prospect is indeed fascinating—but—” + </p> + <p> + “But what?” + </p> + <p> + “I have so many engagements,” I answered feebly. + </p> + <p> + My Aunt Jessica rose, smiling indulgently upon me, as if I were a spoilt + little boy, and took me on to the balcony, while Dora demurely retired to + the bookshelves in the farther room. “Can’t you manage to throw them + aside? Poor Dora will be inconsolable.” + </p> + <p> + I stared at her for a moment and then at Dora’s broad back and sturdy + hips. Inconsolable? I can’t make out what the good lady is driving at. If + she were a vulgar woman trying to squeeze her way into society and needed + the lubricant of the family baronetcy, I could understand her eagerness to + parade me as her appanage. But titles in her drawing-room are as common as + tea-cups. And the inconsolability of Dora— + </p> + <p> + “If I did come she would be bored to death,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “She is willing to risk it.” + </p> + <p> + “But why should she seek martyrdom?” + </p> + <p> + “There is another reason,” said my aunt, ignoring my pertinent question, + but glancing at me reassuringly “there is another reason why it would be + well for you to come on this cruise with us.” She sank her voice. “You met + Miss Gascoigne in the park last week—” + </p> + <p> + “A very charming and kind young lady,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid you have been a little indiscreet. People have been talking.” + </p> + <p> + “Then theirs, not mine, is the indiscretion.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear Marcus, when you spring a good-looking young person, whom + you introduce as your Mohammedan ward, upon London society, and she makes + a scene in public—why—what else have people got to talk + about?” + </p> + <p> + “They might fall back upon the doctrine of predestination or the price of + fish,” I replied urbanely. + </p> + <p> + “But I assure you, Marcus, that there is a hint of scandal abroad. It is + actually said that she is living here.” + </p> + <p> + “People will say anything, true or untrue,” said I. + </p> + <p> + My aunt sighfully acquiesced, and for a while we discussed the depravity + of human nature. + </p> + <p> + “I have been thinking,” she said at last, “that if you brought your ward + to see us, and she could accompany us on this cruise to Norway, the + scandal would be scotched outright.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at me very keenly, and beneath her indulgent smile I saw the + hardness of the old campaigner. It was a clever trap she had prepared for + me. + </p> + <p> + I took her hand and in my noblest manner, like the exiled vicomte in + costume drama, bent over it and kissed her finger-tips. + </p> + <p> + “I thank you, my dear aunt, for your generous faith in my integrity,” I + said, “and I assure you your confidence is well founded.” + </p> + <p> + A loud, gay laugh from the other room interrupted me. + </p> + <p> + “Are you two rehearsing private theatricals?” cried Dora. As I was attired + in a remarkably old college blazer and a pair of yellow Moorish slippers + bought a couple of years ago in Tangier, and as my hair was straight on + end, owing to a habit of passing my fingers through it while I work, my + attitude perhaps did not strike a spectator as being so noble as I had + imagined. I took advantage of the anti-climax, however, to bring my aunt + from the balcony to the centre of the room, where Dora joined us. + </p> + <p> + “Well, has mother prevailed?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Dora,” said I, politely, “how can you imagine it could possibly + be a question of persuasion?” + </p> + <p> + “That might be taken two ways,” said Dora. “Like Palmerston’s ‘Dear Sir, + I’ll lose no time in reading your book.’” Dora is a minx. + </p> + <p> + “I fear,” said I, “that my pedantic historical sense must venture to + correct you. It was Lord Beaconsfield.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he got it from Palmerston,” insisted Dora. + </p> + <p> + “You children must not quarrel,” interposed my aunt, in the fond, maternal + tone which I find peculiarly unpleasant. “Marcus will see how his + engagements stand, and let us know in a day or two.” + </p> + <p> + “When do you propose to start?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Quite soon. On the 20th. + </p> + <p> + “I will let you know finally in good time,” said I. + </p> + <p> + As I accompanied them downstairs, I heard a door at the end of the passage + open, and turning I saw Carlotta’s pretty head thrust past the jamb, and + her eyes fixed on the visitors. I motioned her back, sharply, and my aunt + and Dora made an unsuspecting exit. The noise of their departing chariot + wheels was music to my ears. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta came rushing out of her sitting-room followed by Miss Griggs, + protesting. + </p> + <p> + “Who those fine ladies?” she cried, with her hands on my sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “Who <i>are</i> those ladies?” I corrected. + </p> + <p> + “Who <i>are</i> those ladies?” Carlotta repeated, like a demure parrot. + </p> + <p> + “They are friends of mine.” + </p> + <p> + Then came the eternal question. + </p> + <p> + “Is she married, the young one?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Griggs,” said I, “kindly instil into Carlotta’s mind the fact that + no young English woman ever thinks about marriage until she is actually + engaged, and then her thoughts do not go beyond the wedding.” + </p> + <p> + “But is she?” persisted Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “I wish to heaven she was,” I laughed, imprudently, “for then she would + not come and spoil my morning’s work.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she wants to marry you,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Griggs,” said I, “Carlotta will resume her studies,” and I went + upstairs, sighing for the beautiful tower with a lift outside. + </p> + <p> + July 14th. + </p> + <p> + Pasquale came in about nine o’clock, and found us playing cards. + </p> + <p> + He is a bird of passage with no fixed abode. Some weeks ago he gave up his + chambers in St. James’s, and went to live with an actor friend, a + grass-widower, who has a house in the St. John’s Wood Road close by. Why + Pasquale, who loves the palpitating centres of existence, should choose to + rusticate in this semi-arcadian district, I cannot imagine. He says he can + think better in St. John’s Wood. + </p> + <p> + Pasquale think! As well might a salmon declare it could sing better in a + pond! The consequence of his propinquity, however, has been that he has + dropped in several times lately on his way home, but generally at a later + hour. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, please don’t move and spoil the picture,” he cried. “Oh, you idyllic + pair! And what are you playing? Cribbage! If I had been challenged to + guess the game you would have selected for your after-dinner + entertainment, I should have sworn to cribbage!” + </p> + <p> + “An excellent game,” said I. Indeed, it is the only game that I remember. + I dislike cards. They bore me to death. So dus chess. People love to call + them intellectual pastimes; but, surely, if a man wants exercise for his + intellect, there are enough problems in this complicated universe for him + to worry his brains over, with more profit to himself and the world. And + as for the pastime—I consider that when two or more intelligent + people sit down to play cards they are insulting one another’s powers of + conversation. These remarks do not apply to my game with Carlotta, who is + a child, and has to be amused. She has picked up cribbage with remarkable + quickness, and although this is only the third evening we have played, she + was getting the better of me when Pasquale appeared. + </p> + <p> + I repeated my statement. Cribbage certainly was an excellent game. + Pasquale laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is. A venerable pastime. Darby and Joan have played it of + evenings for the last thousand years. Please go on.” + </p> + <p> + But Carlotta threw her cards on the table and herself on the sofa and said + she would prefer to hear Pasquale talk. + </p> + <p> + “He says such funny things.” + </p> + <p> + Then she jumped from the sofa and handed him the box of chocolates that is + never far from her side. How lithe her movements are! + </p> + <p> + “Pasquale says you were his schoolmaster, and used to beat him with a big + stick,” she remarked, turning her head toward me, while Pasquale helped + himself to a sweet. + </p> + <p> + He was clumsy in his selection, and the box slipped from Carlotta’s hand + and the contents rolled upon the floor. They both went on hands and knees + to pick them up, and there was much laughing and whispering. + </p> + <p> + It is curious that I cannot recall Pasquale having alluded, in Carlotta’s + presence, to our early days. It was on my tongue to ask when he committed + the mendacity—for in that school not only did the assistant masters + not have the power of the cane, but Pasquale, being in the sixth form at + the time I joined, was exempt from corporal punishment—when they + both rose flushed from their grovelling beneath the table, and some merry + remark from Pasquale put the question out of my head. + </p> + <p> + All this is unimportant. The main result of Pasquale’s visit this evening + is a discovery. + </p> + <p> + Now, is it, after all, a discovery, or only the non-moral intellect’s + sinister attribution of motives? + </p> + <p> + “A baby in long clothes would have seen through it,” said Pasquale. “Lord + bless you, if I were in your position I would go on board that yacht, I’d + make violent love to every female there, like the gentleman in Mr. + Wycherley’s comedy, I’d fill a salmon fly-book with samples of their hair, + I’d make them hate one another like poison, and at the end of the voyage + I’d announce my engagement to Carlotta, and when they all came to the + wedding I’d make the fly-book the most conspicuous of wedding presents on + the table, from the bridegroom to the bride. By George! I’d cure them of + the taste for man-hunting!” + </p> + <p> + I wonder what impelled me to tell Pasquale of the proposed yachting + cruise? We sat smoking by the open window, long after Carlotta had been + sent to bed, and looking at a full moon sailing over the tops of the trees + in the park; enveloped in that sensuous atmosphere of a warm summer night + which induces a languor in the body and in the will. On such a night as + this young Lorenzo, if he happens to have Jessica by his side, makes a + confounded idiot of himself, to his life’s undoing; and on such a night as + this a reserved philosopher commits the folly of discussing his private + affairs with a Sebastian Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + But if he is correct in his surmise, I am much beholden to the relaxing + influences of the night. I have been warned of perils that encompass me: + perils that would infest the base and insidiously scale the sides of the + most inaccessible tower that man could build on the edge of the Regent’s + Park. A woman with a Matrimonial Purpose would be quite capable of gaining + access by balloon to my turret window. Is it not my Aunt Jessica’s design + melodramatically to abduct me in a yacht? + </p> + <p> + “Once aboard the pirate lugger, and the man is ours!” she cries. + </p> + <p> + But the man is not coming aboard the pirate lugger. He is going to keep as + far as he possibly can from the shore. Neither is he to be lured into + bringing his lovely Mohammedan ward with him, as an evidence of good faith + and unimpeachable morals. They can regard her as a Mohammedan ward or a + houri or a Princess of Babylon, just as they choose. + </p> + <p> + Pasquale must be right. A hundred remembered incidents go to prove it. I + recollect now that Judith has rallied me on my obtuseness. + </p> + <p> + The sole end of all my Aunt Jessica’s manoeuvring is to marry me to Dora, + and Dora, like Barkis, is willing. Marry Dora! The thought is a febrifuge, + a sudorific! She would be thumping discords on my wornout strings all day + long. In a month I should be a writhing madman. I would sooner, infinitely + sooner, marry Carlotta. Carlotta is nature; Dora isn’t even art. Why, in + the name of men and angels, should I marry Dora? And why (save to call + herself Lady Ordeyne) should she want to marry me? I have not trifled with + her virgin affections; and that she is nourishing a romantic passion for + me of spontaneous growth I decline to believe. For aught I care she can be + as inconsolable as Calypso. It will do her good. She can write a little + story about it in <i>The Sirens’ Magazine</i>. + </p> + <p> + I am shocked. For all her bouncing ways and animal health and incorrect + information, I thought Dora was a nice-minded girl. + </p> + <p> + Do nice-minded girls hunt husbands? + </p> + <p> + Good heavens! This looks like the subject of a silly-season correspondence + in <i>The Daily Telegraph</i>. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + July 19th. + </p> + <p> + <i>Campsie, N.B.</i> Hither have I fled from my buccaneering relations. I + am seeking shelter in a manse in the midst of a Scotch moor, and the + village, half a mile away, is itself five miles from a railway station. + Here I can defy Aunt Jessica. + </p> + <p> + After my conversation with Pasquale, I passed a restless night. My + slumbers were haunted by dreams of pirate yachts flying the jolly Roger, + on which the skull and crossbones melted grotesquely into a wedding-ring + and a true lovers’ knot. I awoke to the conviction that so long as the + vessel remained on English waters I could find no security in London. I + resolved on flight. But whither? + </p> + <p> + Verily the high gods must hold me in peculiar favour. The first letter I + opened was from old Simon McQuhatty, my present host, a godfather of my + mother, who alone of mortals befriended us in the dark days of long ago. + He was old and infirm, he wrote, and Gossip Death was waiting for him on + the moor; but before he went to join him he would like to see Susan’s boy + again. I could come whenever I liked. A telegram from Euston before I + started would be sufficient notice. I sent Stenson out with a telegram to + say I was starting that very day by the two o’clock train, and I wrote a + polite letter to my Aunt Jessica informing her of my regret at not being + able to accept her kind invitation as I was summoned to Scotland for an + indefinite period. + </p> + <p> + My old friend’s ministry in the Free Kirk of Scotland is drawing to a + close; he has lived in this manse, a stone’s throw from his grave, for + fifty years, and the approaching change of habitat will cost him nothing. + He will still lie at the foot of his beloved hills, and the purple + moorland will spread around him for all eternity, and the smell of the + gorse and heather will fill his nostrils as he sleeps. He is a bit of a + pagan, old McQuhatty, in spite of Calvin and the Shorter Catechism. I + should not wonder if he were the original of the story of the minister who + prayed for the “puir Deil.” He planted a rowan tree by his porch when he + was first inducted into the manse, and it has grown up with him and he + loves it as if it were a human being. He has had many bonny arguments with + it, he says, on points of doctrine, and it has brought comfort to him in + times of doubt by shivering its delicate leaves and whispering, “Dinna + fash yoursel, McQuhatty. The Lord God is a sensible body.” He declares + that the words are articulate, and I suspect that in the depths of his + heart he believes that there are tongues in trees and books in the running + brooks, just as he is convinced that there is good in everything. + </p> + <p> + He is a ripe and whimsical scholar, and his talk, even in infirm old age, + is marked by a Doric virility which has rendered his companionship for + these five days as stimulating as the moorland air. How few men have this + gift of discharging intellectual invigoration. Indeed, I only know old + McQuhatty who has it, and a sportive Providence has carefully excluded + mankind from its benefits for half a century. Stay: it once fostered a + genius who arose in Campsie, and sent him strung with tonic to Edinburgh + to become a poet. But the poor lad drank whisky for two years without + cessation, so that he died, and McQuhatty’s inspiration was wasted. What + intellectual stimulus can he afford, for instance, to Sandy McGrath, an + elder of the kirk whom I saw coming up the brae on Sunday? An old ram + stood in the path and, as obstinate as he, refused to budge. And as they + looked dourly at each other, I wondered if the ram were dressed in black + broadcloth and McGrath in wool, whether either of their mothers would + notice the metamorphosis. Yet my host declares that I see with the eyes of + a Southron; that the Scotch peasant when he is not drunk is intellectual, + and that there is no occasion on which he is not ready for theological + disputation. + </p> + <p> + “But I dinna mind telling you,” he added, “that I’d as lief talk with my + rowan tree. It does nae blaze into a conflagration at a comfortable wee + bit of false doctrine.” + </p> + <p> + I should love to stay all the summer with my old friend, It seems that + only from such a remote solitude can one view things mundane in the right + perspective, and in their true proportion. One would see how important or + unimportant portent in the cosmos was the agricultural ant’s dream of + three millimetres and an aphis compared with the aspirations of the + English labourer. One would justly focus the South African millionaire, + Sandy McGrath and the ram, and bring them to their real lowest common + denominator. One would even be able to gauge the value of a History of + Renaissance Morals. The benefits I should derive from a long sojourn are + incalculable, but my new responsibilities call me back to London and its + refracting and distorting atmosphere. If I had dwelt here for fifty years + I should have perceived that Carlotta was but a speck in the whirlwind of + human dust whose ultimate destiny was immaterial. As my five days’ visit, + however, has not advanced me to that pitch of wisdom, I am foolishly + concerned in my mind as to her welfare, and anxious to dissolve the + triumvirate, Miss Griggs, Stenson, and Antoinette, whom I have entrusted + with the reins of government. + </p> + <p> + A month ago, in similar circumstances, I should have railed at Fate and + anathematised Carlotta from the tip of her pink toes to the gold and + bronze glory of her hair. But I am growing more kindly disposed towards + Carlotta, and taking a keen interest in her spiritual development. + </p> + <p> + An inner voice, an ironical, sardonic inner voice with which there is no + arguing, tells me that I am a hypocrite; that an interest in Carlotta’s + spiritual development is a nice, comforting, high-sounding phrase which + has deluded philosophic guardians of female youth for many generations. + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter to you whether she has a soul or not,” says the + voice, “provided she can babble pleasantly at dinner and play cribbage + with you afterwards?” + </p> + <p> + Well, what on earth does it matter? + </p> + <p> + July 21st. + </p> + <p> + She was at Euston to meet me. As soon as she saw my face at the carriage + window she left Stenson and flew up the platform like a pretty tame + animal, and when I alighted hung on my arms and frisked and gamboled + around me in excess of joy. + </p> + <p> + “So you are glad to have me back, Carlotta?” I asked, as we were driving + home. + </p> + <p> + She sidled up against me in her terrier fashion. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ye-es,” she cooed. “The day was night without you.” + </p> + <p> + “That is the oriental language of exaggeration,” I said. But all the same + it was pleasant to hear, and the soft notes of her voice coiled + themselves, as music sometimes dus, around my heart. + </p> + <p> + “I love dear Seer Marcous,” she said. + </p> + <p> + I put my arm round her waist for a moment, as one would do to a child. + </p> + <p> + “You are a good little girl, Carlotta. That is to say,” I added, + remembering my responsibilities, “if you <i>have</i> been good. Have you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, so good. Antoinette has been teaching me how to cook, and I can make + a rice pudding. It is so nice to cook things. I like the smell. But I + burned myself. See.” + </p> + <p> + She pulled off her glove and showed me a red mark on her hand. I kissed it + to make it well, and she laughed and was very happy. And I, too, was + happy. Something new and fresh and bright has come into my life. Stenson + is an admirable servant; but his impassive face and correct salute which + have hitherto greeted me at London railway termini, although suggestive of + material comfort, cannot be said to invest my arrival with a special + atmosphere of charm. Carlotta’s welcome has been a new sensation. I look + upon the house with different eyes. It was a pleasure, as I dressed for + dinner, to reflect that I should not go down to a solemn, solitary meal, + but would have my beautiful little witch to keep me company. + </p> + <p> + July 22d. + </p> + <p> + It appears that her conduct has not been by any means irreproachable. Miss + Griggs reported that she took advantage of my absence to saturate herself + with scent, one of the most heinous crimes in our domestic calendar. <i>Mulier + bene olet dum nihil olet</i> is the maxim written above this article of + our code. Once when she disobeyed my orders and came into the drawing-room + reeking of ylang-ylang, I sent her upstairs to change all her things and + have a bath, and not come near me till Antoinette vouched for her + scentlessness. And “Ah, monsieur,” I remember Antoinette replied, “that + would be impossible, for the sweet lamb smells of spring flowers, <i>de + son naturel</i>.” Which is true. Her use of violent perfumes is thus a + double offence. “There is something more serious,” said Miss Griggs. + </p> + <p> + “I can hardly believe there can be anything more serious than making one’s + self detestable to one’s fellow-creatures,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Unless it is making one’s self too agreeable,” said Miss Griggs, + pointedly. + </p> + <p> + I asked her what she meant. + </p> + <p> + “I have discovered,” she replied, “that Carlotta has been carrying on a + clandestine flirtation with the young man who calls for orders from the + grocer’s.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad it wasn’t the butcher’s boy,” I murmured. + </p> + <p> + Miss Griggs giggled in a silly way, as if I were jesting. At my stern + request she recovered and unfolded the horrible tale. She had caught + Carlotta kissing her hand to him. She had also seen him smuggle a + three-cornered note between Carlotta’s fingers, and Carlotta had + definitely refused to surrender the billet-dour. + </p> + <p> + “What is the modern course of treatment,” I asked, “prescribed for young + ladies who flirt with grocers’ assistants? In Renaissance times she could + be whipped. The wise Margaret of Navarre used to beat her daughter, Jeanne + d’Albrecht, soundly for far less culpable lapses from duty. Or she could + be sent to a convent and put into a cell with rats, or she could be bidden + to attend at a merry-making where the chief attraction was roast grocer’s + assistant. But nowadays—what do you suggest?” + </p> + <p> + The unimaginative creature could suggest nothing. She thought that I would + know how to deal with the offence. Perhaps preventive measures would be + more efficacious than punishment. But what do I know of the repressory + methods employed in seminaries for young ladies? Burton in his “Anatomy” + speaks cheerfully of blood-letting behind the ears. He also quotes, I + remember, Hippocrates or somebody, who narrates that a noble maiden was + cured of a flirtatious temperament by wearing down her back for three + weeks a leaden plate pierced with holes. This I told Miss Griggs, who + spoke contemptuously of the Father of Medicine. + </p> + <p> + “He also recommends—whether for this complaint, or for something + similar I forget for the moment—” said I, “anointing the soles of + the feet with the fat of a dormouse, the teeth with the ear-wax of a dog; + and speaks highly of a ram’s lungs applied hot to the fore part of the + head. I am sorry these admirable remedies are out of date. There is a rich + Rabelaisianism about them. Instead of the satisfying jorums of our + forefathers we take tasteless pellets, which procure us no sensation at + the time, and even the good old hot mustard poultice is a thing of the + past.” + </p> + <p> + “But what about Carlotta?” inquired Miss Griggs, anxiously. + </p> + <p> + That is just like a woman, to interrupt a man when he is beginning to talk + comfortably on a subject that interests him. I sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Send Carlotta up to me,” I said, resignedly. + </p> + <p> + Another morning’s work spoiled. I turned to my writing-table. I had just + transcribed on my MS. the anecdote told with such glee by Machiavelli + about Zanobi del Pino, a sort of Admiral Byng of the early fifteenth + century, who was locked up and given nothing to eat but paper painted with + snakes, so that he died, fasting, in a few days. I had an apt epigram on + the subject of Renaissance humour trembling on my pen-point, when Miss + Griggs came in with her foolish gossip. I am sure the platitude I wrote + afterwards is not that original flash of wit. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta entered and crossed the room to the side of my writing-chair, her + great dark eyes fixed on me, and her hands dutifully behind her back. She + looked a Greuze picture of innocence. I believed less than ever in the + enormity of the offence. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what you’re here for?” I asked, magisterially. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Then you <i>have</i> been making love to the young man from the + grocer’s?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded again. I began to conceive a violent dislike to the grocer’s + young man. It was one of the most humiliating sensations I have + experienced. I think I have seen the individual—a thick-set, + red-headed, freckled nondescript. + </p> + <p> + “What did you do it for?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “He wanted to make love to me,” replied Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “He is a young scamp,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “What is a scamp?” she asked sweetly. + </p> + <p> + “I am not giving you a lesson in philology,” I remarked. “Do you know that + you have been behaving in a shocking manner?” + </p> + <p> + “Now you are cross with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I said, “infernally angry.” + </p> + <p> + And I was. I expected to see her burst into tears. She did nothing of the + kind; only looked at me with irritating demureness. She wore a red blouse + and a grey skirt, and the audacious high-heeled red slippers. I began to + feel the return of my early prejudice against her. Nobody so alluring + could possess a spark of virtue. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said I. “I make many allowances for + your lack of knowledge of our Western customs, but for a young lady to + flirt with an ugly red-headed varlet of the lower orders is reprehensible + all the world over.” + </p> + <p> + “He gave me dates and dried fruits with sugar all over them,” said + Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Stolen from his employer,” I said. “I will have that young man locked up + in prison, and if you go on receiving his feloniously obtained presents + they will put you in prison too, and I shall be delighted.” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta maintained her demure expression and extracted from her skirt + pocket a very dirty piece of paper. + </p> + <p> + “He writes poetry—about me,” she remarked, handing me what I + recognised as the three-cornered note. + </p> + <p> + I took the thing between finger and thumb, and glanced over the poem. I + have read much indifferent modern verse in my time—I sometimes take + a slush-bath after tea at the club—but I could not have imagined the + English language capable of such emulsion. It was execrable. The first + couplet alone contained an idea. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thou art a lovely girl and so very nice + I dream till death upon your face.” + </pre> + <p> + To the wretch’s ear it was a rhyme! I destroyed the noisome thing and cast + it into the waste-paper basket. + </p> + <p> + “Prison,” said I, “would be a luxurious reward for him. In a properly + civilised country he would be bastinadoed and hanged.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he is dam bad,” said Carlotta, serenely. + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens!” I cried, “the ruffian has even taught you to swear. If you + dare to say that wicked word again, I’ll punish you severely. What is his + horrid name?” + </p> + <p> + “Pasquale,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Pasquale?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he likes to hear me say ‘dam.’ Oh, the other? Oh, no, he is too + stupid. He does not say anything. His name is Timkins. I only play with + him. He is so funny. He can go and kill himself; I won’t care.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind about Timkins,” said I, “I want to hear about Pasquale. When + did he teach you that wicked, wicked word?” + </p> + <p> + I think Carlotta flushed as she regarded the point of her red slipper. + </p> + <p> + “I went for a walk and he met me at the corner and walked here by my side. + Was that wicked?” + </p> + <p> + “What would the excellent Hamdi Effendi have said to it?” + </p> + <p> + Woman-like she evaded my question. + </p> + <p> + “I hope Hamdi is dead. Do you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not. For if you behave in this naughty manner, I shall have to + send you back to him.” + </p> + <p> + She had imperceptibly moved nearer my chair until she stood quite close to + my side, so that as I spoke the last words I looked up into her face. She + put her arm about my shoulders. It is one of her pretty, caressing ways. + </p> + <p> + “I will be good—very good,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You will have to,” said I, leaning back my head. + </p> + <p> + She must have caught a relenting note in my voice; for what happened I + feel even now a curious shame in noting down. Her other arm flew under my + chin to join its fellow, and holding me a prisoner in my chair, she bent + down and kissed me. She also laid her cheek against mine. + </p> + <p> + I am still aware of the indescribable, soft, warm pressure, although she + has gone to bed hours ago. + </p> + <p> + I vow that a man must be less a man than a petrified egg to have repulsed + her. The touch of her lips was like the falling of dewy rose-petals. Her + breath was as fragrant as new-mown hay. Her hair brushing my forehead had + the odour of violets. + </p> + <p> + I sent her back to Miss Griggs. She ran out of the room laughing merrily. + She has received plenary absolution for her shameless coquetry and her + profane language. Worse than that she has discovered how to obtain it in + future. The witch has found her witchcraft, and having once triumphantly + exerted her powers, will take the earliest opportunity of doing so again. + I am fallen, both in my own eyes and hers, from my high estate. + Henceforward she will regard me only with good-humoured tolerance; I shall + be to her but a non-felonious Timkins. + </p> + <p> + I was an idiot to have kissed her in return. + </p> + <p> + I have not seen her since. I lunched at the club, and paid a formal call + on Mrs. Ralph Ordeyne and my cousin Rosalie, in their sunless house in + Kensington. + </p> + <p> + I met a singular lack of welcome. Rosalie gave me a limper hand than + usual, and took an early opportunity of leaving me tete-a-tete with her + mother, who conversed frigidly about the warm weather. The very tea, if + possible, was colder. + </p> + <p> + I met Judith by appointment in Kensington Gardens, and walked with her + homewards. I mentioned my chilly reception. + </p> + <p> + “My dear man,” she observed—I dislike this apostrophe, which Judith + always uses by way of introduction to an unpleasant remark—“My dear + man, I have no doubt that you have as unsavoury a reputation as any one in + London. You are credited with an establishment like Solomon’s—minus + the respectable counter-balance of the wives, and your devout relatives + are very properly shocked.” + </p> + <p> + I said that it was monstrous. Judith retorted that I had brought the + calumny upon myself. + </p> + <p> + “But what can I do?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Board her out with a suburban family, as you should have done from the + first. Even I, who am not strait-laced, consider it highly improper for + you to have her alone with you in the house.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said I, “there is Antoinette.” + </p> + <p> + “Tush”—or something like it—said Judith. + </p> + <p> + “And Stenson. No one seeing Stenson could doubt the irreproachable + propriety of his master.” + </p> + <p> + “I really have no patience with you,” said Judith. + </p> + <p> + It is hopeless to discuss Carlotta with her. I shall do it no more. + </p> + <p> + We sat for a while under the trees, and conversed on rational topics. She + likes her employment with Willoughby. The morning she spends among blue + books and other waste matter at the British Museum, and she devotes the + evening to sorting her information. Willoughby commends her highly. + </p> + <p> + “And there is something I know you’ll be very pleased to hear,” she + continued. “Who do you think called on me yesterday? Mrs. Willoughby. Her + husband wants me to spend August and September at a place they have taken + in North Wales, and help him with his new book—as a private + secretary, you know. I said that I never went into society. I must tell + you this was the first time I had seen her. She put her hand on my arm in + the sweetest way in the world and said: ‘I know all about it, my dear, and + that is why I thought I’d come myself as Harold’s ambassador.’ Wasn’t it + beautiful of her?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at me and her eyes were filled with tears. + </p> + <p> + “Marcus dear, I am not a bad woman, am I?” + </p> + <p> + “My dearest,” I answered, very deeply touched, “you are the best woman in + the world. So far from conferring a favour on you, Mrs. Willoughby has + gained for herself the inestimable privilege of your friendship.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Judith, “a man cannot tell what it means.” + </p> + <p> + Really men are not such dullard dunderheads as women are pleased to + imagine. I have the most crystalline perception of what Mrs. Willoughby’s + invitation means to Judith. Women appear to find a morbid satisfaction in + the fiction that their sex is actuated by a mysterious nexus of emotions + and motives which the grosser sense of man is powerless to appreciate. In + her heart of hearts it is a prodigious comfort to a woman to feel herself + misunderstood. Even she who is most perfectly mated, and is intellectually + convinced that the difference of sex is no barrier to his complete + knowledge of her, loves to cherish some little secret bit of her nature, + to which <i>he</i>, on account of his masculinity, will be eternally + blind. Of course there are dull men who could not understand a tabbycat or + a professional cricketer, let alone an expert autothaumaturgist—a + self-mystery-maker—like a woman. But an intelligent and painstaking + man should find no difficulty in appreciating what, after all, is merely a + point of view; for what women see from that point of view they are as + indiscreet in revealing as a two-year-old babe. I have confessed before + that I do not understand Judith—that is to say the whole welter of + contradictions in which her ego consists—but that is solely because + I have not taken the trouble to subject her to special microscopic study. + Such a scientific analysis would, I think, be an immodest discourtesy + towards any lady of my acquaintance, especially towards one for whom I + bear considerable affection. It would be as unwarrantable for a + decent-minded man to speculate upon her exact spiritual dimensions as upon + those portions of her physical frame that are hidden beneath her attire. + The charm of human intercourse rests, to a great extent, on the vague, the + deliberately unperceived, the stimulating sense that an individual + possesses more attributes than flash upon the bodily or mental eye. But + this, I say, is deliberate. One knows perfectly well that beneath her + skirts any young woman you please does not melt away into the scaly tail + of a mermaid, but has a pair of ordinary commonplace legs. One knows that + when she has passed through certain well defined experiences in life, a + certain definite range of sentiments must exist behind whatever mask of + facial expression she may choose to adopt. It is sheer nonsense, + therefore, for Judith to say that I cannot enter into her feelings with + regard to Mrs. Willoughby’s invitation. + </p> + <p> + I developed this theme very fully to Judith as we sat in Kensington + Gardens and during our subsequent, stroll diagonally through Hyde Park to + the Marble Arch. She listened with great attention, and when I had + finished regarded me in a pitying manner, a smile flickering over her + lips. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Marcus,” she said, “there is no man, however humble-minded, who + has not one colossal vanity, his knowledge of women. He, at any rate, has + established the veritable Theory of Women. And we laugh at you, my good + friend, for the more you expound, the more do you reveal your beautiful + and artistic ignorance. Oh, Marcus, the idea of you setting up as a + feminine psychologist.” + </p> + <p> + “And pray, why not?” I asked, somewhat nettled. + </p> + <p> + “Because you are that dear, impossible, lovable thing known as Marcus + Ordeyne.” + </p> + <p> + This was exceedingly pretty of Judith. But really woman is the Eternal + Philistine, as Matthew Arnold has defined the term. Her supreme + characteristic is inconvincibility. I had simply wasted my breath. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + August 3d. + </p> + <p> + <i>Etretat, Seine-Injerieure</i>:—A young fellow on the Casino + terrace this evening caught my eye, looked at me queerly, and passed on. + His face, though unfamiliar, stirred some dormant association. What was + it? The profitless question pestered me for hours. At last, during the + performance at the theatre, I slapped my knee and said aloud, + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got it!” + </p> + <p> + “What?” asked Carlotta in alarm. + </p> + <p> + “A fly,” I answered. Whereat Carlotta laughed, and bent forward to get a + view of the victim. I austerely directed her attention to the stage. It + was a metaphorical fly whose buzzing I had stopped. + </p> + <p> + The young fellow was he who had pointed me out in Hyde Park to his + companion, and lightly assured her that I was as mad as a dingo dog. From + the moment after the phrase’s utterance to that of the slapping of my + knee, it had been altogether absent from my mind. Now it haunts me. It + reiterates itself after the manner of a glib phrase. I am glad I am not in + a railway carriage; the cranks would amuse the wheels with it all night + long. As it is, the surf tries to thunder it out on the shingle just a few + yards away from my window. I keep asking myself: why a dingo dog? If I am + mad it is in a gentle, Jaquesian, melancholy manner. I do not dash at + life, rabid and foaming at the mouth. + </p> + <p> + I think the idiot simile must have been merely the misuse of language so + common among the half-educated youth of Great Britain. + </p> + <p> + Yet when I come to consider my present condition, I have doubts as to my + complete sanity. Here am I, in a little, semi-fashionable French seaside + place, away from my books and my comforts and my habits, as much + interested in its vapid distractions as if the universe held no other + pursuits worth the attention of a rational man. And I have been here a + calendar month. + </p> + <p> + To please Carlotta I wear white duck trousers, a pink shirt, and a + yachting-cap. I wired for them to my London tailor and they arrived within + a week. The first time I appeared in the maniacal costume I slunk from the + stony stare of a gendarme, as I was about to ascend the Casino steps, and + hid myself among the fishing-boats lower down on the beach. Carlotta, + however, was delighted and said that I looked pretty. Now I have grown + callous, seeing other fools similarly apparelled. But a year ago, should I + have dreamed it possible for me to strut about a fashionable <i>plage</i> + in white ducks, a pink shirt, and a yachting-cap? I trow not. They are + signs of some sort of madness—whether that of a Jaques or a dingo + dog matters very little. + </p> + <p> + Pasquale was the main cause of my taking Carlotta away from London. He + came far too frequently to the house, established far too great a + familiarity with my little girl. She quoted him far too readily. She is at + the impressionable age when young women fall easy victims to the + allurements of a fascinating creature like Pasquale. If he showed himself + in the light of a possible husband for Carlotta, I should have nothing to + say. I should give the pair my paternal benediction. But I know my + Renaissance and I know my Pasquale. Carlotta is merely a new sensation—that’s + all he seems to live for, the delectable scoundrel. But I am not going to + have her heart broken by any cinquecento wolf in Poole’s clothing. I + assume that Carlotta has a heart, even if she is not possessed of a soul. + As to the latter I am still in doubt. At all events I resolved to withdraw + Carlotta from his influence, put her in fresh surroundings, and allow her + to mix more freely among men and women, so as to divert and possibly + improve her mind. + </p> + <p> + I perceive that Carlotta is becoming an occupation. Well, she is quite as + profitable as collecting postage-stamps, or golf, or amateur photography. + </p> + <p> + I have spent a pleasant month in this little place. It is the mouth of a + gorge in the midst of a cliff-bound coast. The bay, but a quarter of a + mile in sweep, is shut in at each end by a projecting wall of cliff cut by + a natural arch. Half the shingle beach is given up to fisherfolk and their + boats and tarred Noah’s arks where they keep their nets. The other half + suddenly rises into a digue or terrace on which is built a primitive + casino, and below the terrace are the bathing-cabins. We are staying at + the most spotlessly clean of all clean French hotels. There are no carpets + on the stairs; but if one mounts them in muddy boots, an untiring + chambermaid emerges from a lair below, with hot water and scrubbing-brush + and smilingly removes the traces of one’s passage. Carlotta and Antoinette + have adjoining rooms in the main building. I inhabit the annexe, sleeping + in a quaint, clean, bare little chamber with a balconied window that looks + over the Noah’s Arks and the fishing-smacks and fisherfolk, away out to + sea. This morning as I lay in bed I saw our Channel fleet lie along the + arc of the horizon. + </p> + <p> + Antoinette dwells in continuous rapture at being in France again. Carlotta + assures me that the smile does not leave her great red face even as she + sleeps of nights. It is a little jest between us. She peeped in once to + see. The good soul has filled herself up with French conversation as a + starving hen gorges herself with corn. She has scraped acquaintance with + every washerwoman, fish-wife, <i>marchande</i>, bathing woman and domestic + servant on the beach. She is on intimate terms with the whole male native + population. When the three of us happen to walk together it is a triumphal + progress of bows and grins and nods. At first I thought it was I for whom + this homage was intended. I was soon undeceived. It was Antoinette. She + loves to parade Carlotta before her friends. I came upon her once + entertaining an admiring audience in Carlotta’s presence with a detailed + description of that young woman’s physical perfections—a description + which was marked by a singular lack of reticence. The time of her glory is + the bathing hour, when she accompanies Carlotta from her cabin to the + water’s edge, divests her of <i>peignoir</i> and <i>espadrilles</i>, but + before revealing her to fashionable Etretat, casts a preliminary glance + around, as who should say: “Prepare all men and women for the dazzling + goddess I am about to unveil.” Carlotta is undoubtedly bewitching in her + bathing costume, and enjoys a little triumph of beauty. People fall into a + natural group in order to look at her, while I, sitting on a camp-stool in + my white ducks and pink shirt and smoking a cigarette, cannot repress a + complacent pride of ownership. I do not object to her flicking her wet + fingers at me when she comes dripping out of the sea; and I do not even + reproach her when she puts her foot upon my sartorially immaculate knee, + to show me a pebble-cut on her glistening pink sole. + </p> + <p> + Her conduct has been exemplary. I have allowed her to make the + acquaintance of two or three young fellows, her partners at the Casino + dances, and she walks up and down the terrace with them before meals. I + have forbidden her, under penalty of immediate return to London and of my + eternal displeasure, to mention the harem at Alexandretta. Young fellows + are gifted with a genius for misapprehension. She is an ordinary young + English lady, an orphan (which is true), and I am her guardian. Of course + she looks at them with imploring eyes, and pulls them by the sleeve, and + handles the lappels of their coats, and admits them to terms of the + frankest intimacy; but I can no more change these characteristics than I + can alter the shape of her body. She is the born coquette. Her delighted + conception of herself is that she is the object of every man’s admiration. + I noticed her this morning playing a tune with her fingers on the old + bathing-man’s arm, as he was preparing to take her into the water, and I + saw his mahogany face soften. In her indescribable childish way she would + coquet with a tax-collector or a rag-and-bone man or the Archbishop of + Canterbury. But she has committed no grave indiscretion, and I am + sufficiently her lord and master to exact obedience. + </p> + <p> + I pretend, however, to be at her beck and call, and it is a delight to + minister to her radiant happiness—to feel her lean on my arm and + hear her cooing voice say: + </p> + <p> + “You are so good. I should like to kiss you.” + </p> + <p> + But I do not allow her to kiss me. Never again. + </p> + <p> + “Seer Marcous, let us go to the little horses.” + </p> + <p> + She has a consuming passion for <i>petits chevaux</i>. I speak sagely of + the evils of gambling. She laughs. I weakly take lower ground. + </p> + <p> + “What is the good? You have no money.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h! But only two francs,” she says, holding out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Not one. Yesterday you lost.” + </p> + <p> + “But to-day I shall win. I want to give you something I saw in a shop. Oh, + a beautiful thing.” Then I feel a hand steal into the pocket of my dinner + jacket where I carry loose silver for this very purpose, just as a lover + of horses carries lumps of sugar for the nose of a favourite pony, and + immediately it is withdrawn with a cry of joy and triumph, and she skips + back out of my reach. Then she takes my arm and leads me from the sweet + night-air into the hot little room with its crowd around the nine gyrating + animals. + </p> + <p> + “I shall put it on 5. I always put on 5. He is a nice, clean, white, + pretty horse.” + </p> + <p> + She stakes two francs, watches the turn in a tense agony of excitement; + she wins, comes running to me with sixteen francs clutched tight in her + hand. + </p> + <p> + “See. I said I should win.” + </p> + <p> + “Come away then and be happy.” + </p> + <p> + But she makes a protesting grimace, and before I can stop her, runs back + to stake again on 5. In twenty minutes she is ruined and returns to me + wearing an expression of abject misery. She is too desolate even to try + the fortune of the dinner-jacket pocket. I take her outside and restore + her to beatitude with grenadine syrup and soda-water. She rejects the + straws. With her elbows on the marble table, the glass held in both hands, + she drinks sensuously, in little sips. + </p> + <p> + And I, Marcus Ordeyne, sit by watching her, a most contented philosopher + of forty. A dingo dog could not be so contented. That young fellow, I + unhesitatingly assert, must be the most brainless of his type. I suffer + fools gladly, as a general rule, but if I see much of this one I shall do + him some injury. + </p> + <p> + After dejeuner we strolled to the top of the west cliff and lay on the + thick dry grass. The earth has never known a more perfect afternoon. A day + of turquoise and diamond. + </p> + <p> + The air itself was diaphanous blue. Below us the tiny place slumbered in + the sunshine; scarcely a sign of life save specks of washer-women on the + beach bending over white patches which we knew were linen spread out to + dry. The ebb-tide lapped lazily on the shingle, where the sea changed + suddenly from ultramarine to a fringe of feathery white. A white sail or + two flecked the blue of the bay. A few white wisps of cirrus gleamed above + our heads. Around us, on the cliff-tops, the green pastures and meadows + and, farther inland, the cornfields stacked in harvest, and great masses + of trees. Lying on our backs, between sea and sky, we seemed utterly + alone. Carlotta and I were the sole inhabitants of the earth. I dreamily + disintegrated caramels from their sticky tissue-paper wrappings for + Carlotta’s consumption. + </p> + <p> + After a while unconquerable drowsiness crept over me; and a little later I + had an odd sense of perfect quietude. I was lying amid moss and violets. + In a languorous way I wondered how my surroundings had changed, and at + last I awoke to find my head propped on Carlotta’s lap and shaded by her + red parasol, while she sat happy in full sunshine. I was springing from + this posture of impropriety when she laughed and laid restraining hands on + my shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “No. You must not move. You look so pretty. And it is so nice. I put your + head there so that it should be soft. You have been sound asleep.” + </p> + <p> + “I have also been abominably impolite,” said I. “I humbly beg your pardon, + Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am not cross,” she laughed. Then still keeping her hands on me, she + settled her limbs into a more comfortable position. + </p> + <p> + “There! Now I can play at being a good little Turkish wife.” She fashioned + into a fan the <i>Matin</i> newspaper, which I had bought for the + luxurious purpose of not reading, and fanned me. “That is what Ayesha used + to do to Hamdi. And Ayesha used to tell him stories. But my lord does not + like his slave’s stories.” + </p> + <p> + “Decidedly not,” said I. + </p> + <p> + I have heard much of Ayesha, a pretty animal organism who appears to have + turned her elderly husband into a doting fool. I am beginning to have a + contempt for Hamdi Effendi. + </p> + <p> + “They are what you call improper, eh?” she laughed, referring to the + tales. “I will sing you a Turkish song which you will not understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a suitable song?” + </p> + <p> + “Kim bilir—who knows?” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + She began a melancholy, crooning, guttural ditty; but broke off suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! but it is stupid. Like the Turkish dancing. Oh, everything in + Alexandretta was stupid! Sometimes I think I have never seen Alexandretta—or + Ayesha—or Hamdi. I think I always am with you.” + </p> + <p> + This must be so, as of late she has spoken little of her harem life; she + talks chiefly of the small daily happenings, and already we have a store + of common interests. The present is her whole existence; the past but a + confused dream. The odd part of the matter is that she regards her + position with me as a perfectly natural one. No stray kitten adopted by a + kind family could have less sense of obligation, or a greater faith in the + serene ordering of the cosmos for its own private and peculiar comfort. + When I asked her a while ago what she would have done had I left her on + the bench in the Embankment Gardens, she shrugged her shoulders and + answered, as she had done before, that either she would have died or some + other nice gentleman would have taken care of her. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think nice gentlemen go about London looking for homeless little + girls?” I asked on that occasion. + </p> + <p> + “All gentlemen like beautiful girls,” she replied, which brought us to an + old argument. + </p> + <p> + This afternoon, however, we did not argue. The day forbade it. I lay with + my head on Carlotta’s lap, looking up into the deep blue, and feeling a + most curious sensation of positive happiness. My attitude towards life has + hitherto been negative. I have avoided more than I have sought. I have not + drunk deep of life because I have been unathirst. To me— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “To stand aloof and view the fight + Is all the pleasure of the game.” + </pre> + <p> + My interest even in Judith has been of a detached nature. I have been like + Faust. I might have said: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>“Werd’ ich zum Augenblicke sagen + Werweile doch! Du bist so schon!</i> +</pre> + <p> + Then may the devil take me and do what he likes with me!” + </p> + <p> + I have never had the least inclination to apostrophise the moment in this + fashion and request it to tarry on account of its exceeding charm. Never + until this afternoon, when the deep summer enchantment of the turquoise + day was itself ensorcelised by the witchery of a girl’s springtide. + </p> + <p> + “You have three, four, five—oh, such a lot of grey hairs,” said + Carlotta, looking down on my reclining head. + </p> + <p> + “Many people have grey hair at twenty,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “But I have none.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not yet twenty, Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I will have them then? Oh, it would be dreadful. No one + would care to have me.” + </p> + <p> + “And I? Am I thus the object of every one’s disregard?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you—you are a man. It is right for a man. It makes him look + wise. His wife says, ‘Behold, my husband has grey hair. He has wisdom. If + I am not good he will beat me. So I must obey him.”’ + </p> + <p> + “She wouldn’t run off with a good-for-nothing scamp of two-and-twenty?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no-o,” said Carlotta. “She would not be so wicked.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad,” said I, “that you think a sense of conjugal duty is an + ineradicable element of female nature. But suppose she fell in love with + the young scamp?” + </p> + <p> + “Men fall in love,” she replied sagely. “Women only fall in love in + stories—Turkish stories. They love their husbands.” + </p> + <p> + “You amaze me,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “But in England, a man wants a woman to love him before he marries her.” + </p> + <p> + “How can she?” asked Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + This was a staggering question. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said I, “but she dus.” + </p> + <p> + “Then before I marry a man in England I must love him? But I shall die + without a husband!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think so,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “I must begin soon,” said Carlotta, with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + A sinuous motion of her serpentine young body enabled her to bend her face + down to mine. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I love Seer Marcous? But how shall I know when I am in love?” + </p> + <p> + “When you appreciate the exceeding impropriety of discussing the matter + with your humble servant,” I replied. + </p> + <p> + “When a girl is in love she does not speak about it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear. She lets concealment like a worm i’ the bud feed on her + damask cheek.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she gets ugly?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it,” I answered. “You keep on looking in the glass, and when you + perceive you are hideous then you’ll know you are in love.” + </p> + <p> + “But when I am so ugly you will not want me,” she objected. “So it is no + use falling in love with you.” + </p> + <p> + “You have a more logical mind than I imagined,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “What is a logical mind?” asked Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “It is the antiseptic which destroys the bacilli of unreason whereby true + happiness is vivified.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I should be vastly surprised if you did,” I laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Would you like me to marry and go away and leave you?” asked Carlotta, + after a long pause. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” I said with a sigh, “that some tin-pot knight will drive up + one of these days to the castle in a hansom-cab and carry off my + princess.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’ll be sorry?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” I answered, “do not let us discuss such gruesome things on an + afternoon like this.” + </p> + <p> + “You would like better for me to go on playing at being your Turkish + wife?” + </p> + <p> + “Infinitely,” said I. + </p> + <p> + Alas! The day is sped. I have asked the fleeting moment to tarry, and it + laughed, and shook its gossamer wings at me, and flew by on its mad race + into eternity. + </p> + <p> + As we lay, a cicada set up its shrilling quite close to us. I slipped my + head from Carlotta’s lap and idly parted the rank grass in search of the + noisy intruder, and by good luck I found him. I beckoned Carlotta, who + glided down, and there, with our heads together and holding our breath, we + watched the queerest little love drama imaginable. Our cicada stood alert + and spruce, waving his antenna with a sort of cavalier swagger, and every + now and then making his corslet vibrate passionately. On the top of a + blade of grass sat a brown little Juliet—a most reserved, discreet + little Juliet, but evidently much interested in Romeo’s serenade. When he + sang she put her head to one side and moved as if uncertain whether to + descend from her balcony. When he stopped, which he did at frequent + intervals, being as it were timorous and tongue-tied, she took her foot + from the ladder and waited, at first patiently and then with an obvious + air of boredom. Messer Romeo made a hop forward and vibrated; Juliet grew + tremulous. Alarmed at his boldness he halted and made a hop back; Juliet + looked disappointed. At last another cicada set up a louder note some + yards away and, without a nod or a sign, Juliet skipped off into space, + leaving the most disconsolate little Romeo of a grasshopper you ever + beheld. He gave vent to a dismal failure of a vibration and hopped to the + foot of the faithless lady’s bower. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta broke into a merry laugh and clapped her hands. + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad.” + </p> + <p> + “She is the most graceless hussy imaginable,” I cried. “There was he + grinding his heart out for her, and just because a more brazen-throated + scoundrel came upon the scene she must needs leave our poor friend in the + lurch. She has no more heart than my boot, and she will come to a bad + end.” + </p> + <p> + “But he was such a fool,” retorted my sage damsel, with a flash of + laughter in her dark eyes. “If he wanted her, why didn’t he go up and take + her?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he is a gentleman, a cicada of fine and delicate feeling.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Hou!</i>” laughed Carlotta. “He was a fool. It served him right. She + grew tired of waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “You believe, then,” said I, “in marriage by capture?” + </p> + <p> + I explained and discoursed to her of the matrimonial habits of the Tartar + tribes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Carlotta. “That is sense. And it must be such fun for the + girl. All that, what you call it?—wooing?—is waste of time. I + like things to happen, quick, quick, one after the other—or else—” + </p> + <p> + “Or else what?” + </p> + <p> + “To do nothing, nothing but lie in the sun, like this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I dreamily, after I had again thrown myself by her side. “Like + this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + I sit at my window and look out upon the strip of beach, the hauled-up + fishing boats and the nets hung out to dry looming vague in the starlight, + and I hear the surf’s rhythmical moan a few yards beyond; and it beats + into my ears the idiot phrase that has recurred all the evening. + </p> + <p> + But why should I be mad? For filling my soul with God’s utmost glory of + earth and sea and sky? For filling my heart with purest pleasure in the + intimate companionship of fresh and fragrant maidenhood? For giving myself + up for once to a dream of sense clouded by never a thought that was not + serenely fair? + </p> + <p> + For feeling young again? + </p> + <p> + I shall read myself to sleep with <i>La Dame de Monsoreau</i>, which I + have procured from the circulating library in the Rue Alphonse Karr—(the + literary horticulturist is the genius loci and the godfather of my + landlady)—and I will empty flagons with Pere Gorenflot and ride on + errands of life and death with Chicot, prince of jesters, and walk + lovingly between the valiant Bussy and Henri Quatre. By this, if by + nothing else, I recognise the beneficence of the high gods—they have + given us tired men Dumas. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + September 30th. + </p> + <p> + Something is wrong with Antoinette. The dinner she served up this evening + was all but uneatable. Something is wrong with Stenson, who has taken to + playing his lugubrious hymn-tunes on the concertina while I am in the + house; I won’t have it. Something is wrong with the cat. He wanders round + the house like a lost soul, sniffing at everything. This evening he + actually jumped onto the dinner-table, looked at me out of his one eye, in + which all the desolation of two was concentrated, and miaowed + heart-rendingly in my face. Something is wrong with the house, with my + pens which will not write, with my books which have the air of dry bones + in a charnel-house, with the MS. of my History of Renaissance Morals, + which stands on the writing-table like a dusty monument to the futility of + human endeavour. Something is wrong with me. + </p> + <p> + Something, too, is wrong with Judith, who has just returned from her stay + with the Willoughbys. I have been to see her this evening and found her of + uncertain temper, and inclined to be contradictious. She accused me of + being dull. I answered that the autumn world outside was drenched with + miserable rain. How could man be sprightly under such conditions? + </p> + <p> + “In this room,” said Judith, “with its bright fire and drawn curtains + there is no miserable rain, and no autumn save in our hearts.” + </p> + <p> + “Why in our hearts?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “How you peg one down to precision,” said Judith, testily. “I wish I were + a Roman Catholic.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I could go into a convent.” + </p> + <p> + “You had much better go to Delphine Carrere,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “I have only been back a day, and you want to get rid of me already?” she + cried, using her woman’s swift logic of unreason. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to be happy and contented, my dear Judith.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Her slipper dangling as usual from the tip of her foot fell to the ground. + I declare I was only half conscious of the accident as my mind was deep in + other things. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t even pick up my slipper,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Ten thousand pardons,” I exclaimed, springing forward. But she had + anticipated my intention. We remained staring into the fire and saying + nothing. As she professed to be tired I went away early. + </p> + <p> + At the front door of the mansions, finding I had left my umbrella behind, + I remounted the stairs, and rang Judith’s bell. After a while I saw her + figure through the ground-glass panel approach the door, but before she + opened it, she turned out the light in the passage. + </p> + <p> + “Marcus!” she cried, rather excitedly; and in the dimness of the threshold + her eyes looked strangely accusative of tears. “You have come back!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I, “for my umbrella.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at me for a moment, laughed, clapped her hands to her throat, + turned away sharply, caught up my umbrella, and putting it into my hands + and thrusting me back shut the door in my face. In great astonishment I + went downstairs again. What is wrong with Judith? She said this evening + that all men are cruel. Now, I am a man. Therefore I am cruel. A perfect + syllogism. But how have I been cruel? + </p> + <p> + I walked home. There is nothing so consoling to the depressed man as the + unmitigated misery of a walk through the London rain. One is not mocked by + any factitious gaiety. The mind is in harmony with the sodden universe. It + is well to have everything in the world wrong at one and the same time. + </p> + <p> + I have changed my drenched garments for dressing-gown and slippers. I find + on my writing-table a letter addressed in a round childish hand. It is + from Carlotta, who for the last fortnight has been staying in Cornwall + with the McMurrays. I have known few fortnights so long. In a ridiculous + schoolboy way I have been counting the days to her return—the day + after to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + The letter begins: “Seer Marcous dear.” The spelling is a little jest + between us. The inversion is a quaint invention of her own. “Mrs. McMurray + says, can you spare me for one more week? She wants to teach me manners. + She says I have shocked the top priest here—oh, you call him a + vikker—now I do remember—because I went out for a walk with a + little young pretty priest without a hat, and because it rained I put on + his hat and the vikker met us. But I did not flirt with the little priest. + Oh, no! I told him he must not make love to me like the young man from the + grocer’s. And I told him that if he wrote poetry you would beat him. So I + have been very good. And darling Seer Marcous, I want to come back very + much, but Mrs. McMurray says I must stay, and she is going to have a baby + and I am very happy and good, and Mr. McMurray says funny things and makes + me laugh. But I love my darling Seer Marcous best. Give Antoinette and + Polifemus (the one-eyed cat) two very nice kisses for me. And here is one + for Seer Marcous from his + </p> + <p> + “CARLOTTA.” + </p> + <p> + How can I refuse? But I wish she were here. + </p> + <p> + 31st October. + </p> + <p> + I did not sleep last night. I have done no work to-day. The Renaissance + has receded into a Glacial Epoch wherein, as far as its humanity is + concerned, I have not a tittle of interest. I sought refuge in the club. + Why should an old sober University club be such a haven of unrest? + Ponting, an opinionated don of Corpus, seated himself at my luncheon + table, and discoursed on political economy and golf. I manifested a polite + ignorance of these high matters. He assured me that if I studied the one + and played at the other, I should be physically and mentally more robust; + whereupon he thumped his narrow chest, and put on a scowl of + intellectuality. I fear that Ponting, like most of the men here, studies + golf and plays at political economy. In serener moments I suffer Ponting + gladly. But to-day his boast that he had done the course at Westward Ho! + in seven, or seventeen, or seventy—how on earth should I remember?—left + me cold, and his crude economics interfered with my digestion. + </p> + <p> + Strolling forlornly down Piccadilly I, came face to face with my + sad-coloured Cousin Rosalie in a sad-coloured gown. She gave me a hasty + nod and would have passed on, but I arrested her. Her white face was + turned piteously upward and from her expressionless eyes flashed a glance + of fear. I felt myself in a brutal mood. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” I asked, “are you avoiding me as if I were a pestilence?” + </p> + <p> + She murmured that she was not avoiding me, but was in a hurry. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it,” said I. “People have been telling you that I am a + vile, wicked man who does unspeakable things, and like a good little girl + you are afraid to talk to me. Tell people, the next time you see them, + with my compliments, that they are malevolent geese.” + </p> + <p> + I lifted my hat and relieving Rosalie of my terrifying presence, walked + away in dudgeon. I felt abominably and unreasonably angry. I bethought me + of my Aunt Jessica, whom I held responsible for her niece’s behaviour. A + militant mood prompted a call. After twenty minutes in a hansom I found + myself in her drawing-room. She was alone, the girls being away on + country-house visits. Her reception was glacial. I expressed the hope that + the yachting cruise had been a pleasant one. + </p> + <p> + “Exceedingly pleasant,” snapped my aunt. + </p> + <p> + “I trust Dora is well,” said I, keeping from my lips a smile that might + have hinted at the broken heart. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + As I do not enjoy a staccato conversation, I remained politely silent, + inviting her by my attitude to speak. + </p> + <p> + “I rather wonder, Marcus,” she said at last, “at your referring to Dora.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? May I ask why?” + </p> + <p> + “May I speak plainly?” + </p> + <p> + “I beseech you.” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard of you at Etretat with your ward.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Verbum sap</i>,” said my aunt. + </p> + <p> + “And you have let Mrs. Ralph and Rosalie know of my summer holiday and + given them to understand that I am a monster of depravity. I am + exceedingly obliged to you. I have just met Rosalie in the street, and she + shrank from me as if I were the reincarnation of original sin.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no doubt that in her innocent mind you are,” replied my Aunt + Jessica. + </p> + <p> + The indulgent smile wherewith she used to humour my eccentricities had + gone, and her face was hard and unpitying. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad I have such charitable-minded relations,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “I am a woman of the world,” my aunt retorted, “but I think that when such + things are flaunted in the face of society they become immoral.” + </p> + <p> + I rose. “Do evil by stealth—as much as you like,” said I, “but blush + to find it fame.” + </p> + <p> + With a gesture my aunt assented to the proposition. + </p> + <p> + “On the other hand,” said I, heatedly, “I have been doing a certain amount + of good both by stealth and openly, and I naturally blush with indignation + to find it accounted infamous.” + </p> + <p> + I looked narrowly into my aunt’s eyes and I read in them entire disbelief + in my protest. I swear, if I had proved my innocence beyond the shadow of + doubt, that woman would have been grievously disappointed. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” said I. + </p> + <p> + She shook hands frigidly and turned to ring the bell. A moment later—I + really believe she was moved by a kindly impulse—she intercepted me + at the door. + </p> + <p> + “I know you are odd and quixotic, Marcus,” she said in a softer tone. “I + hope you will do nothing rash.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” I asked in a white heat of unreasonable rage. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you won’t try to repair things by marrying this—young + person.” + </p> + <p> + “To make an honest woman of her, do you mean?” I asked grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said my aunt. + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly the Devil leaped into me and stirred all the elements of + unrest, anger, and longing together in a cauldron which I suppose was my + heart. The result was explosion. I made a step forward with raised hands + and my aunt recoiled in alarm. + </p> + <p> + “By heaven!” I cried, “I would give the soul out of my body to marry her!” + </p> + <p> + And I stumbled out of the house like a blind man. + </p> + <p> + From that moment of dazzling revelation till now I have nursed this + infinite desire. To say that I love Carlotta is to express Niagara in + terms of a fountain. I crave her with everything vital in heart and brain. + She is an obsession. The scent of her hair is in my nostrils, the cooing + dove-notes of her voice murmur in my ears, I shut my eyes and feel the + rose-petals of her lips on my cheek, the witchery of her movements dances + before my eyes. + </p> + <p> + I cannot live without her. Until to-day the house was desolate enough—a + ghostly shell of a habitation. Henceforward, without her my very life will + be void. My heart has been crying for her these two weeks and I knew it + not. Now I know. I could stand on my balcony and lift up my hands toward + the south where she abides, and lift up my voice, and cry for her + passionately aloud. There is no infernal foolishness in the world that I + could not commit tonight. The maddest dingo dog, if he could appreciate my + state of being, would learn points in insanity. + </p> + <p> + It is two o’clock. I must go to sleep. I take from my shelves Epictetus, + who might be expected to throw cold water on the most burning fever of the + mind. I have not read far before I come across this consolatory + apophthegm: “The contest is unequal between a charming girl and a beginner + in philosophy.” He is mocking me, the cold-blooded pedagogue! I throw his + book across the room. But he is right. I am but a beginner in philosophy. + No armour wherein my reason can invest me is of avail against Carlotta. I + have no strength to smite. I am helpless. + </p> + <p> + But by heaven! Am I mad? Is not this on the contrary the sanest hour of my + existence? I have lived like an automaton for forty years, and I suddenly + awake to find myself a man. I don’t care whether I sleep or not. I feel + gloriously, exultingly young. I am but twenty. As I have never lived, I + have never grown old. Life translates itself into music—a wild + “Invitation to the Waltz” by some Archangel Weber. I laugh out loud. + Polyphemus, who has been regarding me with his one bantering eye from + Carlotta’s corner on the sofa, leaps to the ground and grotesquely curvets + round the room in a series of impish hops. Heigh, old boy? Do the + pulsations of the music throb in your veins, too? Come along and let us + make a night of it. To the Devil with sleep. We’ll go together down to the + cellar and find a bottle of Pommery, and we will drink to Life and Youth + and Love and the Splendour and the Joy thereof. + </p> + <p> + He utters a little cry of delight and frisks around me. In the blackness + of the cellar his one eye gleams like a star and he purrs unutterable + rapture. My hand passed over his back produces a shower of sparks. We + return up the silent stairs, I carry a bottle of Pommery and a milkjug—for + you shall revel, too, Polyphemus; and as I have forgotten to bring a + saucer, you shall drink, as no cat has drunk before, from an old precious + platter bearing the arms of the Estes of Ferrara—over which Lucrezia + Borgia laughed when the world was young. It is a pity cats don’t drink + champagne. I would have made you to-night as drunk as Bacchus. We drink, + and in the stillness the glouglou of his tongue forms a bass to the elfin + notes of the Pommery in the soda-water tumbler. + </p> + <p> + Ha! Twin purveyors of the milk of paradise, I wonder like Omar what you + buy one-half so precious as the stuff you sell. Motor-cars for Mrs. + Pommery and cakes for the little Grenos? I do not like to regard you as + common humans addicted to silk hats and umbrellas and the other vices of + respectability. Ye are rather beneficent demigods, Castor and Pollux of + the vine, dream entities who pour from the sunset lands of Nowhere the + liquid gold of life’s joyousness. + </p> + <p> + A few words scribbled on this telegraph form would bring her here tomorrow + night. But no. What is a week? Leaden-footed, it is an eternity; but + winged with the dove’s iris it is a mere moment. Besides, I must accustom + myself to my youth. I must investigate its follies, I must learn the + grammar of its wisdom. We’ll take counsel together, Polyphemus, how to + turn these chambers, fusty with decayed thought, into a bridal bower + radiant and fragrant with innumerable loves. Let us drink again to her + witchery. It is her breath itself distilled by the Heavenly Twins that + foams against my lips. I would give the soul out of my body to marry her, + did I say? It were like buying her for a farthing. I would pledge the soul + of the universe for a kiss. + </p> + <p> + I catch up Polyphemus under the arm-pits, and his hind legs dangle. He + continues to lick his chops and looks at me sardonically. He is stolid + over his cups—which is somewhat disappointing. No matter; he can be + shaken into enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + “I care not,” I cry, “for man or devil, Polyphemus. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>‘Que je suis grand ici! mon amour de feu + Va de pair cette nuit avec celui de Dieu!’’</i> +</pre> + <p> + You may say that it’s wrong, that the first line is a syllable short, and + that Triboulet said <i>‘colere’’</i> instead of <i>amour</i>. You always + were a dry-as-dust, pedantic prig. But I say <i>amour</i>-love, do you + hear? I’ll translate, if you like: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Now am I mighty, and my love of fire + To-night goes even with a god’s desire.’ +</pre> + <p> + Yes; I’ll be a poet even though you do scratch my wrist with your hind + claws, Polyphemus.” + </p> + <p> + There! Empty your milk-jug and I will empty my bottle. The wine smells of + hyacinth. It is a revelation. Her hair smells of violets, but it is the + delicate odour of hyacinth that came from her bare young arms when she + clasped them round my neck; <i>et sa peau, on dirait du satin</i>. + Carlotta is in the wine, Carlotta with her sorcery and her laughter and + her youth, and I drink Carlotta. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>“Quo me rapis Bacche pienum tui?”</i> +</pre> + <p> + To such a land of dreams, my one-eyed friend, as never before have I + visited. You yawn? You are bored? I shoot the dregs of my glass into his + distended jaws. He springs away spitting and coughing, and I lie back in + my chair convulsed with inextinguishable laughter. + </p> + <p> + October 2d. + </p> + <p> + I have suffered all day from a racking headache, having awakened at six + o’clock and crept shivering to bed. I realise that Pommery and Greno are + not demi-gods at all, but mere commercial purveyors of a form of alcohol, + a quart of which it is injudicious to imbibe, with a one-eyed tom-cat as + boon companion, at two o’clock in the morning: + </p> + <p> + But I am unrepentant. If I committed follies last night, so much the + better. I struggle no longer against the inevitable, when the inevitable + is the crown and joy of earthly things. For in sober truth I love her + infinitely. + </p> + <p> + October 6th. + </p> + <p> + She comes back to-morrow. Antoinette and I have been devising a welcome. + The good soul has filled the house with flowers, and, usurping Stenson’s + functions, has polished furniture and book backs and silver and has hung + fresh blinds and scrubbed and scoured until I am afraid to walk about or + sit down lest I should tarnish the spotless brightness of my surroundings. + </p> + <p> + “You have forgotten one thing, Antoinette,” I remarked, satirically. “You + have omitted to strew the front steps with rose-leaves.” + </p> + <p> + “I would cover them with my body for the dear angel to walk upon as she + entered,” said Antoinette. + </p> + <p> + “That would scarcely be rose-leaves,” I murmured. + </p> + <p> + Antoinette laughed. “And Monsieur then! He is just as bad. Has he not put + new curtains in the room of Mademoiselle, and a new toilette table, and a + set of silver brushes and combs and I know not what, as for the toilette + of a princess? And the eiderdown in pink satin? <i>Regardez-moi ca!</i> + Monsieur can no longer say that it is I alone who spoil the dear angel.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said I, at a loss for a better retort, “will say whatever + Monsieur pleases.” + </p> + <p> + “It is indeed the right of Monsieur,” said Antoinette, respectfully, but + with a twinkle in her eye not devoid of significance. + </p> + <p> + Does the crafty old woman suspect? Perhaps my preparations for Carlotta’s + return have been inordinate, for they have extended to the transformation + of the sitting-room downstairs into a lady’s boudoir. I have been busy + this happy week. But what care I? It will not be long before I have to say + to her, “Antoinette, there is going to be a wedding.” + </p> + <p> + I must be on my guard lest, in the transports of her joy, she clasp me to + her capacious bosom! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + October 7th. + </p> + <p> + At Paddington I came upon Sebastian Pasquale lounging about the arrival + platform. As I had not seen or heard of him since the end of July I had + concluded that he was wandering as usual over the globe. He greeted me + effusively, holding out both hands in his foreign fashion. + </p> + <p> + “My dear old Ordeyne! who would have thought of meeting you here? What + wind blows you to Paddington?” + </p> + <p> + “I expect Carlotta by the Plymouth Express.” + </p> + <p> + “The fair Carlotta? And how is she? And what is she doing at Plymouth?” + </p> + <p> + In the middle of my explanation he pulled out his watch. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! I must get to the next platform and catch my train to Ealing. I + was just killing time about the station. I like seeing a train come in—the + gleam and smoke and rush and whirr of the evil-looking thing—and the + sudden metamorphosis of its sleek sides into mouths belching forth + humanity. I think of Hades. This, by the way, isn’t a bad representation + of it—the up-to-date Hades. They’ve got a railway bridge now across + the Styx, and Charon has a gold band around his cap, and this might be the + arrival platform of the damned souls.” + </p> + <p> + “You forget,” said I, “that it is the arrival platform of Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + He threw back his head and laughed boyishly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, consider it the Golden Gate terminus of the ‘Earth, Hades and + Olympus Railway’ if you like. I’m off on a branch line to meet a beauteous + duchessa at Ealing—oh, an authentic one, I assure you.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I doubt it?” said I. + </p> + <p> + Stenson, whom I had brought to look after Carlotta’s luggage, came up and + touched his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Train just signalled, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Pasquale put out his hand after another glance at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry I cannot wait to greet the fair one. I’ll drop in soon and pay + my respects. I am only just back in London, you know. <i>A rivederci.</i>” + </p> + <p> + He waved me farewell and hurried off. The arrival of the train, the + exuberance of Carlotta, the joy of having her sidle up against me once + more in the cab while she poured out her story, and the subsequent gaiety + of the evening banished Pasquale from my mind. But it is odd that I should + have met him at Paddington. + </p> + <p> + We parted on the landing to dress for dinner. A moment afterwards there + was a beating at my door. I opened it to behold Carlotta, in a glow of + wondering delight, brandishing a silver-backed brush in one hand and the + hand-mirror in the other. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my darling Seer Marcous! For me? All that for me?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It is for Antoinette,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h!” + </p> + <p> + She laughed and pulled me by the arm into her room and shut the door. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, everything is beautiful, beautiful, and I shall die if I do not kiss + you.” + </p> + <p> + “You must be kept alive at all hazards,” I laughed; and this time I did + not reject her. But it was a child around whom my arms closed. An inner + flash, accompanied by a spasm of pain, revealed it, and changed a + passionate desire to gentleness. + </p> + <p> + “There,” said I, after she had released herself and flown to open the + drawers of the new toilette table, where lay some odds and ends of jewelry + I had purchased for her. “You have been saved from extinction. The next + deadly peril is hunger. I give you a quarter of an hour.” + </p> + <p> + She came down to dinner in a low-necked frock, wearing the necklace and + bangle; and, child that she is, in her hand she carried the silver-backed + mirror. I believe she has taken it to bed with her, as a seven-year-old + does its toy. She certainly kept it by her all the evening and admired + herself therein unashamedly like the traditional Lady from the Sea. Once, + desiring to show me the ravishing beauty of a turquoise pendant, she bent + her neck forward, as I sat, so as to come within reach of my nearsighted + eyes (it is a superstition of hers that I am nearly blind without my + glasses), and quite naturally slid onto my knee. She has the warm russet + complexion that suits her heavy bronze hair, and there is a glow beneath + the satin of her neck and arms. And she is fragrant—I recognise it + now—of hyacinths. The world can hold nothing more alluring to the + senses of man. My fingers that held the turquoise trembled as they chanced + to touch her—but she was all unconcerned. Nay, further—she + gazed into the mirror— + </p> + <p> + “It makes me look so white—oh, there was a girl at Bude who had a + gold locket—and it lay upon her bones—you could count them. I + am glad I have no bones. I am quite soft—feel.” + </p> + <p> + She clasped my fingers and pressed their tips into the firm young flesh + below her throat. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I, with some huskiness in my voice, “your turquoise can sleep + there very pleasantly. See, I will kiss it to bring you good luck.” + </p> + <p> + She cooed with pleasure. “I don’t think any one kissed the locket of the + girl at Bude. She was too thin. And too old; she must have been thirty! + Now,” she added, lifting up the locket, “you will kiss the place, too, + where it is to lie.” + </p> + <p> + I looked for a moment into her eyes. Seeing me hesitate, they grew + pathetic. + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h,” she said, reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + I know I am a fool. I know that Pasquale would have hurled his sarcasms at + me. I know that the whole of her deliciousness was mine for the taking—mine + for ever and ever. If I had loved her less passionately I would have + kissed her young throat lightly with a jest. But to have kissed her thus + with such longing as mine behind my lips would have been an outrage. + </p> + <p> + I lifted her to her feet, and rose and turned away, laughing unsteadily. + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear,” said I, “that would be—unsuitable.” + </p> + <p> + The bathos of the word made me laugh louder. Carlotta, aware that a joke + was in the air, joined in my mirth, and her laughter rang fresh. + </p> + <p> + “What is the suitable way of kissing?” + </p> + <p> + I took her hand and saluted it in an eighteenth century manner. + </p> + <p> + “This,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h,” said Carlotta. “That is so dull.” She caught up Polyphemus and + buried her face in his fur. “That’s the way I should like to be kissed.” + </p> + <p> + “The man you love, my dear,” said I, “will doubtless do it.” + </p> + <p> + She made a little grimace. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, then, I shall have to wait such a long time.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t,” said I, taking her hands again and speaking very seriously. + “Can’t you learn to love a man, give him your whole heart and all your + best and sweetest thoughts?” + </p> + <p> + “I would marry any nice man if you gave me to him,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “It would not matter who he was? Anyone would do?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “And any one wanting to marry you could kiss you as you kissed + Polyphemus.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h, he would have to be nice—not like Mustapha.” + </p> + <p> + I turned away with a sigh and lit a cigarette, while Carlotta curled + herself up on the sofa and inspected her face and necklace in the silver + mirror. In a moment she was talking to the cat, who had jumped on her lap + and with arched back was rubbing himself against her. + </p> + <p> + Soon the touch of sadness was lost in the happy sight of her and the happy + thought that my house was no longer left to me desolate. We laughed away + the evening. + </p> + <p> + But now, sitting alone, I feel empty of soul; like a man stricken with + fierce hunger who, expecting food in a certain place, finds nothing but a + few delicate cakes that mock his craving. + </p> + <p> + October 14th. + </p> + <p> + A week has passed. I have spent it chiefly in trying to win her love. + </p> + <p> + Is she, after all, only a child, and is this love of mine but a monstrous + passion? + </p> + <p> + What is to be done? Life is beginning to be a torture. If I send her away, + I shall eat my heart out. If she stays, fuel is but added to the fire. Her + caressing ways will drive me mad. To repulse her were brutal—she + loves to be fondled; she can scarcely speak to me without touching me, + leaning over me, thus filling me with the sense of her. She treats me with + an affectionate child’s innocence, as if I were sexless. My happiest time + with her is spent in public places, restaurants, and theatres where her + unclouded pleasure is reflected in my heart. + </p> + <p> + I am letting her take music lessons with Herr Stuer, who lives close by in + the Avenue Road. Perhaps music may help in her development. + </p> + <p> + October 21st. + </p> + <p> + To please her I am accustoming myself to this out-of-door life, which once + I despised so cordially. Pasquale has joined us two or three times. Last + night he gave a dinner in Carlotta’s honour at the Continental. The ladies + of the party have asked her to go to see them. She must have some society, + I suppose, and I must go with her. They belong to the half smart set, + eager to conceal beneath a show of raffishness their plentiful lack of + intellect and their fundamental bourgeois respectability. In spite of + Pasquale’s brilliance and Carlotta’s rapturous enjoyment I sat mumchance + and depressed, out of my element. + </p> + <p> + My work is at a standstill, and Carlotta is my life. I fear I am + deteriorating. + </p> + <p> + On Judith, whom I have seen once or twice since Carlotta’s return, I + called this afternoon. She is unhappy. Although I have not confessed to my + thraldom, her woman’s wit, I feel sure, has penetrated to the heart of my + mystery. There has been no deep emotion in our intercourse. Its foundation + has been real friendship sweetened with pleasant sentimentality. And yet + jealousy of Carlotta consumes her. Her <i>amour propre</i> is deeply + wounded. She makes me feel as if I had played the part of a brute. But O + Judith, my dear, I have only been a man. “The same thing,” I fancy I hear + her answer. But no. I have never loved a woman, my dear, in all my life + before, and as I made no secret of it, I am guiltless of anything like + betrayal. In due season I will tell you frankly of the new love; but how + can I tell you now? How could I tell any human being? + </p> + <p> + I imagine myself as Panurge, taking counsel with a Pantagruelian friend. + “I am in love with Carlotta and desire to marry her.” “Then marry her,” + says Pantagruel. “But she does not love me.” “Then don’t marry,” says + Pantagruel. “But nay,” urges poor Panurge, “she would marry me according + to any rite, civil or ecclesiastical, to-morrow.” <i>“Mariez-vous doncques + de par dieu,”</i> replies Pantagruel. “But I should be a villain to take + advantage of her innocence and submission.” “Then don’t marry.” “But I + can’t live without her,” says Panurge, desperately. “I am as a man + bewitched. If I don’t marry her I shall waste away with longing.” “Then + marry her in God’s name!” says Pantagruel. And I am no wiser by his + counsel, and I have paraded the complication of my folly before mocking + eyes. + </p> + <p> + October 23d. + </p> + <p> + I perceive that the young man of the idiot metaphor was gifted with + piercing acumen. Beneath the Jaquesian melancholy of my temperament he + diagnosed the potentiality of canine rabidness. No rational being is + afflicted with this grotesque concentration of idea, this fierce hot fury + waxing in intensity day by day. + </p> + <p> + I must consult a brain specialist. + </p> + <p> + October 25th. + </p> + <p> + I went to Judith this afternoon, more to prove the loyalty of my + friendship than to seek comfort from her society. Over tea we discussed + the weather and books and her statistical work. It was dull, but + unembarrassing. The grey twilight crept into the room and there was a + pause in our talk. She broke it by asking, without looking at me: + </p> + <p> + “When are we to have an evening together again?” + </p> + <p> + “Whenever you like, my dear Judith.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid not to-morrow,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Are you doing anything so very particular?” + </p> + <p> + “I have arranged to take Carlotta to the Empire.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Judith shortly, and I was left uncomfortable for another spell + of silence. + </p> + <p> + “It would be very kind, Marcus, to ask me to accompany you,” she said at + last. + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta and myself?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “My question arose from the stupidity of surprise,” said I. “I thought you + disliked Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + “By no means. I should be glad to make her further acquaintance. Any one + that interests you must also be interesting to me.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case,” said I, “your coming will give us both the greatest + possible pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t had a merry evening for ever so long.” + </p> + <p> + “We will dine somewhere first and have supper afterwards. The whole gamut + of merriment. Toute la lyre. And you shall have,” I added, “some of your + favourite Veuve Cliquot.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be charming,” said Judith, politely. + </p> + <p> + In fact, politeness has been the dominant note of her attitude to-day, a + sober restraint of manner such as she would adopt when rather tired + towards an ordinary acquaintance. Has she reconciled herself to the + inevitable and taken this Empire frolic as a graceful method of showing + it? I should like to believe so, but the course is scarcely consistent + with that motor of illogic which she is pleased to call her temperament. I + am puzzled. + </p> + <p> + Her smile as we parted sent a chill through me, being the smile of a mask + instead of a woman’s face; and it was not the face of Judith. I don’t + anticipate much merriment tomorrow evening. + </p> + <p> + At Carlotta’s suggestion, I have sent a line to Pasquale to ask him to + join us. His gay wit will lend to the entertainment a specious air of + revelry which Carlotta will take as genuine. + </p> + <p> + I have often thought lately of the hopeless passion of Alfonso the + Magnanimous of Naples, as set forth by Pope Pius II in his Commentaries; + for I am beginning to take a morbid interest in the unhappy love affairs + of other men and to institute comparisons. If they have lived through the + torment, why should not I? But Alfonso sighed for Lucrezia d’Alagna, a + beautiful chaste statue of ice who loved him; whereas I crave the + warm-blooded thing that is mine for the taking, but no more loves me than + she loves the policeman who salutes her on his beat. I cannot take her. + Something stronger than my passion opposes an adamantine barrier. I love + her with my soul as well as with my body, and my soul cries out for the + soul that the Almighty forgot when endowing her with entity. + </p> + <p> + This evening a letter from the Editor of The Quarterly Review. It would + give him great pleasure if I would contribute a Renaissance article, + taking as my text a German, a Russian, and an English attempt to whitewash + the Borgia family. Six months ago the compliment would have filled me with + gratification. To-day what to me are the whitewashed Borgias or the solemn + denizens of the Athenaeum reading-room who will slumber over my account of + the blameless poisonings of this amiable family? They are vanity and + vexation of a spirit already sore at ease. + </p> + <p> + As I write the door creaks. I look up. Behold Carlotta in hastily slipped + on dressing-gown, open in front, her hair streaming loose to her waist, + her bare feet flashing pink beneath her night-dress. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Seer Marcous, darling, I am so frightened!” + </p> + <p> + She ran forward and caught the lappels of my coat as I rose from my chair. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “There is a mouse in my bed.” + </p> + <p> + Polyphemus saved the situation by jumping from the sofa and rubbing his + back against her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Take the cat and tell him to kill it,” said I, “and go back to bed at + once.” + </p> + <p> + I must have spoken roughly, for she regarded me with her great eyes full + of innocent reproach. + </p> + <p> + “There, take up the cat and go,” I repeated. “You mustn’t come down here + looking like that.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I looked very pretty,” said Carlotta, moving a step nearer. + </p> + <p> + I sat down at my writing-table and fixed my eyes on my paper. + </p> + <p> + “You are like a Houri that has been sent away from Paradise for + misbehaviour,” I said. + </p> + <p> + She laughed her curious cooing laugh. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Hou!</i> Seer Marcous is shocked!” And she ran, away, rubbing + Polyphemus’s nose against her face. + </p> + <p> + I wonder if the Devil, having grown infirm, is mixing up his centuries and + mistaking me for a mediaeval saint? Paphnutius for instance, who was + visited by such a seductress. What is the legend? To get rid of her he + burns off his hand, whereupon she falls dead. He prays and she returns to + life and becomes a nun. No, Messer Diavolo, I am not Paphnutius. I will + not maim myself, nor do I want Carlotta to fall dead; and I cannot pray + and effect a pietistic resurrection. I am simply a fool of a modern man + tempted out of his wits, who scarce knows what it is that he speaks or + writes. + </p> + <p> + I am not superstitious, but I feel myself to-night on the brink of some + disaster. I walk restlessly about the room. On the mantel-piece are three + photographs in silver frames: Judith, Carlotta, Pasquale. That which is of + mockery in the spirit of each seems to-night to be hovering round the + portraits and to be making sport of me. An autumn gale is howling among + the trees outside, like a legion of lost souls. Listen. Messer Diavolo + himself might be riding by with a whoop of derision. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <p> + October 26th. + </p> + <p> + I knew something would happen. Messer Diavolo does not ride whooping to no + purpose by the windows of people whom he desires to torment; nor does he + inspire photographs for nothing with an active spirit of mockery. + </p> + <p> + We dined at the Trocadero. Carlotta loves the band and the buzz of Babel + and the heavy scents and the clatter and the tumult and the glare of + light; otherwise I should have chosen a discreeter hostelry where the + footfalls of the waiting-men were noiseless and the walls in quiet shadow, + where there was nothing but the mellow talk of friends to distract the + mind from the consideration of exquisite flavours. But in these palaces of + clashing splendour, the stunned brain fails to receive impressions from + the glossopharyngeal nerve, and one eats unthinkingly like a dog. But this + matters little to Carlotta. Perhaps when I was nineteen it mattered little + to me. And to-night, also, it mattered little, for my mind was preoccupied + and a dinner with Lucullus would have been savourless. + </p> + <p> + If the Psalmist cried, “What is man that Thou art mindful of him?” what + cry had he at the back of his head to utter concerning woman? Did he leave + her to be implicitly dealt with by Charles Darwin in his “Theory of Sexual + Selection”? Or did he in the good old oriental way regard her as + unimportant in the eyes of the Deity? If the latter, he was a purblind + prophet and missed the very fount of human tears. + </p> + <p> + When I looked at Judith, I was smitten with a great pain. She had not + looked so young, so fresh, so fragilely fair for many months. She wore a + dress of corn-flower blue that deepened the violet of her eyes. In the + mass of flax hued thistle-down that is her hair a blue argus butterfly + completed the chord of colour. There was the faintest tinge of pink in her + cheek applied with delicate art. Her dress seemed made of unsubstantial + dream stuff—I believe they call it chiffon—and it covered her + bosom and arms like the spray of a fairy sea. She had the air of an + impalpable Undine, a creation of sea-foam and sea-flower; an exquisite + suggestion of the ethereal which floated beauty, as it were, into her + face. I know little of women, save what these past few grievous months + have taught me; but I know that hours of anxious thought and desperate + hope lay behind this effect of fragile loveliness. The wit of woman could + not have rendered a woman’s body a greater contrast to that of her rival; + and with infinite subtlety she had imbued the contrast with the deeper + significance of rare and spiritual things. I know this was so. I know it + was a challenge, a defiance, an ordeal by combat; and the knowledge hurt + me, so that I felt like a Dathan or Abiram who had laid hand on the Ark of + the Covenant (for the soul of a woman, by heaven! is a holy thing), and I + wished that the earth could open and swallow me up. + </p> + <p> + We sat down to table in the middle of the great room—a quiet corner + on the balcony away from the band is not to Carlotta’s taste—like + any conventional party of four, and at first talked of indifferent + matters. Conciergerie dinner-parties in the Terror always began with a + discussion of the latest cure for megrims, or the most fashionable cut of + a panier. Presently Pasquale who had been talking travel with Judith + appealed to me. + </p> + <p> + “What year was it, Ordeyne, that I came home from Abyssinia?” + </p> + <p> + “I forget,” said I. “I only remember you presenting me with that hideous + thing hanging in my passage, which you called a dulcimer.” + </p> + <p> + <i>“Gage d’amour?”</i> smiled Judith. + </p> + <p> + Pasquale laughed and twirled his swaggering moustache. + </p> + <p> + “I did get it from a damsel, and that is why I called it a dulcimer, but + she didn’t sing of Mount Abora. I wish I could remember the year.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it was in 1894,” said Judith quietly. + </p> + <p> + Pasquale, who had been completely unaware of Judith’s existence until half + an hour before, could not repress a stare of polite surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you are right. In fact, you are. But how can you tell?” + </p> + <p> + “Through the kindness of Sir Marcus,” replied Judith graciously, “you are + a very old acquaintance. I could write you off-hand a nice little obituary + notice with all the adventures—well, I will not say complete—but + with all the dates accurate, I assure you. I have a head for that sort of + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I cried, desiring to turn the conversation. “Don’t tell Mrs. + Mainwaring anything you wish forgotten. Facts are her passion. She writes + wonderful articles full of figures that make your head spin, and publishes + them in the popular magazines over the signature of Willoughby the + statistician. Allow me to present to you a statistical ghost.” + </p> + <p> + But Pasquale’s subtle Italian brain was paying but half attention to me. I + could read his inferences from Judith’s observations, and I could tell + what she wanted him to infer. I seem to have worn my sensory system + outside instead of inside my skin this evening. + </p> + <p> + “Ordeyne,” said he, “you are a pig, and the great-grandfather of pigs—” + </p> + <p> + “Foul” cried Carlotta, seizing on an intelligible point of the + conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you present me to Mrs. Mainwaring in 1894? I declare I have + thought myself allied to that man for twenty years in bonds of the most + intimate friendship, and he has never so much as mentioned you to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Seer Marcous says that Pasquale is a bad lot,” remarked Carlotta, with an + air of sapience, after a sip of orangeade, a revolting beverage which she + loves to drink at her meals. + </p> + <p> + Pasquale threw back his handsome head and laughed again like the chartered + libertine he is, and Judith smiled. + </p> + <p> + “‘Out of the mouths of babes, etc.,’” said I, apologetically. + </p> + <p> + “In all seriousness,” said Pasquale to Judith, “I had no idea that any one + was such a close friend of Ordeyne’s.” + </p> + <p> + Judith turned to me, with a graceful gesture of her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “I think we have been close friends, Marcus?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, ye-es,” broke in Carlotta. “Mrs. Mainwaring has the picture of Seer + Marcous in her bedroom, and there is the picture of Mrs. Mainwaring in our + drawing-room. You have not seen it? But yes. You have not recognised it, + Pasquale? Mrs. Mainwaring is so pretty tonight. Much prettier than the + photograph. Yes, you are so pretty. I would like to put you on the + mantel-piece as an ornament instead of the picture.” + </p> + <p> + “May I be allowed to endorse Carlotta’s sentiment of appreciation?” I + said, with a view to covering her indiscretion, for I saw a flash of + conjecture in Pasquale’s eyes and a sudden spot of real red in Judith’s + cheeks. She had evidently desired to suggest an old claim on my regard, + but to have it based on such intimate details as the enshrining of my + photograph was not to her fancy. + </p> + <p> + “I am vastly beholden to you both,” said Judith, who has a graceful way of + receiving compliments. “But,” turning to Pasquale, “we have travelled far + from Abyssinia.” + </p> + <p> + “To Sir Marcus’s mantel-piece. Suppose we stay there.” + </p> + <p> + “There is you and me and Mrs. Mainwaring,” said the literal Carlotta, “and + I am the big one in the middle. It was made big—big,” she added, + extending her arms in her exaggerating way. “I was wearing this dress.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Pasquale and I will have to enlarge our frames, Marcus,” said Judith, + “or we shall be jealous. We shall have to make common cause together.” + </p> + <p> + “We will declare an inoffensive alliance,” laughed Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + “Offensive if you like,” said Judith. + </p> + <p> + It may have been some effect of the glitter of lights, but I vow I saw a + swift interchange of glances. Pasquale immediately turned to Carlotta with + a jesting remark, and Judith engaged me in conversation on our old days in + Rome. Suddenly she swerved from the topic, and leaning forward, indicated + our companions with an imperceptible motion of her head. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think,” she said in a low voice, “they are a well-matched pair? + Both young and picturesque; it would solve many things.” + </p> + <p> + I glanced round. Carlotta, elbow on the table and chin in hand, was + looking deep into Pasquale’s eyes, just as she has looked into mine. Her + lips had the half-sensuous, half-childish pout provocative of kisses. + </p> + <p> + “Do, and I will love you,” I heard her say. + </p> + <p> + Oh, those dove-notes, those melting eyes, those lips! Oh, the horrible + fool passion that burns out my soul and brain and reduces me to rave like + a lovelorn early Victorian tailor! Which was worse I know not—the + spasm of jealousy or the spasm of self-contempt that followed it. At that + moment the music ceased suddenly on a loud crashing chord. + </p> + <p> + The moment seemed to be magnetic to all but Carlotta, who was enjoying + herself prodigiously. Our three personalities appeared to vibrate rudely + one against the other. I was conscious that Judith read me, that Pasquale + read Judith, that again something telegraphic passed between them. The + waiter offered me partridge. Pasquale quickly turned from Carlotta to his + left-hand neighbour. + </p> + <p> + “I think we ought to drink Faust’s health, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + I started. Had I not myself traced the analogy? + </p> + <p> + “Faust?” queried Judith at a loss. + </p> + <p> + “Our friend Faust opposite me,” said Pasquale, raising his champagne + glass. “Hasn’t he been transformed from the lean and elderly bookworm into + the gay, young gallant about the town? Once one could scarcely drag him + from his cell to the quietest of dinners, and now—has he told you of + his dissipations this past month, Mrs. Mainwaring?” + </p> + <p> + Judith smiled. “Have you been Mephistopheles?” + </p> + <p> + “What is Mephistopheles?” asked Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “The devil,” said Pasquale, “who made Sir Marcus young again.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s me,” cried Carlotta, clapping her hands. “He does not read in + big books any longer. Oh, I was so frightened when I first came.” (I must + say she hid her terrors pretty effectually.) “He was so wise, and always + reading and writing, and I thought he was fifty. And now he is not wise at + all, and he said two, three days ago I had made him twenty-five.” + </p> + <p> + “If you go on at the rate you have begun, my dear,” Judith remarked in her + most charming manner, “in another year you will have brought him down to + long clothes and a feeding-bottle.” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta thought this very funny and laughed joyously. I laughed too, out + of courtesy, at Judith’s bitter sarcasm, and turned the conversation, but + Pasquale was not to be baulked of his toast. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s to our dear friend Faust; may he grow younger and younger every + day.” + </p> + <p> + We clinked glasses. Judith sighed when the performance was concluded. + </p> + <p> + “That is one of the many advantages of being a man. If you do sell your + soul to the devil you can see that you get proper payment. A woman is paid + in promissory notes, which are dishonoured when they fall due.” + </p> + <p> + I contested the proposition. The irony of this peculiarly painful revel + lay in the air of gaiety it seemed necessary to maintain. A miserable + business is civilisation! + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever hear of a woman getting youth out of such a bargain?” she + retorted with some vehemence. + </p> + <p> + “As women systematically underpay cabmen,” said I, “so do they try to + underpay the devil; and he is one too many for them.” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid,” said Pasquale, “that the old days of shrewd bargains are + over. There is a glut in the soul-market and they only fetch the price of + old bones.” + </p> + <p> + “He is talking foolish things that I do not understand,” said Carlotta, + putting her hand on my arm. + </p> + <p> + “It is called sham cynicism, my dear,” said I, “and we all ought to be + ashamed of ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you like best to talk about?” Judith asked sweetly. + </p> + <p> + “Myself. And so does everybody,” replied Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + We laughed, and for a time talk ceased to be allusive. But later, over our + coffee, while the band was playing loudly some new American march, and + Carlotta and Pasquale were laughing together, Judith drew near me. + </p> + <p> + “You did not answer my question about those two, Marcus.” + </p> + <p> + My fingers trembled as I lit a fresh cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “He is not a man to whom any woman’s destiny should be entrusted.” + </p> + <p> + “And is she a woman on whom a man should stake his life’s happiness?” + </p> + <p> + “God knows,” said I, setting my teeth. + </p> + <p> + It was not an enjoyable dinner-party. I longed for the evening to be over, + to have Carlotta safe back with me at home. I felt a curious dread of the + Empire. + </p> + <p> + We arrived there towards the end of the first ballet. Carlotta, as soon as + she had taken her seat, leaned both elbows on the front of the box and + surrendered her senses to the stage. Pasquale talked to Judith. Wishing + for a few moments alone I left the box and sauntered moodily along the + promenade behind the First Circle. The occupants were either leaning over + the partitions and watching the spectacle or sitting with drink before + them at the little marble tables at the back. The gaudy, gilded, + tobacco-smoke and humanity-filled theatre seemed to be unreal, the stage + but a phantom cloud effect. I wondered why I, a creature from the concrete + world, was there. I had an insane impulse to fly from it all, to go out + into the streets, and wander, wander for ever, away from the world. I was + walking along the promenade, lost in this lunacy, when I stumbled against + a fellow-promenader and the shock brought me to my senses. It was an + elderly, obese Oriental wearing a red fez. He had a long nose and small, + crafty eyes, and was deeply pitted with smallpox. I made profuse apologies + and he accepted them with suavity. It then occurring to me that I was he + having in a discourteous and abjectly absurd manner, I made my way back to + the box. I drew a chair to Judith’s side. + </p> + <p> + “You are giving me a captivating evening,” she said, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Whom are you captivating?” I asked, idly jesting. “Pasquale?” + </p> + <p> + “You are cruel,” whispered Judith, with a flicker of her eyelids. + </p> + <p> + I flushed, ashamed, not having weighed the significance of my words. All I + could say was: “I beg your pardon,” whereat Judith laughed mirthlessly. I + relapsed into silence. Turn followed turn on the stage. While the curtain + was lowered Carlotta sank back with a little sigh of enjoyment, and nodded + brightly at me. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember,” she said, turning to me, at a fresh fall of the + curtain, “when you brought me first? I said I should like to live here. + Wasn’t I silly?” + </p> + <p> + She turned again, then suddenly rose to her feet and staggered back to the + back of the box, pointing outward, with an expression of wild terror on + her face. + </p> + <p> + “Hamdi—he’s down there—he saw me.” + </p> + <p> + I sprang to her assistance and put my arm around her. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, dear,” said I. + </p> + <p> + But Pasquale, looking around the house, cried: + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! she’s right. I would recognise the old villain a thousand years + hence in Tartarus. There he is.” + </p> + <p> + I left Carlotta, and the first person my eyes rested upon in the stalls + was my obese but suave Oriental, regarding the box with an impassive + countenance. + </p> + <p> + “That’s Hamdi Effendi, all right,” said Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta clutched my arms as I joined her at the back of the box. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, take me away, Seer Marcous, take me away,” she moaned piteously. My + poor child was white and shaken with fear. I again put my arm round her. + </p> + <p> + “No harm can happen to you, dear,” I said, soothingly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darling Seer Marcous, take me home,” cried Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said I. I helped her on with her wrap, and apologising to the + two others, begged them to remain. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll all go together,” said Judith quietly. + </p> + <p> + “And form a body-guard,” laughed Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta clinging to my arm we left the box and slipped through the + promenade and down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Hamdi Effendi, having anticipated our intention, cut off our retreat in + the vestibule. Carlotta shrank nearer to me. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but may I have the pleasure of a few words + with you about this young lady?” said he in the urbanest manner and the + most execrable French. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly see the necessity,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, but this young lady is a Turkish subject and my daughter. My + name is Hamdi Effendi, Prefect of Police at Aleppo, and my address in + London is the Hotel Metropole.” + </p> + <p> + “I am charmed to make your acquaintance,” said I. “I have often heard of + you from Mademoiselle—but I believe both her father and mother were + English, so she is neither your daughter nor a Turkish subject.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that we will see,” rejoined the polite Oriental. He addressed some + words rapidly in Turkish to Carlotta, who shudderingly replied in the same + language. + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle unfortunately does not consent to accompany me,” he + interpreted with a smile. “So I am afraid I will have to take her back + without her consent.” + </p> + <p> + “If you do, Hamdi Effendi,” said Pasquale in a light tone of conversation, + but with the ugliest snarl of the lips that I have ever beheld, “I shall + most certainly kill you.” + </p> + <p> + Hamdi turned to him with a polite bow. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, it is Monsieur Pasquale. I thought I recognised you.” + </p> + <p> + “You have every reason to do so,” said Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + “I saved you from prison.” + </p> + <p> + “You accepted a bribe.” + </p> + <p> + “For heaven’s sake,” cried Judith, “go on speaking in low voices, or we + shall have a scene here.” + </p> + <p> + One or two idlers hung near with an air of curiosity and the huge + beuniformed commissionaire watched us with an uncertain eye. I kept a + tight hold of Carlotta and drew her more behind the screen of a palm near + which we happened to stand. + </p> + <p> + “Madame is right,” said Hamdi. “We can discuss this little affair like + gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, in the most gentlemanly way in the world,” said Pasquale, “I swear + to you that if you touch this young lady, I will kill you.” + </p> + <p> + “It appears, to be Monsieur,” said the obese Turk with a graceful wave of + the hand in my direction, “and not you, who has robbed my home of its + treasure, unless,” he added, and I shall always remember the hideous leer + of that pulpy-nosed and small-pox pitted face, “unless Monsieur has + relieved you of your responsibilities.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment I was speechless. Pasquale put himself in front of me. + </p> + <p> + “Steady on, Ordeyne.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said I, “I found this young lady destitute in the streets of + London. She is my wife and therefore a British subject; so you can take + yourself and your infamous insinuations to the devil, and the quicker the + better.” + </p> + <p> + “Or there’ll be two of us engaged in the killing,” said Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + Hamdi again exchanged a few sentences in Turkish with Carlotta, and then + smiled upon us with the same unruffled suavity. + </p> + <p> + <i>“Au revoir, Mesdames et Messieurs.”</i> With a courteous salute he + shuffled back towards the stall-entrance. + </p> + <p> + The tension over, Carlotta broke from me and clutched Pasquale by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, kill him, kill him, kill him!” she cried in a passionate whisper. + </p> + <p> + He freed himself gently and took out a cigarette case. + </p> + <p> + “Scarcely necessary. He’ll soon die.” And turning to me he added: “Not a + sound organ in his body. Besides, it seems to me that if there is any + murdering to be done, it’s the business of Sir Marcus.” + </p> + <p> + “There is going to be no murdering,” said I, profoundly disgusted, “and + don’t talk in that revolting way about the wretched man dying.” + </p> + <p> + I regained possession of Carlotta who, seeing that I was angry, cast a + scared glance at me, and became docile as suddenly as she had grown + passionate. I turned to Judith. + </p> + <p> + “Will you ever forgive me—” I began. + </p> + <p> + But the sight of her face froze me. It was white and hard and haggard, and + the lips were drawn into a thin line, and the delicate colour she had put + upon her cheeks stood out in ghastly contrast. Her dress, like the foam of + a summer sea, mocked the winter in her face. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing to forgive,” she said, smiling icily. “I came for a + variety entertainment and I have not been disappointed. Good-bye. Perhaps + Mr. Pasquale will be so kind as to put me into a cab.” + </p> + <p> + “I will drive you home, if you will allow me,” said Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + We separated, shaking hands as if nothing had happened, as perfunctorily + as if we had been the most distant of acquaintances. + </p> + <p> + On our way back we spoke very little. Carlotta nestled close against me, + seeking the shelter of my arm. She cried, I don’t know why, but it seemed + to afford comfort. I kissed her lips and her hair. + </p> + <p> + At home, I drew the sofa near the fire—it has been a raw night and + she feels the cold like a tropical plant—and sat down by her side. + </p> + <p> + “Did you hear what I said to Hamdi Effendi—that you were my wife?” + </p> + <p> + “But that was only a lie,” she answered in her plain idiom. + </p> + <p> + My petting and soothing together with the sense of home security and a cup + of French chocolate prepared by Antoinette, who, astonished at our early + return and seeing her darling in distress, had hastened to provide + culinary consolation, had restored her wonted serenity of demeanour. + Polyphemus also purred reassuringly upon her lap. + </p> + <p> + “It was a lie this evening,” said I, “but in a few days I hope it will be + true.” + </p> + <p> + “You are going to marry me?” she asked, suddenly sitting erect and looking + at me rather bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “If you will have me, Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + “I will do what Seer Marcous tells me,” she answered. “Will you marry me + to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it hardly possible, my dear,” I answered. “But I shall lose no + time, I assure you. Once you are my wife neither Hamdi Effendi nor the + Sultan of Turkey can claim you. No one can take an Englishman’s wife away + from him.” + </p> + <p> + “Hamdi is a devil,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “We can laugh at him,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever see such an ugly mug?” + </p> + <p> + Where she gets her occasional bits of slang from I do not know; but her + little foreign staccato pronunciation gives them unusual quaintness. I + laughed, and Carlotta, throwing Polyphemus off her lap, laughed too, and + sidled up against me. The cat regarded us for a moment with a disgusted + eye, then stretched himself as if he had quitted Carlotta of his own + accord, and walked away in a state of dignified boredom. + </p> + <p> + “Hamdi is like a pig and an elephant and a great fat turkey,” said + Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “If all the world were beautiful,” I exclaimed, “such a thing as our + appreciation of beauty would not exist. I should not even be aware that my + Carlotta was beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + She put her hands on my knees in her impulsive way, and bending forward + looked at me delightedly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you do think so?” + </p> + <p> + “You are the loveliest and most intoxicating creature on the earth, + Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + “Now I am sure, sure, sure,” she cried, enraptured. “You have never said + it before, Seer Marcous darling, and I must kiss you.” + </p> + <p> + I checked her with my hands on her soft shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Only if you promise to marry me.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + She said it as thoughtlessly and light-heartedly as if I had asked her to + come out for a walk. Again I felt the odd spasm of pain. In my late + madness I had often pictured the scene: how I should hold her throbbing + beauty in my arms, my senses clouded with the fragrance of her, and how, + in burning words, I should pour out the litany of my passion. But to the + gods it seemed otherwise. No Quaker maiden’s betrothal kiss was chaster. + Cold grew the fever in my veins and the litany died on my lips. + </p> + <p> + Who and what is she whom I love? There have been days when her eyes have + carried in their depths the allurements of a sorceress, when her limbs + have woven Venusberg enchantments which it has taken all my strength to + withstand. But tonight, when I take the greatest step and claim her as + mine till our lives’ end, she yields with the complaisance of an ignorant + child and raises up between us the barrier of her innocence. When shall I + learn the soul of her? + </p> + <p> + Well, <i>jacta est alea</i>. The events of to-night have precipitated our + destiny. In all probability Hamdi is powerless to take her from my + protection, and this marriage is unnecessary as a safeguard. I have no + notion of the international law on such points—but at any rate it + will make the assurance of her safety absolute. No power on earth can take + her from me. Great Heaven! The thought of her gone forever out of my life + brings the cold sweat to my forehead. Without her, child, enchantress, + changeling that she is, how could I face existence? + </p> + <p> + I shall have my heart’s desire. Why, I should be athrill with the joy and + the flame of youth! I should laugh and sing! I should perform the happy + antics of love’s exuberance! I should be transported to the realms where + the fairy tales end! + </p> + <p> + Instead, I sit before a dying fire, as I sat last night, and am oppressed + with the sense of tragedy. It was not altogether Carlotta’s innocence that + formed the barrier between us. That which rendered it impassable was + Judith’s white face. + </p> + <p> + Judith’s white face will haunt my dreams to-night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <p> + October 27th + </p> + <p> + I do not like living. It is thoroughly disagreeable. Today Judith taunted + me with never having lived, and I admitted the justice of the taunt and + regretted in poignant misery the change from my old conditions. If to live + is to have one’s reason cast down and trampled under foot, one’s heart + aflame with a besotted passion and one’s soul racked with remorse, then am + I living in good sooth—and I would far rather be dead and suffering + the milder pains of Purgatory. Men differently constituted get used to it, + as the eels to skinning. They say <i>“mea culpa,”</i> “damn,” or <i>“Kismet,”</i> + according to their various traditions, and go forth comforted to their + workaday pursuits. I envy them. I enter this exquisite Torture Chamber, + and I shriek at the first twinge of the thumbscrew and faint at the + preliminary embraces of the scavenger’s daughter. + </p> + <p> + I envy a fellow like Caesar Borgia. He could murder a friend, seduce his + widow, and rob the orphans all on a summer’s day, and go home contentedly + to supper; and after a little music he could sleep like a man who has + thoroughly earned his repose. What manner of creatures are other men? They + area blank mystery to me; and I am writing—or have been writing—a + sociological study of the most subtle generation of them that has ever + existed! I am an empty fool. I know absolutely nothing. I can no more + account for the peaceful slumbers of that marvellous young man of + five-and-twenty than I can predicate the priority of the first hen or the + first egg. I, with never a murder or a seduction or a robbery on my + conscience, could not sleep last night. I doubt whether I shall sleep + to-night. I feel as if I shall remain awake through the centuries with a + rat gnawing my vitals. + </p> + <p> + So unhappy looking a woman as Judith, when I called on her early this + forenoon, I have never beheld. Gone was the elaborate coquetry of + yesterday; gone the quiet roguishness of yesteryear; gone was all the + Judith that I knew, and in her place stood a hollow-eyed woman shaking at + gates eternally barred. + </p> + <p> + “I—thought you would come this morning. I had that lingering faith + in you.” + </p> + <p> + “Your face haunted me all night,” I said. “I was bound to come.” + </p> + <p> + “So, this is the end of it all,” she remarked, stonily. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said I. “It only marks the transition from a very ill-defined + relationship to as loyal a friendship as ever man could offer woman.” + </p> + <p> + She gave a quivering little shrug of disgust and turned away. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t talk like that ‘I can’t offer you bread, but I’ll give you a + nice round polished stone.’ Friendship! What has a woman like me got to do + with friendship?” + </p> + <p> + “Have I ever given you much more?” + </p> + <p> + “God knows what you have given me,” she cried, bitterly. She stared out of + the window at the sodden street and murky air. I went to her side and + touched her wrist. + </p> + <p> + “For heaven’s sake, Judith, tell me what I can do.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s done is done,” she said, between her teeth. “When did you marry + her?” + </p> + <p> + I explained briefly the condition of affairs. She looked at me hard and + long; then stared out of the window again, and scarce heeded what I said. + </p> + <p> + “It was to set myself right with you on this point,” I added, “that I have + visited you at such an hour.” + </p> + <p> + She remained silent. I took a few turns about the familiar room that was + filled with the associations of many years. The piano we chose together. + The copy of the Botticelli Tondo—the crowned Madonna of the Uffizi—I + gave her in Florence. We had ransacked London together to find the + Chippendale bookcase; and on its shelves stood books that had formed a + bond between us, and copies of old reviews containing my fugitive + contributions. A spurious Japanese dragon in faence, an inartistic + monstrosity dear to her heart, at which I had often railed, grinned + forgivingly at me from the mantel-piece. I have never realised how closely + bound up with my habits was this drawing-room of Judith’s. I stopped once + more by her side. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t leave you altogether, dear,” I said, gently. “A bit of myself is + in this room.” + </p> + <p> + Her bosom shook with unhappy laughter. + </p> + <p> + “A bit?” Then she turned suddenly on me. “Are you simply dull or sheerly + cruel?” + </p> + <p> + “I am dull,” said I. “Why do you refuse my friendship? Our relation has + been scarcely more. It has not touched the deep things in us. We agreed at + the start that it should not. The words ‘I love you’ have never passed + between us. We have been loyal to our compact. Now that love has come into + my life—and Heaven knows I have striven against it—what would + you have me do?” + </p> + <p> + “And what would you have me do?” said Judith, tonelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me for breaking off the old, and trust me to make the new + pleasant to you.” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer, but stood still staring out of the window like a woman + of stone. Presently she shivered and crossed to the fire, before which she + crouched on a low chair. I remained by the window, anxious, puzzled, + oppressed. + </p> + <p> + “Marcus,” she said at last, in a low voice. I obeyed her summons. She + motioned me to a chair, and without looking at me began to speak. + </p> + <p> + “You said there was a bit of you in this room. There is everything of you. + Your whole being is for me in this room. You are with me wherever I go. + You are the beginning and end of life to me. I love you with a passion + that is killing me. I am an emotional woman. I made shipwreck of myself + because I thought I loved a man. But, as God hears me, you are the only + man I have loved. You came to me like a breath of Heaven while I was in + Purgatory—and you have been Heaven to me ever since. It has been + play to you—but to me—” + </p> + <p> + I fell on my knees beside her. Each of the low half-whispered words was a + red hot iron. I had received last night the message of her white face with + incredulity. I had reviewed our past life together and had found little + warrant in it for that message. It could not come from the depths. It was + staggeringly impossible. And now the impossible was the flaming fact. + </p> + <p> + I fell on my knees beside her. + </p> + <p> + “Not play, Judith—” + </p> + <p> + She put out her hand to check me, and the words died on my lips. What + could I say? + </p> + <p> + “For you it was a detached pleasant sentiment, if you like; for me the + deadliest earnest. I was a fool too. You never said you loved me, but I + thought you did. You were not as other men, you knew nothing of the ways + of the world or of women or of passion—you were reserved, + intellectual—you viewed things in a queer light of your own. I felt + that the touch of a chain would fret you. I gave you absolute freedom—often + when I craved for you. I made no demands. I assented to your philosophic + analysis of the situation—it is your way to moralise whimsically on + everything, as if you were a disconnected intelligence outside the + universe—and I paid no attention to it. I used to laugh at you—oh, + not unkindly, but lovingly, happily, victoriously. Oh, yes, I was a fool—what + woman in love isn’t? I thought I gave you all you needed. I was content, + secure. I magnified every little demonstration. When you touched my ear it + was more to me than the embrace of another man might have been. I have + lived on one kiss of yours for a week. To you the kiss was of no more + value than a cigarette. I wish,” she added in a whisper, “I wish I were + dead!” + </p> + <p> + She had spoken in a low, monotonous voice, staring haggardly at the fire, + while I knelt by her side. I murmured some banal apologia, miserably aware + that one set of words is as futile as another when one has broken a + woman’s heart. + </p> + <p> + “You never knew I loved you?” she went on in the same bitter undertone. + “What kind of woman did you take me for? I have accepted help from you to + enable me to live in this flat—do you imagine I could have done such + a thing without loving you? I should have thought it was obvious in a + thousand ways.” + </p> + <p> + The fire getting low, she took up the scoop for coals. Mechanically I + relieved her of the thing and fulfilled the familiar task. Neither spoke + for a long time. She remained there and I went to the window. It had begun + to rain. A barrel-organ below was playing some horrible music-hall air, + and every vibrant note was like a hammer on one’s nerves. The grinder’s + bedraggled Italian wife perceiving me at the window grinned up at me with + the national curve of the palm. She had a black eye which the cacophonous + fiend had probably given her, and she grinned like a happy child of + nature. Men in my position do not blacken women’s eyes; but it is only a + question of manners. Was I, for that, less of a brute male than the + scowling beast at the organ? + </p> + <p> + The sudden sound of a sob made me turn to Judith, who had broken down and + was crying bitterly, her face hidden in her hands. I bent and touched her + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Judith—” + </p> + <p> + She flung her arms around my neck. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t give you up, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” she cried, wildly. + </p> + <p> + For the first time in my life I heard a woman give abandoned, incoherent + utterance to an agony of passion; and it sounded horrible, like the cry of + an animal wounded to death. + </p> + <p> + A guilt-stricken creature, scarce daring to meet her eyes, I bade her + farewell. She had recovered her composure. + </p> + <p> + “Make me one little promise, Marcus, do me one little favour,” she said, + with quivering lip, and letting her cold hand remain in mine. “Stay away + from her to-day. I couldn’t bear to think of you and her together, happy, + love-making, after what I’ve said this morning. I should writhe with the + shame and the torture of it. Give me your thoughts to-day. Wear a little + mourning for the dead. It is all I ask of you.” + </p> + <p> + “I should have done what you ask without the asking,” I replied. + </p> + <p> + I kissed her hand, and went out into the street. + </p> + <p> + I had walked but a few blind steps when I became aware of the presence and + voice of Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + “Coming from Mrs. Mainwaring’s? I am just on my way there to restore her + opera-glasses which I ran away with last night. What’s her number? I + forget. I dropped in at Lingfield Terrace to inquire, but found you had + already started.” + </p> + <p> + “Seventeen,” I answered, mechanically. + </p> + <p> + “You are not looking well, my good friend,” said he. “I hope last night + has not upset you. It’s all bluff, you know, on the part of the precious + Hamdi.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say it was,” I assented. + </p> + <p> + “And bluff on your part, too. I have never given your imaginative + faculties sufficient credit. It bowled Hamdi out clean.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I. “It bowled him out clean.” + </p> + <p> + “Serve him right,” said Pasquale. “He’s the wickedest old thief unhung.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so,” said I, “the wickedest old thief unhung.” + </p> + <p> + Pasquale shook me by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a man or a phonograph? What on earth has happened to you?” + </p> + <p> + I think I envied the laughter in his handsome, dark face, and the careless + grace of the fellow as he stood beneath the dripping umbrella debonair as + a young prince, in perfectly fitting blue serge-he wore no overcoat; mine + was buttoned up to the chin, and immaculate suede gloves. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he repeated, gaily. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t sleep last night,” said I, “my breakfast disagreed with me, and + it’s raining in the most unpleasant manner.” + </p> + <p> + Even while I was speaking he left my side and darted across the road. In + some astonishment I watched him for a moment from the kerb, and then made + my way slowly to the other side. I found him in conversation with an + emaciated, bedraggled woman standing by an enormous bundle, about three + times her own cubic bulk, which she had rested on the slimy pavement. One + hand pressed a panting bosom. + </p> + <p> + “You are going to carry that in your arms all the way to South + Kensington?” I heard him cry as I approached. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said the woman. + </p> + <p> + “Then you shan’t. I’m not going to allow it. Catch hold of this.” + </p> + <p> + The umbrella which he thrust out at her she clutched automatically, to + prevent it falling about her ears. The veto she received with a wonderment + which deepened into stupefaction when she saw him lift the huge bundle in + his arms and stalk away with it down the street. She turned a scared face + at me. + </p> + <p> + “It’s washing,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Pasquale paused, looked round and motioned her onward. She followed + without a word, holding the trim silver mounted umbrella, and I + mechanically brought up the rear. It had all happened so quickly that I + too was confused. The scanty populace in the rain-filled street stared and + gaped. A shambling fellow in corduroys bawled an obscene jest. Pasquale + put down his bundle. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to be sent to hell by lightning?” he asked, with the evil + snarl of the lips. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the man, sheering off. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad,” remarked Pasquale, picking up the bundle. And we resumed our + progress. + </p> + <p> + Luckily a four-wheeled cab overtook us. Pasquale stopped it, squeezed the + bundle inside, and held the door open for the faltering and bewildered + woman, as if she had been the authentic duchessa at Ealing. + </p> + <p> + “You were saying, Ordeyne,” he observed, as the cabman drove off with + three shillings and his incoherent fare, “you were saying that your + breakfast disagreed with you.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of my heaviness of heart, I laughed and loved the man. There was + something fantastically chivalrous in the action; something superb in the + contempt of convention; something whimsical, adventurous, unexpected; and + something divine in the wrathful pity; and something irresistible in his + impudent apostrophe to myself. It has been the one flash of comfort during + this long and desolate day. + </p> + <p> + I have kept my promise to Judith. I have lunched and dined at the club, + and in the library of the club I have tried to while away the hours. I + intended this morning to make the necessary arrangements for the marriage. + After my interview with Judith I had not the heart. I put it off till + to-morrow. I have observed the day as a day of mourning. I have worn + sackcloth and ashes. I have done such penance as I could for the grievous + fault I have committed. Carlotta is in bed and asleep. She went early, + says Antoinette, having a bad headache. No wonder, poor child. + </p> + <p> + A few moments ago I was tempted to peep into her room and satisfy myself + that she was not ailing. A headache is the common precursor to many + maladies. But I remembered my promise and refrained. The cooing notes of + the voice would have called me to her side, and her arms would have been + around my neck and I should have forgotten Judith. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> + <p> + October 28th. + </p> + <p> + I rose late this morning. When I went down to breakfast I found that + Carlotta had already gone for her music lesson. + </p> + <p> + I drove at once to the Temple to see my lawyers and to make arrangements + for a marriage by special license. + </p> + <p> + I returned at one o’clock. Stenson met me in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Sir Marcus, but Mademoiselle hasn’t come back yet.” + </p> + <p> + I waited an uneasy hour. Such a lengthy absence from home was + unprecedented. At two o’clock I went round to Herr Stuer in the Avenue + Road—a five minutes’ walk. + </p> + <p> + He entered the sitting-room into which I had been ushered, wiping his + lips. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to disturb you, Herr Stuer,” said I, “but will you kindly tell + me when Miss Carlotta left you, this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Carlotta came not at all this morning,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “But it was her regular day?” + </p> + <p> + “At ten o’clock. She did not come. At eleven I have another pupil. She has + not before missed one lesson.” + </p> + <p> + I flew back home, in an agony of hope that her laughing face would meet me + there and dispel a dread that chilled me like an icy wind. + </p> + <p> + There was no Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + There has been no Carlotta all this awful day. + </p> + <p> + There will never be a Carlotta again. + </p> + <p> + I drove to the police station. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think has happened?” asked the Inspector. + </p> + <p> + It was only too horribly obvious. Any man but myself would have kept her + under lock and key and established a guard round the house. Any man but + myself would have never let her out of his sight until he had married her, + until he had tracked Hamdi and his myrmidons back to Alexandretta. + </p> + <p> + “Abduction has happened,” I cried wildly. “Between Lingfield Terrace and + Avenue Road she has been caught, thrust into a closed carriage, gagged and + carried God knows where by the wiliest old thief in Asia. He is the + Prefect of Police in Aleppo. His name is Hamdi Effendi and he is staying + at the Hotel Metropole.” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector questioned me. Heaven knows how I answered. I saw the scene. + The waiting carriage. The unfrequented bit of road. My heart’s darling, + her face a radiant flower in the grey morning, tripping lightheartedly + along. The sudden dash, the struggle, the swiftly closed door. It was a + matter of a few seconds. My brain grew dizzy with the vision. + </p> + <p> + “You say that he threatened to abduct her?” asked the Inspector. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I, “and a friend of mine promised to kill him. Heaven grant he + keep his promise!” + </p> + <p> + “Be careful, Sir Marcus,” smiled the Inspector. “Or if there is a murder + committed you will be an accessory before the fact.” + </p> + <p> + I intimated my disregard of the contingency. What did it matter? Nothing + in the world mattered save the recovery of the light and meaning of my + existence. My friend’s name? Sebastian Pasquale, He lived near by in the + St. John’s Wood Road. + </p> + <p> + “The best thing you can do, Sir Marcus,” said the Inspector, “is to get + hold of Mr. Pasquale and take him with you to Scotland Yard. Perhaps two + heads will be better than one. In the meanwhile we shall communicate with + headquarters and make the necessary inquiries in the neighbourhood.” + </p> + <p> + I drove to St. John’s Wood Road, and learned to my dismay that Pasquale + had given up his rooms there a week ago. All his letters were addressed to + his club in Piccadilly. I drove thither. How has mankind contented itself + for these thousands of years with a horse as its chief means of + locomotion? Oh, the exasperation I suffered behind that magnified snail! I + dashed into the club. Mr. Pasquale had not been there all day. No, he was + not staying there. It was against the rules to give members’ private + addresses. + </p> + <p> + “But it’s a matter of life and death!” I cried. + </p> + <p> + “To tell you the truth, sir,” said the hall porter, “Mr. Pasquale’s only + permanent address is his banker’s, and we really don’t know where he is + staying at present.” + </p> + <p> + I wrote a hurried line: + </p> + <p> + “Hamdi has abducted Carlotta. I am half crazed. As you love me give me + your help. Oh, God! man, why aren’t you here?” + </p> + <p> + I left it with the porter, and crawled to Scotland Yard. The cabman at my + invectives against his sauntering beast waxed indignant; it was a + three-quarter blood mare and one of the fastest trotters in London. + </p> + <p> + “She passes everything,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “It is because everything is standing still or going backward or turned + upside down,” said I. + </p> + <p> + No doubt he thought me mad. Mad as a dingo dog. The thought of the words, + the summer and the sun sent a spasm of hunger through my heart. Then I + murmured to myself: “‘Save my soul from hell and my darling from the power + of the dog.’ Which dog? Not the dingo dog.” I verily believe my brain + worked wrong to-day. + </p> + <p> + Great Scotland Yard at last. I went through passages. I found myself in a + nondescript room where a courteous official seated at a desk held me on + the rack for half an hour. I had to describe Carlotta: not in the imagery + wherein only one could create an impression of her sweetness, but in the + objective terms of the police report. What was she wearing? A hat, and + jacket, a skirt, shoes; of course she wore gloves; possibly she carried a + muff. Impatient of such commonplace details, I described her fully. But + the glory of her bronze hair, her great dark brown eyes, the quivering + sensitiveness of her lips; her intoxicating compound of Botticelli and the + Venusberg; the dove-notes of her voice; all was a matter of boredom to + Scotland Yard. They clamoured for the colour of her feathers and the + material of which her dress was made; her height in vulgar figures and the + sizes of her gloves and shoes. + </p> + <p> + “How on earth can I tell you?” I cried in desperation. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps one of your servants can give the necessary information,” replied + the urbane official. If I had lost an umbrella he could not have viewed my + plight with more inhuman blandness! + </p> + <p> + A miracle happened. As I was writing a summons to Stenson to obtain these + details from Antoinette and attend at once, a policeman entered and I + learned that my confidential man was at the door. My heart leapt within + me. He had tracked me hither and had come to tell me that Carlotta was + safe. But the first glance at his face killed the wild hope. He had + tracked me hither, it is true; but only apologetically to offer what + information might be useful. “It is a very great liberty, Sir Marcus, and + I will retire at once if I have overstepped my duties, but there are + important details, sir, in catastrophes of this nature with which my + experience has taught me only servants can be acquainted.” + </p> + <p> + There must be a book of ten thousand pages entitled “The Perfect Valet,” + dealing with every contingency of domestic life which this admirable + fellow has by heart. He uttered his Ciceronian sentence with the gravity + of a pasteboard figure in the toy theatre of one’s childhood. + </p> + <p> + “Can you describe the young lady’s dress?” asked the official. + </p> + <p> + “I have made it my business,” said Stenson, “to obtain accurate + information as to every detail of Mademoiselle Carlotta’s attire when she + left the house this morning.” + </p> + <p> + I faded into insignificance. Stenson was a man after the Inspector’s + heart. A few eager questions brought the desired result. A dark red toque + with a grey bird’s wing; a wine-coloured zouave jacket and skirt, black + braided; a dark blue bodice; a plain gold brooch (the first trinket I had + given her—the occasion of her first clasp of arms around my neck) + fastening her collar; a silver fox necklet and muff; patent leather shoes + and brown suede gloves. + </p> + <p> + “Any special mark or characteristics?” + </p> + <p> + “A white scar above the left temple,” said Stenson. + </p> + <p> + Lord have mercy! The man has lived day by day for five months with + Carlotta’s magical beauty, and all he has noticed as characteristic is the + little white scar—she fell on marble steps as a child—the only + flaw, if flaw can be in a thing so imperceptible, in her perfect + loveliness. + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle has also a tiny mole behind her right ear,” said Stenson. + </p> + <p> + The Inspector’s conception of Stenson expanded into an apotheosis. He paid + him deference. His pen wrote greedily every syllable the inspired creature + uttered. When the fount of inspiration ran dry, Stenson turned to me with + his imperturbable, profoundly respectful air. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I return home, Sir Marcus, or have you any further need of my + service?” + </p> + <p> + I bade him go home. He withdrew. The Inspector smiled cheerfully. “Now we + can get along,” said he. “It’s a pity Mr.—Mr. Pasquale” (he + consulted his notes) “is out of touch with us for the moment. He might + have given us great assistance.” + </p> + <p> + He rose from his chair. “I think we shall very soon trace the young lady. + An accurate personal description like this, you see, is invaluable.” + </p> + <p> + He handed me the printed form which he had filled in. In spite of my + misery I almost laughed at the fatuity of the man in thinking that those + mere unimaginative statistics applicable to five hundred thousand young + females in London, could in any way express Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “This is all very well,” said I; “but the first thing to do is to lay that + Turkish devil by the heels.” + </p> + <p> + “You can count on our making the most prompt and thorough investigation,” + said he. + </p> + <p> + “And in the mean time what can I do?” + </p> + <p> + “Your best course, Sir Marcus,” he answered, “is to go home and leave + things in our hands. As soon as ever we have the slightest clue, we shall + communicate with you.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed me out politely. In a few moments I found myself in the greyness + of the autumn afternoon wandering on the Thames Embankment like a lost + soul on the banks of Phlegethon. It seemed as if I had never seen the sun, + should never see the sun again. I was drifting sans purpose into eternity. + </p> + <p> + I passed by some railings. A colossal figure looming through the misty air + struck me with a sense of familiarity. It was the statue of Sir Bartle + Frere, and these were the gardens beneath the terrace of the National + Liberal Club. It was here that I had first met her. The dripping trees + seemed to hold the echo of the words spoken when their leaves were green: + “Will you please to tell me what I shall do?” I strained my eyes to see + the bench on which I had sat, and my eyes tricked me into translating a + blurr at the end of the seat into the ghostly form of Carlotta. My misery + overwhelmed me; and through my misery shot a swift pang of remorse at + having treated her harshly on that sweet and memorable afternoon in May. + </p> + <p> + I turned the corner at Whitehall Place and looked down the desolate + gardens. The benches were empty, the trees were bare, “and no birds sang.” + I crossed the road. + </p> + <p> + The Hotel Metropole. The great doors stood invitingly open, and from the + pavement one could see the warmth and colour of the vestibule. Here was + staying the Arch-Devil who had robbed me of my life. I stood for a moment + under the portico shaking with rage. I must have lost consciousness for a + few seconds for I do not remember entering or mounting the stairs. I found + myself at the bureau asking for Hamdi Effendi. No, he had not left. They + thought he was in the hotel. A page despatched in search of him departed + with my card, bawling a number. I hate these big caravanserais where one + is a mere number, as in a gaol. “Would to heaven it were a gaol,” I + muttered to myself, “and this were the number of Hamdi Effendi!” + </p> + <p> + A lean man rose from a chair and, holding out his hand, effusively saluted + me by name. I stared at him. He recalled our acquaintance at Etretat. I + fished him up from the deeps of a previous incarnation and vaguely + remembered him as a young American floral decorator who used to preach to + me the eternal doctrine of hustle. I shook hands with him and hoped that + he was well. + </p> + <p> + “Going very strong. Never stronger. Never so well as when I’m full up with + work. But you don’t hurry around enough in this dear, sleepy old country. + Men lunch. In New York all the lunch one has time for is to swallow a + plasmon lozenge in a street-car.” + </p> + <p> + His high pitched voice shrieked bombastic platitude into my ears for an + illimitable time. I answered occasionally with the fringe of my mind. + Could my agonised state of being have remained unperceived by any human + creature save this young, hustling, dollar-centred New York floral + decorator? + </p> + <p> + “Since we met, guess how many times I’ve crossed the Atlantic. Four + times!” + </p> + <p> + Long-suffering Atlantic! + </p> + <p> + “And about yourself. Still going <i>piano, piano</i> with books and + things?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, books and things,” I echud. + </p> + <p> + The page came up and announced Hamdi’s intention of immediate appearance. + </p> + <p> + “And how is that charming young lady, your ward, Miss Carlotta?” continued + my tormentor. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I answered hurriedly. “A charming young lady. You used to give her + sweets. Have you noticed that a fondness for sugar plums induces an + equanimity of character? It also spoils the teeth. That is why the front + teeth of all American women are so bad.” + </p> + <p> + I must be endowed with the low cunning of the fox, who, I am told, by a + swift turn puts his pursuers off the scent. The learned term the + rhetorical device an <i>ignoratio elenchi</i>. My young friend’s + patriotism rose in furious defence of his countrywomen’s beauty. I looked + round the luxuriously furnished vestibule, wondering from which of the + many doors the object of my hatred would emerge, and my young friend’s + talk continued to ruffle the fringe of my mind. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid you’re expecting some one rather badly,” he remarked with + piercing perceptiveness. + </p> + <p> + “A dull acquaintance,” said I. “I shall be sorry when his arrival puts an + end to our engaging conversation.” + </p> + <p> + Then the lift door opened and Hamdi stepped out like the Devil in an + Alhambra ballet. + </p> + <p> + He looked at my card and looked at me. He bowed politely. + </p> + <p> + “I did not know whom I should have the pleasure of seeing,” said he in his + execrable French. “In what way can I be of service to Sir Marcus Ordeyne?” + </p> + <p> + “What have you done with Carlotta?” I asked, glaring at him. + </p> + <p> + His ignoble small-pox pitted face assumed an expression of bland inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I. “Where have you taken her to?” + </p> + <p> + “Explain yourself, Monsieur,” said Hamdi. “Do I understand that Lady + Ordeyne has disappeared?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me what you have done with her.” + </p> + <p> + His crafty features grew satanic; his long fleshy nose squirmed like the + proboscis of one of Orcagna’s fiends. + </p> + <p> + “Really, Monsieur,” said he, with a hideous leer—oh, words are + impotent to express the ugliness of that face! “Really, Monsieur, + supposing I had stolen Miladi, you would be the last person I should + inform of her whereabouts. You are simple, Monsieur. I had always heard + that England was a country of arcadian innocence, so unlike my own black, + wicked country, and now—” he shrugged his shoulders blandly, “<i>j’en + suis convaincu</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “You may jeer, Hamdi Effendi,” said I in a white passion of anger. “But + the English police you will not find so arcadian.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, so you have been to the police?” said the suave villain. “You have + gone to Scotland—Scotland Place Scotland—n’importe. They are + investigating the affair? I thank you for the friendly warning.” + </p> + <p> + “Warning!” I cried, choked with indignation. He held up a soft, fat palm. + </p> + <p> + “Ah—it is not a warning? Then, Monsieur, I am afraid you have + committed an indiscretion which your friends in Scotland Place will not + pardon you. You would not make a good police agent. I am of the + profession, so I know.” + </p> + <p> + I advanced a step. He recoiled, casting a quick look backward at the lift + just then standing idle with open doors. + </p> + <p> + “Hamdi Effendi,” I cried, “by the living God, if you do not restore me my + wife—” + </p> + <p> + But then I stopped short. Hamdi had stepped quickly backward into the + lift, and given a sign to the attendant. The door slammed and all I could + do was to shake my fist at Hamdi’s boots as they disappeared upwards. + </p> + <p> + I remember once in Italy seeing a cat playing with a partially stunned bat + which, flying low, she had brought to the ground. She crouched, patted it, + made it move a little, patted it again and retired on her haunches + preparing for a spring. Suddenly the bat shot vertically into the air. + </p> + <p> + I stared at the ascending lift with the cat’s expression of impotent + dismay and stupefaction. It was inconceivably grotesque. It brought into + my tragedy an element of infernal farce. I became conscious of peals of + laughter, and looking round beheld the American doubled up in a saddlebag + chair. I fled from the vestibule of the hotel clothed from head to foot in + derision. + </p> + <p> + I am at home, sitting at my work-table, walking restlessly about the room, + stepping out into the raw air on the balcony and looking for a sign down + the dark and silent road. I curse myself for my folly in entering the + Hotel Metropole. The damned Turk held me in the palm of his hand. He made + mock of me to his heart’s content.... And Carlotta is in his power. I grow + white with terror when I think of <i>her</i> terror. She is somewhere, + locked up in a room, in this great city. My God! Where can she be? + </p> + <p> + The police must find her. London is not mediaeval Italy for women to be + gagged and carried off to inaccessible strongholds in defiance of laws and + government. I repeat to myself that she must come back, that the sober + working of English institutions will restore her to my arms, that my agony + is a matter of a day or two at most, that the special license obtained + this morning and now lying before me is not the document of irony it + seems, and that in a week’s time we shall look back on this nightmare of a + day with a smile, and look forward to the future with laughter in our + hearts. + </p> + <p> + But to-night I am very lonely. “Loneliness,” says Epictetus, “is a certain + condition of the helpless man.” And I am helpless. All my aid lies in the + learning in those books; and all the learning in all those books on all + sides from floor to ceiling cannot render me one infinitesimal grain of + practical assistance. If only Pasquale, man of action, swift intelligence, + were here! I can only trust to the trained methods of the unimaginative + machine who has set out to trace Carlotta by means of the scar on her + forehead and the mole behind her ear. And meanwhile I am very lonely. My + sole friend, to whom I could have turned, Mrs. McMurray, is still at Bude. + She is to have a child, I understand, in the near future, and will stay in + Cornwall till the confinement is over. Her husband, even were he not amid + the midnight stress of his newspaper office, I should shrink from seeking. + He is a Niagara of a man. Judith—I can go to her no more. And though + Antoinette has wept her heart out all day long, poor soul, and Stenson has + conveyed by his manner his respectful sympathy, I cannot take counsel of + my own servants. I have gathered into my arms the one-eyed cat, and buried + my face in his fur—where Carlotta’s face has been buried. “That’s + the way I should like to be kissed!” Oh, my dear, my dear, were you here + now, that is the way I should kiss you! + </p> + <p> + I have gone upstairs and wandered about her room. Antoinette has prepared + it for her reception to-night, as usual. The corner of the bedclothes is + turned down, and her night-dress, a gossamer thing with cherry ribbons, + laid out across the bed. At the foot lie the familiar red slippers with + the audacious heels; her dressing-gown is thrown in readiness over the + back of a chair; even the brass hot water can stands in the basin—and + it is still hot. And I know that the foolish woman is wide-awake overhead + waiting for her darling. I kissed the pillow still fragrant of her where + her head rested last night, and I went downstairs with a lump in my + throat. + </p> + <p> + Again I sit at my work-table and, to save myself from going mad with + suspense, jot down in my diary* the things that have happened. Put in bald + words they scarcely seem credible. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * It will be borne in mind that I am writing these actual + pages, afterwards, at Verona, amplifying the rough notes in + my diary. M. O. +</pre> + <p> + A sudden clattering, nerve-shaking, strident peal at the front-door bell. + </p> + <p> + I flew down the stairs. It was news of Carlotta. It was Carlotta herself + brought back to me. My heart swelled with joy as if it would burst. I knew + that as I opened the door Carlotta would fall laughing, weeping, sobbing + into my arms. + </p> + <p> + I opened the door. It was only a police officer in plain clothes. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Marcus Ordeyne?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “We have traced the young lady all right. She left London by the + two-twenty Continental express from Victoria with Mr. Sebastian Pasquale.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII + </h2> + <p> + November 1st. + </p> + <p> + Five days ago the blow fell, and I am only now recovering; only now + awakening to the horrible pain of it. + </p> + <p> + I have gone about like a man in a dream. Blurred visages of men with + far-away voices have saluted me at the club. Innumerable lines of print + which my eyes have scanned have been destitute of meaning. I have forced + myself to the mechanical task of copying piles of rough notes for my + History; I have been able to bring thereto not an atom of intelligence; + popes, princes, painters are a category of disassociated names, less + evocative of ideas than the columns in the Post Office London Directory. I + have stared stupidly into the fire or at the dripping branches of the + trees opposite my windows. I have walked the streets in dull misery. I + have sought solace in the Zoological Gardens. + </p> + <p> + There is a kindly brown bear who pleads humanly for buns, and her I have + fed into a sort of friendship. I stand vacantly in front of the cage + finding in the beast an odd companionable sympathy. She turns her head on + one side, regards me with melting brown eyes, and squatting on her + haunches thrusts her paws beseechingly through the bars. Just so did + Carlotta beseech and plead. I have bemused myself with gnostic and + metempsychosic speculations. Carlotta as an ordinary human being with an + immortal soul did not exist, and what I had known and loved was but a + simulacrum of female form containing an elemental spirit doomed to be ever + seeking a fresh habitat. It was but the lingering ghost of the humanised + shell of air that was seen at Victoria station. The fateful spirit, + untrammelled by the conventions of men and actuated by destinies + unintelligible to mortal mind, had informed the carcass of this little + brown bear, which looks at me so strangely, so coaxingly, with Carlotta’s + eyes and Carlotta’s gestures. I asked her yesterday to come back to me. I + said that the house was empty; that the rooms ached for the want of her. I + pleaded so passionately and the eyes before me so melted that I thought + her heart was touched. But in the midst of it all another visitor came up + and the creature uttered a whining plaint and put out her paw for buns—by + which token I felt indeed that it was Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + I have accepted the blow silently. As yet I have told no one. I have made + no inquiries. When a man is betrayed by his best friend and deserted by + the woman he loves, time and solitude are the only comforters. Besides, to + whom should I go for comfort? I have lived too remote from my kind, and my + kind heeds me not. + </p> + <p> + Not a line has reached me from Carlotta. She has gone out of my life as + lightly and as remorselessly as she went out of Hamdi Effendi’s; as she + went, for aught she knew, out of that of the unhappy boy who lured her + from Alexandretta. If she heard I was dead, I wonder whether she would + say: “I am so glad!” + </p> + <p> + Whether the flight was planned between them, or whether Pasquale waylaid + her on her way to the Avenue Road and then and there proposed that she + should accompany him, I do not know. It matters very little. She is gone. + That is the one awful fact that signifies. No explanations, pleas for + forgiveness could make me suffer less. Were she different I might find it + in my heart to hate her. This I cannot do. How can one hate a thing devoid + of heart and soul? But one can love it—God knows how blindly. So I + have locked the door of Carlotta’s room and the key is in my possession. + It shall not be touched. It shall remain just as she left it—and I + shall mourn for her as for one dead. + </p> + <p> + For Pasquale—if I were of his own reversionary type, I should follow + him half across Europe till we met, and then one of us would kill the + other. In one respect he resembles Carlotta. He is destitute of the moral + sense. How else to solve the enigma? How else to reconcile his flamboyant + chivalry towards the consumptive washer-woman with the black treachery + towards me, in which even at that very moment his mind must have been + steeped? I knew that he had betrayed many, that where women were concerned + no considerations of honour or friendship had stood between him and his + desires; but I believed—for what reason save my own egregious + vanity, I know not—that for me he had a peculiar regard. I believed + that it was an idiosyncrasy of this wolf to look upon my sheepfold as + sacred from his depredations. I was ashamed of any doubts that crossed my + mind as to his loyalty, and did not hesitate to thrust my lamb between his + jaws. And while he was giving the lie direct to my faith, I, poor fool, in + my despair was seeking madly for his aid in the deliverance of my darling + from the power of the dog. + </p> + <p> + I have felt I owe Hamdi Effendi an apology; for it is well that, in the + midst of this buffoon tragedy I find myself playing, I should observe + occasionally the decencies of conduct. But, on the other hand, was he not + amply repaid for moral injury by the pure joy he must have felt while + torturing me with his banter? For all the deeper suffering, I am conscious + of writhing under lacerated vanity when I think of that grotesque and + humiliating blunder in the Hotel Metropole. + </p> + <p> + November 2d. + </p> + <p> + I have received news of the death of old Simon McQuhatty. In my few lucid + moments of late I had been thinking of seeking his kindly presence. Now + Gossip Death has taken him out across the moor. Now, dear old pagan, he is + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course + With rocks and stones and trees.” + </pre> + <p> + November 3d. + </p> + <p> + Antoinette came up this morning with a large cardboard box addressed to + Carlotta. The messenger who brought it was waiting downstairs. + </p> + <p> + “I came to Monsieur to know whether I should send it back,” said + Antoinette, on the verge of tears. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said I, “leave it here.” + </p> + <p> + From the furrier’s label, I saw that the box contained some furs I had + ordered for Carlotta a fortnight ago—she shivered so, poor child, in + this wintry climate. + </p> + <p> + “But, Monsieur,” began Antoinette, “the poor angel—” + </p> + <p> + “May want it in heaven,” said I. + </p> + <p> + The good woman stared. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll be like the ancient Egyptians, Antoinette,” I explained, “who + placed food and wine and raiment and costly offerings in the tombs of the + departed, so that their shades could come and enjoy them for all eternity. + We’ll have to make believe, Antoinette, that this is a tomb, for one can’t + rear a pyramid in London, though it is a desert sufficiently vast; and the + little second floor room is the inner sanctuary where the body lies in + silence embalmed with sweet spices and swathed in endless bands of linen.” + </p> + <p> + “But Mademoiselle is not dead?” cried Antoinette, with a shiver. “How can + Monsieur talk of such things? It makes me fear, the way Monsieur speaks.” + </p> + <p> + “It makes me fear, too, Antoinette,” said I, gravely. + </p> + <p> + When she had gone I took the box of furs upstairs and laid it unopened on + Carlotta’s bed and came away, relocking the door behind me. + </p> + <p> + November 9th. + </p> + <p> + I have formed a great resolution. I have devoted the week to the + envisagement of things, and while I lay awake last night the solution came + to me as something final and irrevocable. Mistrusting the counsels of the + night, when the brain is unduly excited by nervous insomnia, I have + applied the test of a day’s cold reason. + </p> + <p> + I have broken a woman’s heart. I have spurned the passionate love of a + woman who has been near and dear to me; a woman of great nature; a woman + of subtle brain who has been my chosen companion, my equal partner in any + intellectual path I chose to tread; a sensitive lady, with all the + graciousness of soul that term conveys. Heaven knows what a woman can see + in me to love. I look in the glass at my bony, hawk-like face, on which + the stamp of futility seems eternally set, and I am seized with a + prodigious wonder; but the fact remains that to me unlovely and unworthy + has been given that thing without price, a woman’s love. I remember + Pasquale laughing merrily at this valuation. He said the love of women was + as cheap as dirt, and the only use for it was to make mud pies. The damned + cynical villain! “Always reflect,” said he, on another occasion, “that + although a man may be as ugly as sin, the probability is that he is just + as pleasant. Beauties will find hitherto unsuspected amenities in Beasts + till the end of time.” But I am such a poor and sorry Beast, without the + chance of a transformation; a commonplace Beast, dull and didactic; a + besotted, purblind, despicable Beast! Yet Judith loved me. Instead of + thanking on my knees the high gods for the boon conferred, I rejected it, + and went mad for craving of the infinitely lesser glory of Carlotta’s baby + lips and gold-bronze hair. I have broken Judith’s heart. I will expiate + the crime I have committed. + </p> + <p> + Expiate the crime! The realisation of the meaning of the words covers me + with shame. As if what I propose will be a sorry penance! That is the + danger of a man thinking, as I have always done, in metaphors. It has + given me my loose, indirect views of life, of myself, of those around me. + If I had advice to offer to a young man, I should say: “Learn to think + straight.” Expiate, indeed! I will go to her and make confession. I will + tell her that awful loneliness is crushing my soul. I will kneel before + her and beseech her of her great woman’s goodness to give me her love + again, and to be my helpmeet and my companion who will be cherished with + all that there is of loyalty in me to her life’s end. She will pity me a + little, for I have suffered, and I will pity her tenderly, in deep + sincerity, and our life together will be based on that all-understanding + which signifies all-forgiveness. And it shall be a real life together. I + used to smile, in a superior way, at her dread of solitude. Heaven forgive + me. I did not then know its terrors. It comforted for the first few + benumbed days, but now it is gathering around me like a mysterious and + appalling force. I crave the human presence in my home. I need the woman’s + presence in my heart. + </p> + <p> + We shall live together then as man and wife, in defiance of the world. Let + the moralists blame us. We shall not care. It will make little social + difference to Judith, and as for myself, have I not already inflicted + public outrage on society? does not my Aunt Jessica regard me as a wringer + of the public conscience, and does not my Cousin Rosalie mention me with a + shudder of horror in her tepid prayers? If I really give them cause for + reprobation they will be neither wiser, nor better, nor sorrier. And if + the baronetcy flickers out in unseemly odour, I for one shall know that + the odour is sweeter than that wherein it was lighted, when my + great-grandfather earned the radiance by services rendered at Brighton to + His Royal Highness the Prince Regent. This is the only way in which I can + make Judith reparation, the only way in which I can find comfort. We shall + travel. Italy, beloved of Judith, is calling me. Probably Florence will be + our settled home. I shall give up this house of madness. The clean sweet + love of Judith will purify my heart of this poisonous passion, and in the + end there will be peace. + </p> + <p> + I have taken Carlotta’s photograph from its frame and cast it into the + fire, thus burning her for her witchcraft. I watched the flames leap and + curl. The last look she gave me before they licked away her face had its + infinite allurement, its devilish sorcery so intensified in the fierce + yellow light, that the yearning for her clutched me by the throat and + shook me through all my being. + </p> + <p> + But it is over now. I have done with Carlotta. If she thinks I am going to + sit and let the wind which comes over Primrose Hill drive me mad like + Gastibelza, <i>l’homme a la carabine</i>, in Victor Hugo’s poem, she is + vastly mistaken. From this hour henceforth I swear she is nothing to me; I + will eat and sleep and laugh as if she had never existed. Polyphemus, + curled up in Carlotta’s old place on the sofa, regards me with his + sardonic eye. He is an evil, incredulous, mocking beast, who a few + centuries ago would have been burned with his late mistress. + </p> + <p> + I am sane and happier now that I have come to my irrevocable + determination. + </p> + <p> + To-morrow I go to Judith. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX + </h2> + <p> + November 10th. + </p> + <p> + I had to ring twice before Judith’s servant opened the flat door. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Mainwaring is engaged just at present, Sir Marcus.” + </p> + <p> + “Ask her if I can come in and wait, as I have something of importance to + say to her.” + </p> + <p> + She left me standing in the passage, a thing that had never before + occurred to me in Judith’s establishment, and presently returned with her + answer. Would I mind waiting in the dining-room? I entered. The table was + littered with sheets of her statistical work and odd bits of silk’ and + lining. A type-writer stood at one end and a sewing-machine at the other. + On the writing-desk by the window, in the midst of a mass of letters and + account-books, rested a large bowl filled with magnificent blooms of white + and yellow chrysanthemums. A volume of Dante lay open face downwards on + the corner. It did my heart good to see this untidiness, so characteristic + of Judith, so familiar, so intimate. She had taken her trouble bravely, I + reflected. The ordinary daily task had not been left undone. Through all + she had preserved her valiant sanity. I felt rebuked for my own loss of + self-control. + </p> + <p> + I was about to turn away from the litter of the desk, when my eye caught + sight of an envelope bearing a French stamp and addressed in Pasquale’s + unmistakable handwriting. As there seemed to be a letter inside, I did not + take it up to examine it more closely. The glance was enough to assure me + that it came from Pasquale. Why should he be corresponding with Judith? I + walked away puzzled. Was it a justification, a confession, a plea to her + as my friend to obtain my forgiveness? If there is one thing more + irritating than another it is to light accidentally upon a mystery + affecting oneself in a friend’s correspondence. One can no more probe + deeply into it than one can steal the friend’s spoons. It seems an + indiscretion to have noticed it, an unpardonable impertinence to subject + it to conjecture. In spite of my abhorring the impulse of curiosity, the + sweeping, flaunting, swaggering handwriting of Pasquale worried me. + </p> + <p> + Judith came in, looking much as she had done on the occasion of my last + visit, worn and anxious, with a strange expression in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said, extending a lifeless + hand. + </p> + <p> + I raised it to my lips. + </p> + <p> + “I would have gladly waited all day to see you, Judith,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Really?” + </p> + <p> + She laughed in an odd way. + </p> + <p> + “And idle speech from me to you at the present time would be an outrage,” + I answered. “I have passed through much since I saw you last.” + </p> + <p> + “So have I,” said Judith. “More than you imagine. Well,” she continued as + I bowed my head accepting the rebuke, “what have you got so important to + tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “Much,” said I. “In the first place you must be aware of what has + happened, for I can’t help seeing there a letter from Pasquale.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced swiftly at the desk and back again at me. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she replied, “he is in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + I was amazed at her nonchalance. + </p> + <p> + “Has he told you nothing?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps Sir Marcus Ordeyne would like to see his letter,” she said, + ironically. + </p> + <p> + “You know perfectly well that I would not read it,” said I. + </p> + <p> + Judith laughed again, and rolled her handkerchief into a little ball + between her nervous fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me,” she said. “I like to see the <i>grand seigneur</i> in you + now and then. It puts me in mind of happier days. But about Pasquale—the + only thing he tells me is that he is not able to execute a commission for + me. He told me on the night he drove me home that he was going to Paris, + and I asked him to get me some cosmetic. Carmine Badouin, if you want to + know. I have got to rouge now before I am fit to be seen in the street. I + am quite frank about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you know nothing of Carlotta?” I cried. + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta?” + </p> + <p> + “She eloped with that double-dyed, damned, infernal villain, the day after + I saw you.” + </p> + <p> + Judith looked at me for a moment, then closed her eyes and turned her head + away, resting her hand on the table. My indignation waxed hot against the + scoundrel. How dare he write casual letters to Judith about Carmine + Badouin with his treachery on his conscience? I know the terms of flippant + grace in which the knave couched this precious epistle. And I could see + Carlotta reading over his shoulder and clapping her hands and cooing: “Oh, + that is so funny!” + </p> + <p> + When I had told Judith the outlines of the story, pacing up and down the + little room while she remained motionless by the table, she put out her + hand to me, and in a low voice, and with still averted eyes said that she + was sorry, deeply sorry. Her tone rang so true and loyal that my heart + throbbed with quick appreciation of her high nature, and I wrung her + outstretched hand. + </p> + <p> + “God bless you, Judith,” I cried, fervently. “Bless you for your sweet + sympathy. Be sorry for me only as for a man who has passed through the + horrors of delirium. But for me as I stand before you now, I ask you not + to be sorry. I have come to bring you, if I can, dear Judith, a measure of + gladness, perhaps of happiness.” + </p> + <p> + She wrenched herself free from me, and a terrified cry of “Marcus!” + checked my dithyrambic appeal. She shrank away so that a great corner of + the dining-table separated us, and she stared at me as though my words + hats been the affrighting utterance of a madman. + </p> + <p> + “Marcus! What do you mean?” she cried, with an unnatural shrillness in her + voice. + </p> + <p> + “I mean,” said I, “I mean—I mean that ‘crushed by three days’ + pressure, my three days’ love lies slain.’ Time has withered him at the + root. I have buried him deep in unconsecrated ground, like a vampire, with + a stake through his heart. And I have come back to you, Judith, humbly to + crave your forgiveness and your love—to tell you I have changed, + dear—to offer you all I have in the world if you will but take it—to + give you my life, my daily, hourly devotion. My God!” I cried, “don’t you + believe me?” + </p> + <p> + She still stared at me in a frightened way, leaning heavier on the table. + Her lips twitched before they could frame the words, + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I believe you. You have never lied to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then in the name of love and heaven,” I cried, “why do you look at me + like that?” + </p> + <p> + She trembled, evidently suppressing something with intense effort, whether + bitter laughter, indignation or a passionate outburst I could not tell. + </p> + <p> + “You ask why?” she said, unsteadily. “Because you seem like the angel of + the flaming vengeance.” + </p> + <p> + At these astounding words it was my turn to look amazed. + </p> + <p> + “Vengeance?” I echud. “What wrong have you done me or any living creature? + Come, my dear,” and I moved nearer by seating myself on the corner of the + table, close to the type-writer, and leaning towards her, “let us look at + this thing soberly. If ever a man had need of woman I have need of you. I + can live alone no longer. We must share one home henceforth together. We + can snap our fingers at the world, you and I. If you have anything to say + against the proposal, let us discuss it calmly.” + </p> + <p> + Judith’s slender figure vibrated like a cord strung to breaking-point. Her + voice vibrated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, let us discuss it calmly. But not here. The sight of you sitting in + the middle of my life, between the sewing-machine and the type-writer, is + getting on my nerves. Let us go into the drawing-room. There is an + atmosphere of calm there—” her voice quavered in a queer little + choke—“of sabbatical calm.” + </p> + <p> + I slid quickly from the table and put my arm round her waist. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, Judith, what is amiss with you.” + </p> + <p> + She broke away from me roughly, thrusting me back. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. A woman’s nothing, if you understand what that means. Come into + the drawing-room.” + </p> + <p> + I opened the door; she passed out and I followed her along the passage. + She preceded me into the drawing-room, and I stayed for a moment to close + the door, fumbling with the handle which has been loose for some months. + When I turned and had made a couple of steps forward, I halted + involuntarily under the shock of a considerable surprise. + </p> + <p> + We were not alone. Standing on the hearth-rug, his hands behind his back, + his brows bent on me benevolently was a man in clerical attire. He looked + ostentatiously, exaggeratedly clerical. His clerical frock-coat was of + inordinate length; his boots were aggravatingly clump-soled; by a very + large white tie, masking the edges of a turned-down collar, he proclaimed + himself Evangelical. An otherwise clean-shaven florid face was adorned + with brown side-whiskers growing rather long. A bald, shiny head topped a + fringe of brown hair. + </p> + <p> + I stared at this unexpected gentleman for a second or two, and then, + recovering my self-possession, looked enquiringly at Judith. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Marcus,” she said, “let me introduce my husband, Mr. Rupert + Mainwaring.” + </p> + <p> + Her husband! This benevolent Evangelical parson her husband! But the + brilliant gallant who had dazzled her eyes? The dissolute scoundrel that + had wrecked her life? Where was he? Dumfounded, I managed to bow politely + enough, but my stupefaction was covered by Judith rushing across the room + and uttering a strange sound which resolved itself into a shrill, + hysterical laugh as she reached the door which she opened and slammed + behind her. I heard her scream hysterically in the passage; then the slam + of another door; and the silence told me that she had shut herself in her + bedroom. Disregarding the new husband’s presence, I rang the bell, and the + servant who had left her kitchen on hearing the scream entered + immediately. + </p> + <p> + “Go to your mistress. She is ill,” said I. + </p> + <p> + The maid hurriedly departed. The parson and I looked at one another. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid,” said I, “that my presence is unhappily an intrusion. I hope + to make your better acquaintance on another occasion.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, please don’t go,” said he, “my wife is only a little upset and will + soon recover. I beg that you will excuse her. Besides, I should like to + have a talk with you.” + </p> + <p> + He offered me a chair, my own chair, the comfortable, broad-seated Empire + chair I had given Judith as a birthday present years ago, the chair in + which I had invariably sat. He did it with the manner of the master of the + house, a most courteous gentleman. The situation was fantastic. Some + ingenious devil must have conceived it by way of pandering to the + after-dinner humour of the high gods. As I sat down I rubbed my eyes. Was + this brown-whiskered, bald-headed clerical gentleman real? The rubbing of + my eyes dispelled no hallucination. He was flesh and blood and still + regarded me urbanely. It was horrible. The desertion of the scoundrelly + husband, who I thought was lost somewhere in the cesspool of Europe, was + the basis, the sanction of the relations between Judith and myself; and + here was this reverend, respectable man apologising for his wife and + begging me to be seated in my own chair. The remark of Judith’s that I + should find sabbatical calm in the drawing-room occurred to me, and I had + to grip the arms of the chair to prevent myself from joining Judith in her + hysterics. + </p> + <p> + The appearance of the husband in his legendary colours of rascality would + have been a shock. The sudden scattering of my plans for Judith’s + happiness I should have viewed with consternation. But it would have been + normal. For him, however, to appear in the guise of an Evangelical + clergyman, the very last kind of individual to be associated with Judith, + was, I repeat, horribly fantastic. + </p> + <p> + “I believe, Sir Marcus,” said he, deliberately parting the tails of his + exaggerated frock-coat and sitting down near me, “that you are a very + great friend of my wife.” + </p> + <p> + I murmured that I had known Mrs. Mainwaring for some years. + </p> + <p> + “You are doubtless acquainted with her unhappy history.” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard her speak of it,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “You must then share her surprise in seeing me here to-day. I should like + to assure you, as representing her friends and society and that sort of + thing, as I have assured her, that I have not taken this step without + earnest prayer and seeking the counsel of Almighty God.” + </p> + <p> + I am by no means a bigoted pietist, but to hear a person talk lightly + about seeking the counsel of Almighty God jars upon my sense of taste. I + stiffened at the sanctimonious tone in which the words were uttered. + </p> + <p> + “You have without doubt very good reasons for coming back into the circle + of her life,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “The best of all reasons,” he replied, caressing a brown whisker, “namely, + that I am a Christian.” + </p> + <p> + I liked him less and less. + </p> + <p> + “Is that the reason, may I ask, why you remained away from her all these + years?” + </p> + <p> + “I deserve the scoff,” said he: “Those were days of sin. I deserve every + humiliation that can be put upon me. But I have since found the grace of + God. I found it at three o’clock in the afternoon on the eighth of + January, eighteen hundred and—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the year,” I interrupted. + </p> + <p> + My gorge rose. The man was a sanctimonious Chadband. He had come with + nefarious designs on Judith’s slender capital. I saw knavery in the whites + of his upturned eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I should be glad,” I continued quickly, “if you would come to the point + of the conversation you desire to have with me. I presume it concerns Mrs. + Mainwaring. She has reconciled herself to circumstances and has found + means to regulate her life with a certain measure of contentment and + comfort until now, when you suddenly introduce a disturbing factor. You + appear to wish to tell me your reasons for doing so—and I can’t see + what the grace of God has to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + He sprang to his feet and shot out both hands in the awkward gesture of an + inspired English prophet. + </p> + <p> + “But it has everything to do with it! It is the beginning and end, core + and kernel, root and branch of the matter. It is the grace of God that + checked me in the full career of my wickedness. It is the grace of God + that has lighted my path ever since to holier things. It is the grace of + God that has changed me from what I was to what I am. It is the grace of + God that has brought me here to ask pardon on my knees of the woman I have + wronged. The grace of God and of his son our Lord Jesus Christ, which came + upon me in a great light on that January afternoon even as it did upon + Saul of Tarsus. The grace of God has everything to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Mainwaring,” said I, “such talk is either blasphemous or—” + </p> + <p> + He did not allow me to state the alternative, but caught up the word in a + great cry. + </p> + <p> + “Blasphemous! Why, man alive! for what are you taking me? Do you think + this is some unholy jest? Can’t you see that I am in deadly earnest? Come + and see me where I live—” he caught me by the arm, as if he would + drag me away then and there, “among the poor in Hoxton. You scarcely know + where Hoxton is—I didn’t when I was a man of ease like yourself—that + wilderness of grey despair where the sun of the world scarcely shines, let + alone the Light of God. Come and see for yourself, man, whether I am + lying!” + </p> + <p> + Then it dawned upon me that the man had been talking from innermost + depths, that he was almost terrifyingly sincere. + </p> + <p> + “I must ask you to pardon me,” said I, “for appearing to doubt your good + faith. You must attribute it to my entire unfamiliarity with the terms of + Evangelical piety.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me queerly for a moment, and then, in the quiet tones of a + man of the world, said, smiling pleasantly: + </p> + <p> + “Very many years ago I had the pleasure of knowing your grandfather, the + late baronet. May I say that you remind me of him?” + </p> + <p> + I have never heard an apology more gracefully and tactfully accepted. For + an unregenerate second he had become the gallant Rupert Mainwaring again, + and showed me wherein might lie his attraction. + </p> + <p> + “Pray be seated,” said he, more gravely, “and allow me to explain.” + </p> + <p> + He unfolded his story. It was well, said he, that an outsider (I an + outsider in that familiar room!) should hear it. I was at liberty to make + it public. Indeed, publicity was what he earnestly craved. As far as my + memory serves me, for my wits were whirling as I listened, the following + is an epitome of his narrative: + </p> + <p> + He had been a man of sin—not only in the vague ecclesiastical sense, + but in downright, practical earnest. He had committed every imaginable + crime, save the odd few that lead to penal servitude and the gallows. He + drank, he betrayed women, he cheated at cards, he had an evil reputation + on the turf. His companions were chosen from the harlotry and knavery of + the civilised world. He had lured Judith from her first husband, thus + breaking his heart, poor man, so that he died soon after. He had married + Judith, and had deserted her for a barmaid whom in her turn he had + abandoned. He wallowed, to use his own expression, in the trough of + iniquity. He was, as I had always understood, about as choice a blackguard + as it would be possible to meet outside a gaol. One day a pretty girl, + whom he had been following in the street, unwittingly enticed him into a + revivalist meeting. He described that meeting so vividly that had my + stupefied mind been capable of fresh emotions, I too might have been + converted at second hand by the revivalist preacher. He repeated parts of + the sermon, rose to his feet, waved his arms, thundered out the + commonplaces of Salvation Army Christianity, as if he had made an amazing + theological discovery. It was pathetic. It was ludicrous. It was also + inconceivably painful. At last he mopped his forehead and shiny head. + </p> + <p> + “Before that meeting was over I was on my knees praying beside the girl + whom I had designed to ruin. I went into the streets a converted man, + filled with the grace of God. I resolved to devote my life to saving souls + for Christ. My old habits of sin fell away from me like a garment. I + studied for the ministry. I am now in deacon’s orders, and I am the + incumbent of a little tin mission church in Hoxton. God moves in a + mysterious way, Sir Marcus.” + </p> + <p> + “He is generally credited with doing so,” said I, stupidly. + </p> + <p> + “You are doubtless wondering, Sir Marcus,” he went on, “why I placed such + a long interval between my awakening and my communicating with my wife. I + set myself a period of probation. I desired to be assured of God’s will. + It was essential that I should test my strength of purpose, and my power + of making a life’s atonement, as far as the things of this world are + concerned, for the wrongs I have inflicted on her. I have come now to + offer her a Christian home.” + </p> + <p> + I looked at him open-mouthed. + </p> + <p> + “Do you expect Judith to go and live with you as your wife, in Hoxton?” I + asked, bluntly. + </p> + <p> + “Why not? She is my wife.” + </p> + <p> + I rose and walked about the room in agitation. Somehow such a contingency + had not entered my bewildered head. + </p> + <p> + “Why not, Sir Marcus?” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Because Judith isn’t that kind of woman at all,” I said, desperately. + “She doesn’t like Hoxton, and would be as much out of place in a + tin-mission church as I should be in a cavalry charge.” + </p> + <p> + “God will see to her fitness,” said he, gravely. “To him all things are + easy.” + </p> + <p> + “But she has considerable philosophic doubt as to his personal existence,” + I cried. + </p> + <p> + He smiled prophetically and waved away her doubt with a gesture. + </p> + <p> + “I have no fears on that score,” he observed. + </p> + <p> + “But it is preposterous,” I objected once more, changing my ground; + “Judith craves the arrears of gaiety and laughter which your conduct + caused life to leave owing to her. She loves bright dresses, cigarettes, + and wine and the things that are anathema in an Evangelical household.” + </p> + <p> + “My wife will find the gaiety and laughter of holiness,” replied the + fanatic. “She will not be stinted of money to dress herself with becoming + modesty; and as for alcohol and tobacco, no one knows better than myself + how easy it is to give them up.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem as merciless in your virtues as you were in your vices,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “I have to bring souls to Christ,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t appear to be the way,” I retorted, “to bring them.” + </p> + <p> + “Pray remember, Sir Marcus,” said he, bending his brows upon me, “that I + did not ask you for suggestions as to the conduct of my ministry.” + </p> + <p> + “The general methods you adopt in the case of your congregation,” said I, + “are matters of perfect indifference to me. But I cannot see Judith + imprisoned for life in a tin church without a protest. Your proposal + reminds me of the Siennese who owed a victorious general more than they + could possibly repay. The legend goes that they hanged him, in order to + make him a saint after his death by way of reward. I object to this sort + of canonisation of Judith. And she will object, too. You seem to leave her + out of account altogether. She is mistress of her own actions. She has a + will of her own. She is not going to give up her comfortable flat off the + Tottenham Court Road in order to dwell in Hoxton. She won’t go back to you + under your conditions.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled indulgently and held out his hand to signify that the interview + was over. + </p> + <p> + “She will, Sir Marcus.” + </p> + <p> + Was there ever such a Torquemada of a creature? I respect religion. I + respect this man’s intense conviction of the reality of his conversion. I + can respect even the long frock coat and the long brown whiskers, which in + the case of so dashing a worldling as Rupert Mainwaring were a deliberate + and daily mortification of the flesh. But I hold in shuddering detestation + “the thumb-screw and the rack for the glory of the Lord,” which he + cheerfully contemplated applying to Judith. + </p> + <p> + “Why on earth can’t you let the poor woman alone?” I asked, ignoring his + hand. + </p> + <p> + “I am doing my duty to God and to her,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “With the result that you have driven her into hysterics.” + </p> + <p> + “She’ll get over them,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you good-day,” said I. “We might talk together for a thousand + years without understanding each other.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” he retorted, with the utmost urbanity. “I understand you + perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + He accompanied me to the dining-room where I had left my hat and umbrella, + and to the flat door which he politely opened. When it shut behind me I + felt inclined to batter it open again and to take Judith by main force + from under his nose. But I suppose I am pusillanimous. I found myself in + the street brandishing my umbrella like a flaming sword and vowing to + perform all sorts of Paladin exploits, which I knew in my heart were + futile. + </p> + <p> + I hailed an omnibus in the Tottenham Court Road, and clambered to the top, + though a slight drizzle was falling. Why I did it I have not the remotest + idea, for I abhor those locomotive engines of exquisite discomfort. I had + no preconceived notion of destination. It was a moving thing that would + carry me away from the Tottenham Court Road, away from the Rev. Rupert + Mainwaring, away from myself. I was the solitary occupant of the omnibus + roof. The rain fell, softly, persistently, soakingly. I laughed aloud. + </p> + <p> + I recognised the predestined irony of things that at every corner checks + the course of the ineffectual man. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX + </h2> + <p> + November 11th. + </p> + <p> + I wrote Judith a long letter last night, urging her to disregard the + forfeited claims of her husband and to join her life definitely with mine. + I was cynical enough to feel that if such a proceeding annoyed the Rev. + Rupert Mainwaring it would serve him right. The fact of a man’s finding + religion and abjuring sack does not in itself exculpate him from wrongs + which he has inflicted on his fellow-creatures in unregenerate days. + Mainwaring deserved some punishment of which he seemed to have had + remarkably little; for, mind you, his sack-cloth and ashes at Hoxton, + although sincerely worn, are not much of a punishment to a man in his + exalted mood. Now, on the contrary, Judith deserved compensation, such as + I alone was prepared to offer her in spite of conventional morality and + the feelings of the Rev. Rupert Mainwaring. Indeed, it seemed to be the + only way of saving Judith from being worried out of her life by frantic + appeals to embrace both himself and Primitive Christianity. Her position + was that of Andromeda. Mine that of an unheroic Perseus, destined to + deliver her from the monster—the monster whose lair is a little tin + mission church in Hoxton. + </p> + <p> + I wrote the letter in one of those periods of semi-vitality when the + pulses of emotion throb weakly, and sensitiveness is dulled. To-day I have + felt differently. My nerves have been restrung. Something ironically + vulgar, sordidly tragic has seemed to creep into my relations with Judith. + </p> + <p> + To my great surprise Judith brought her answer in person this evening. It + is the first time she has entered my house; and her first words, as she + looked all around her with a wistful smile referred to the fact. + </p> + <p> + “It is almost just as I have pictured it—and I have pictured it—do + you know how often?” + </p> + <p> + She was calmer, if not happier. The haggard expression had given place to + one of resignation. I wheeled an arm-chair close to the fire, for she was + cold, and she sank into it with a sigh of weariness. I knelt beside her. + She drew off her gloves and put one hand on my head in the old way. The + touch brought me great comfort. I thought that we had reached the quiet + haven at last. + </p> + <p> + “So you have come to me, Judith,” I whispered. + </p> + <p> + “I have come, dear,” she said, “to tell you that I can’t come.” + </p> + <p> + My heart sank. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + We fenced a little. She gave half reasons, womanlike, of which I proved + the inadequacy. I recapitulated the arguments I had used in my letter. She + met them with hints and vague allusions. At last she cut the knot. + </p> + <p> + “I am going back to my husband.” + </p> + <p> + I rose to my feet and echud the words. She repeated them in a tone so + mournfully distinct, that they had the finality of a death-knell. I had + nothing to say. + </p> + <p> + “Before we part I must make my peace with you, Marcus,” she said. “I have + suddenly developed a conscience. I always had the germs of it.” + </p> + <p> + “You were always the best and dearest woman in the world,” I cried. + </p> + <p> + “And I betrayed you, dear. That letter from Pasquale told me about his + flight with Carlotta. I lied to you—but I was in a state bordering + on madness.” + </p> + <p> + I rested my elbow on the mantel-piece and looked down on her. She appeared + so sweet and fragile, like a piece of Dresden china, incapable of base + actions. As I did not speak she went on: “I did not mean to play into + Pasquale’s hands, Marcus. Heaven knows I didn’t—but I did play into + them. Do you remember that awful night and our talk the next morning? I + asked you not to see her all day—to mourn our dead love. I knew you + would keep your promise. You are a man of sensitive honour. If all men + were like you, the world would be a beautiful place.” + </p> + <p> + “It would go to smash in a few weeks through universal incompetence,” I + murmured, with some bitterness. + </p> + <p> + “There would be no meanness and treachery and despicable underhand doings. + Marcus, you must forgive me—I was a desperate woman fighting for my + life’s happiness. I thought I would try one forlorn hope. I kept you out + of the way and came up here to see Carlotta. Don’t interrupt me, Marcus; + let me finish. I happened to meet her a hundred yards down the road, and + we went into the Regent’s Park. We sat down and I told her about + ourselves, and my love for you, and asked her to give you up. I don’t + believe she understood, Marcus. She laughed and threw stones at a little + dog. I recovered my senses and left her there and went home sick with + shame and humiliation. I knew Pasquale was in love with her, for he had + told me so the night before, and asked me how the marriage could be + stopped. He didn’t believe in your announcement to Hamdi Effendi. But I + never mentioned Pasquale to Carlotta, or hinted there might be another + than you. I was loyal so far, Marcus. And two or three days afterwards + came Pasquale’s letter. And I waited for you, in a fearful joy. I knew you + would come to me—and I was mad enough to think that time would heal—that + you would forget—that we could have the dear past again—and I + would teach you to love me. But then, suddenly, without a word of warning—it + has always been his way—appeared my husband. After that, you came + with your offer of shelter and comfort—and you seemed like the angel + of the flaming vengeance. For I had wronged you, dear—robbed you of + your happiness. If I hadn’t prepared her mind for leaving you, she would + never have run away. If I had not done this, or if on the other hand you + loved me, Marcus, I should perhaps have looked at things differently. I am + beginning to believe in God and to see his hand in it all. I couldn’t come + and live with you as your wife, Marcus. Things stronger even than my love + for you forbid it. Our life together would not be the sweet and gracious + thing it has always been to me. We have come to the parting of the ways. I + must follow my husband.” + </p> + <p> + I knew she spoke rightly. When she is not swept away to hysterical action + by her temperament, she has a perception exquisitely keen into the heart + of truth. + </p> + <p> + “The parting of the ways?” said I. “Yes; but can’t you rest at the + cross-roads? Can’t you lead your present life—your husband and + myself, both, just your friends?” + </p> + <p> + “Rupert has need of me,” she replied very quickly. “He is a man in torment + of soul. He has gone to this extreme of religious fanaticism because he is + still uncertain of himself. We had another long talk to-day. I may help + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he deserve the sacrifice of your life?” + </p> + <p> + She did not take up my question directly; but sat for a few minutes with + her chin on her hand looking into the fire. + </p> + <p> + “He is a man of evil passions,” she resumed, at last. “Drink and women + mainly dragged him down. I knew the hell of it during the short time of + our married life. If he falls away now, he believes he is damned to all + eternity. He believes in the material torture—flames and devils and + pitchforks—of damned souls. He says in me alone lies his salvation. + I must go. If the tin church gets too awful, I shall run over to Delphine + Carrere for a week to steady my nerves.” + </p> + <p> + What could I say? The abomination of desolation lay around about me. I + might have prated to her of my needs, wrung her heart with the piteousness + of my appeal. <i>Cui bono?</i> <i>I</i> can’t whine to women—or to + men either, for the matter of that. When I am by myself I can curse and + swear, play Termagant and rehearse an extravaganza out-Heroding all the + Herods that ever Heroded. But before others—no. I believe my + great-grandfather, before he qualified for his baronetcy, was a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “But on these occasions,” said I, “you will avoid a sequestered and + meditative self.” + </p> + <p> + Her laugh got choked by a sob. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember that? It is not so long ago—and yet it seems many, + many years.” + </p> + <p> + We moralised generally, after the way of humans, who desire to postpone a + moment of anguished speech. She made the tour of my book-shelves. Many of + the books she had borrowed, and she recognised them as old friends. + </p> + <p> + “Is that where Benvenuto Cellini has always lived?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I, running my hand along the row. “He is in his century, among + his companions. He would be unhappy anywhere else.” + </p> + <p> + “And the History—how far has it gone?” + </p> + <p> + I showed her the pile of finished manuscript, of which she glanced at a + few pages. She put it down hurriedly and turned away. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t see to read, just now, Marcus.” + </p> + <p> + Then she paused in front of her own photograph, the only one now on the + mantel-piece. + </p> + <p> + “Will you give me that back?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “I would rather—I should not like you to burn it.” + </p> + <p> + “Burn it? All I have left of you?” + </p> + <p> + She turned swimming eyes on me. + </p> + <p> + “You are good, Marcus—after what I have told you—you do not + feel bitterly against me?” + </p> + <p> + “For what? For being quixotic? For going to martyrdom for an ideal?” + </p> + <p> + “You did not listen when I spoke about Carlotta?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear!” said I. + </p> + <p> + And now she has gone. We kissed at parting—a kiss of remembrance and + renunciation. Shall we ever meet again? + </p> + <p> + Darkness gathers round me, and I am tired, tired, and I would that I could + sleep like Rip Van Winkle, and awake an old man, with an old man’s + passionless resignation; or better, awake not at all. Such poor fools as I + are better dead. + </p> + <p> + I look back and see all my philosophy refuted, all my prim little opinions + lying prone like dolls with the sawdust knocked out of them. All these + years I have been judging Judith with an ignorance as cruel as it has been + complacent. Verily I have been the fag end of wisdom. So I forbear to + judge her now. + </p> + <p> + If I had loved Judith with the great passion of a man’s love for woman, + not all the converted rascals in Christendom could have come between us. + </p> + <p> + And her seeing Carlotta—poor woman—what does it matter? What + did she say about Carlotta? “She laughed and threw stones at a little + dog.” + </p> + <p> + Oh, my God! + </p> + <p> + November 12th + </p> + <p> + This way madness lies. I will leave the house in charge of Stenson and + Antoinette and go abroad. Something has put Verona into my head. One place + is as good as another, so long as it is not this house—this house of + death and madness and crime—and Verona is in Italy, where I have + always found peace. + </p> + <p> + I will confess my madness. This book is a record of my morals—the + finished version of the farce the high gods have called on meto play. I + thought last night the curtain was rung down. I was wrong. Listen, and + laugh as I do—if you can. + </p> + <p> + I fixed myself to work to-day. After all, I am not an idler. I earn my + right to live. When I publish my History the world will be the richer by + <i>something</i>, poor though it may be. I vow I have been more greatly, + more nobly employed of late years, than I was when I earned my living at + school-slavery teaching to children the most useless, the most disastrous, + the most soul-cramping branch of knowledge wherewith pedagogues in their + insensate folly have crippled the minds and blasted the lives of thousands + of their fellow-creatures—elementary mathematics. There is no more + reason for any human being on God’s earth to be acquainted with the + Binomial Theorem or the Solution of Triangles—unless he is a + professional scientist, when he can begin to specialise in mathematics at + the same age as the lawyer begins to specialise in law or the surgeon in + anatomy—than for him to be an expert in Choctaw, the Cabala or the + Book of Mormon. I look back with feelings of shame and degradation to the + days when, for the sake of a crust of bread, I prostituted my intelligence + to wasting the precious hours of impressionable childhood, which could + have been filled with so many beautiful and meaningful things, over this + utterly futile and inhuman subject. It trains the mind—it teaches + boys to think, they say. It doesn’t. In reality it is a cut and dried + subject easy to fit into a school curriculum. Its sacrosanctity saves + educationalists an enormous amount of trouble, and its chief use is to + enable mindless young men from the universities to make a dishonest living + by teaching it to others, who in their turn may teach it to a future + generation. + </p> + <p> + I am mad to-night—why have I indulged in this diatribe against + mathematics? I must find some vent, I suppose. I see now. I was saying + that I earned my right to live, that I am not an idler. I cling + strenuously to the claim. A man cannot command respect, even his own, by + the mere reason of his <i>vie sentimentale</i>. And, after what I have + done to-day, I must force my claim to the respect which on other grounds I + have forfeited. + </p> + <p> + I spent, then, my day in unremitting toil. But this evening the horrible + craving for her came over me. Such a little thing brought it about. + Antoinette, who disapproves of the amorphous British lumps of sugar, has + found some emporium where she can buy the regular parallelopiped of the + Continent, and these she provides for my afterdinner coffee. + Absent-mindedly I dipped the edge of the piece of sugar into the liquid, + before dropping it, and watched the brown moisture rise through the white + crystals. Then I remembered. It was an invariable practice of Carlotta’s. + She would keep the lump in the coffee to saturation-point between her + fingers, and then hastily put it into her mouth, so that it should not + crumble to pieces on the way. If it did, there would be much laughter and + wiping of skirts; and there would be a search through my dinner-jacket + pockets for a handkerchief to dry the pink tips of her fingers. She called + the dripping lump a canard, like the French children. It was such a + trivial thing; but it brought back with a rush all the thousand dainty, + foolish, captivating intimacies that made up the maddening charm of + Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + Yes, I am aware that there is no language spoken under heaven that can + fitly express the doting folly of a man who can be driven mad by a piece + of sugar soaked in coffee. There is a ghastly French phrase not to be + found in Lamartine, Chateaubriand, or any of the polite sentimentalists <i>avoir + les sangs tournes de quelqu’un</i>. It is so with me. <i>J’ai les sangs + tournes d’elle</i>. Somebody has said something somewhere about the + passion of a man of forty. It must have to do with the French phrase. + </p> + <p> + I pushed my coffee aside untasted, and buried my head in my hands, + longing, longing; eating my heart out for her. The hours passed. When the + servants were abed, I stole upstairs to her room, left as it was on the + night when Antoinette, hoping against hope, had prepared it for her + reception. I broke down. Heaven knows what I did. + </p> + <p> + I returned to the drawing-room filled with the blind rage that makes a man + curse God and wish that he could die. The fire was black, and I + mechanically took up the poker to stir it. A tempest of impotent anger + shook my soul. I saw things red before my eyes. I had an execrable lust to + kill. I was alone amid a multitude of gibbering fiends. As I stooped + before the grate I felt something scrabble my shoulders. I leapt back with + a shriek, and saw standing on the mantel-shelf a black, one-eyed thing + regarding me with an expression of infinite malice. Before I knew what I + had done, I had brought the iron down, with all my force, upon its skull, + and it had fallen dead at my feet. + </p> + <p> + <i>Finis coronat opus.</i> + </p> + <p> + November 22d. + </p> + <p> + Verona:—I have abandoned the “History of Renaissance Morals.” The + dog’s-eared MS. and the dusty pile of notes I have shot into a lumber heap + in a corner of this room, where I sit and shiver by a little stove. It is + immense, marble, cold, comfortless, suggestive of “the vasty halls of + death.” I have been here a week to-day. I thought I should find rest. I + should breathe the atmosphere of Italy again. I should ease my heart among + the masterworks of Girolamo dai Libri and Cavazzola, and, in the presence + of the blue castellated mountains they loved to paint, my spirit would + even be as theirs. In this old-world city, I fondly imagined, I should + forget the Regent’s Park, and attune my mind to the life that once filled + its narrow streets. + </p> + <p> + But nothing have I found save solitude. I stood to-day before the + mutilated fresco of Morone, my rapture of six years ago, and hated it with + unreasoning hatred. The Madonna belied the wreath-supported inscription + above her head, <i>“Miseratrix virginum Regina nostri miserere,”</i> and + greeted me with a pitiless simper. The unidentified martyr on the left + stared straight in front of him with callous indifference, and St. Roch + looked aggravatingly plump for all his ostentatious plague-spot. The + picture was worse than meaningless. It was insulting. It drove me out of + the Public Gallery. Outside a grey mist veiled the hills and a fine + penetrating rain was falling. I crept home, and for the fiftieth time + since I have been here, opened my “History of Renaissance Morals.” I threw + it, with a final curse, into the corner. + </p> + <p> + I loathe it. I care not a fig for the Renaissance or its morals. I count + its people but a pestilent herd of daubers, rhymers, cutthroats, and + courtesans. Their <i>hubris</i> has lost its glamour of beauty and has + coarsened into vulgar insolence. They offend me by their riotous swagger, + their insistence on the animal joy of living; chiefly by their perpetual + reminiscence of Pasquale. + </p> + <p> + Yet once they interested me greatly, filling with music and with colour + the grey void of my life. Whence has come the change? + </p> + <p> + In myself. To myself I have become a subject of excruciating interest. To + myself I am a vastly more picturesque personage than any debonair hooligan + of quattro-cento Verona. He has faded into the dullest (and most + offensive) dog of a ghost. I only exist. This sounds like the colossal + vanity of Bedlam. Heaven knows it is not. If you are racked with toothache + from ear to ear, from crown to chin, and from eyeball to cerebellum, is + not the whole universe concentrated in that head of yours? Are you not to + yourself in that hour of torture the most vitally important of created + beings? And no one blames you for it. Let me therefore be without blame in + my hour of moral toothache. + </p> + <p> + In the days gone by I was the victim of a singular hallucination. I + flattered myself on being the one individual in the world not summoned to + play his part in the comedy of Life. I sat alone in the great auditorium + like the mad king of Bavaria, watching with little zest what seemed but a + sorry spectacle. I thought myself secure in my solitary stall. But I had + not counted on the high gods who crowd shadowy into the silent seats and + are jealous of a mortal in their midst. Without warning was I wrested from + my place, hurled onto the stage, and before my dazzled eyes could accustom + themselves to the footlights, I found myself enmeshed in intolerable + drama. I was unprepared. I knew my part imperfectly. I missed my cues. I + had the blighting self-consciousness of the amateur. And yet the idiot + mummery was intensely real. Amid the laughter of the silent shadowy gods I + thought to flee from the stage. I came to Verona and find I am still + acting my part. I have always been acting. I have been acting since I was + born. The reason of our being is to amuse the high gods with our + histrionics. The earth itself is the stage, and the starry ether the + infinite auditorium. + </p> + <p> + The high gods have granted to their troupe of mimes one boon. Each has it + in his power to make the final exit at any moment. For myself I feel that + moment is at hand. One last soliloquy, and then like the pagliacco I can + say with a sigh, <i>“La commedia e finita</i>—the play is played + out,” and the rest will be silence. At all events I will tell my own + story. My “History of Renaissance Morals” can lie in its corner and rot, + whilst I shall concern myself with a far more vital theme—The Morals + of Marcus Ordeyne. The rough entries in my diary have been a habit of many + futile years; but they have never sufficed for self-expression. I have not + needed it till now. But now, with Judith and Carlotta gone from me, my one + friend, Pasquale, cut for ever from my life, even the sympathetic + Polyphemus driven into eternity by my murderous hand, I feel the + irresistible craving to express myself fully and finally for the first and + last time of my life. It will be my swan song. What becomes of it + afterwards I care not. + </p> + <p> + And when the last word is written, I shall go to the Pinacoteca and stand + again before the Morone fresco, and if the <i>Miseratrix Virginum Regina</i> + still simpers at me, I shall take it as a sign and a token. I shall return + to this marble cavern and make my final exit. It will be theatrically + artistic—that I vow and declare—which no doubt will afford + immense pleasure to the high gods in their gallery. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART II + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI + </h2> + <p> + It is some two years since I stood for the second time in the Pinacoteca + of Verona and sought to read my fate in the simpering countenance of + Morone’s <i>Miseratrix Virginum Regina</i>. I met what might have been + expected by a person of any sense—the self-same expression on the + painted face as I had angrily found there two months before when I began + to write the foregoing pages. But as I had no sense at all in those days I + accepted the poor battered Madonna’s lack of sympathy for a sign and a + token, went home, and prepared for dissolution. + </p> + <p> + Two years ago! It is only for the last few months that I have been able to + look back on that nightmare of a time in Verona with philosophic + equanimity. And this morning is the first occasion on which I have felt + that dispassionate attitude towards a past self which enables a man to set + down without the heartache the memories of days that are gone. I sit upon + the flat roof of this house in Mogador on the Morocco coast, shaded by an + awning from the bright African sun which glints in myriad sparkles on the + sea visible beyond the house-tops. The atmosphere last night was somewhat + heavy with the languorous, indescribable, and unforgettable smell of the + East; but the morning is deliciously wind-swept by the Atlantic breeze, + and the air tastes sweet. And it is clear, dazzlingly clear. The white + square houses and the cupolas of the mosques stand out sharp against a sky + of intense, ungradated blue. I am away from the centre of the busy + sea-port and the noise of its streets thronged with grain-laden camels and + shouting drivers and picturesque, quarrelling, squabbling, haggling Moors + and Jews and desert Arabs, and I am enveloped in the peace of the infinite + azure. Besides, yesterday afternoon, as I rode back to Mogador, across the + tongue of desert which separates it from the Palm Tree House, and the town + rose on the horizon, a dream city of pure snow set in the clear sunset + amethyst against the still, pale lapis lazuli of the bay—something + happened. And yesterday evening more happened still. + </p> + <p> + Two years ago, then, I faced in Verona the dissolution of my ineffectual + existence. I could see no reason for living. My theory of myself in my + relation to the cosmos had been upset by practical phenomena. No other + theory based on surer grounds presented itself. But what about life, said + I, without a theory? Already it was life without a purpose, without work, + without friends, without Judith and without Carlotta. I could not endure + it without even a theory to console me. Beings do exist devoid of loves or + theories. But of such, I thought, are the beasts that perish. I reflected + further. Supposing, on extended investigation, I found a new theory. How + far would it profit me? How far could I trust it not to lead me through + another series of fantastic emotions and futile endeavours to the sublime + climax of murdering a one-eyed cat? Self-abomination and contempt smote me + as I thought of poor Polyphemus stretched dead on the hearthrug, and + myself standing over him, sane, stupid, and remorseful, with the poker in + my hand. + </p> + <p> + I walked up and down the vast cold room of the marble palazzo, arraying + before me in overwhelming numbers the arguments for selfdestruction. On a + table in the middle of the room stood a phial of prussic acid which I had + procured long before in London, it being a conviction of mine that every + man ought to have ready to hand a sure means of exit from the world. I + paused many times in front of the little blue phial. One lift of the hand, + one toss of the head, and all would be over. At last I extracted the cork, + and the faint smell of almonds reached my nostrils. I recorked the phial + and lit a cigarette. This I threw away half smoked and again approached + the table of death. I began to feel a strong natural disinclination to + swallow the stuff. “This,” said I, “is sheer animal cowardice.” I again + uncorked the phial. A new phase of the matter appeared to me. “It is the + act of a craven to shirk the responsibilities of life. Can you be such a + meanspirited creature as not even to have the courage to live?” “No,” said + I, “I have a valiant spirit,” and I set down the bottle. “Bah,” whispered + the familiar imp of suicide at my elbow. “You are just afraid to die.” I + took up the bottle again. But the other taunter had an argument equally + strong, and once more I put the phial uncorked on the table. + </p> + <p> + Thus between two cowardices, one of which I must choose, stood I, like the + ass of Buridan. I lit another cigarette and excogitated the problem. I + smoked two cigarettes, walking up and down that vast, chill apartment, + while the air grew sickly sweet with the smell of almonds, which + intensified the physical repugnance the first faint odour had occasioned. + I began to shiver with cold. The stove had burned out before I entered, + and I had not considered it worth while to have it filled for the few + minutes that would remain to me to live. I had not reckoned on the ass’s + bundles of cowardice. + </p> + <p> + “I may as well be warm,” thought I, “while I prove to my complete + satisfaction that it is more cowardly to live than to die. There is no + very great hurry.” + </p> + <p> + I caught up a travelling-rug with which I had tried to soften the + asperities of an imitation Louis XV couch, and throwing it over my + shoulders, resumed my pilgrimage. I soon lost myself in the problem and + did not notice a corner of the rug gradually slipping down towards the + floor. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do it!” I cried at last, making a sudden dive towards the table. But + the ironical corner of the rug had reached the ground. I stepped on it, + tripped, and instinctively caught the table to steady myself. The table, a + rickety gueridon, overbalanced, and away rolled my uncorked phial of + prussic acid and fell into a hundred pieces on the tessellated floor. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Solvitur</i>,” said I, grimly, “<i>ambulando</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Looking back now, I am inclined to treat myself tenderly. Whether I should + have drunk the poison, if the accident had not occurred, I cannot say. At + the moment of my rush I intended to do so. After the catastrophe, which I + attributed to the curse of ineffectuality that pursued me, I must confess + that I was glad. Not that life looked more attractive than before, but + that the decision had been taken out of my hands. I could not go about the + shops of Verona buying prussic acid or revolvers or metres of stout rope. + And my razors (without Stenson’s care) were benignantly blunt, and I would + not condescend to braces. I groaned and pished and pshawed, but as it was + written that I was to live, I resigned myself to a barren and theoryless + existence. + </p> + <p> + After a day or two the vital instinct asserted itself more strongly. I + became inspired by an illuminating revelation. I had a preliminary aim in + life. I would go out into the world in search of a theory. When found I + would apply it to the regulation of the score and a half years during + which I might possibly expect to remain on this planet. I must take my + chances of it leading me to the corpse of another Polyphemus. + </p> + <p> + As it struck me I should not find my theory in Italy, I packed up my + belongings and hastened from Verona. At Naples I picked up a Messageries + Maritimes steamer and began a circular tour in the Levant. At Alexandretta + I went ashore, and inquired my way to the dwelling of the Prefect of + Police. I did not call on Hamdi Effendi. But I wandered round the walls + and wondered in a moody, heart-achey way where it was that Carlotta sat + when Harry came along and whistled her like a tame falcon to his arm. It + was a white palace of a house with a closed balcony supported on rude + corbels and tightly shuttered. At the back spread a large garden + surrounded by the famous wall. There was no doubt that Hamdi was a wealthy + personage, and that Carlotta’s nurture had been as gentle as that of any + lady in Syria. But the place wherein Carlotta’s childhood had been + sheltered had an air of impenetrable mystery. I stood baffled before it, + as I had stood so often before Carlotta’s soul. The result of this portion + of my search was the discovery, not of a new theory, but of an old pain. I + went back to the ship in a despondent mood, and caused deep distress to + one of the gentlest creatures I have ever met. He was a lean, elderly + German, who no matter what the occasion or what the temperature wore a + long, tight-buttoned frock-coat, a narrow black tie, and a little + bluish-grey felt hat adorned with a partridge’s feather which gave him an + air of forlorn rakishness. His name was Doctor Anastasius Dose, and he + spent a blameless life in travelling up and down the world, on behalf of a + Leipsic firm of which he was a member, in search of rare and curious + books. For there are copies of books which have a well-known pedigree like + famous jewels, and whose acquisition, a matter of infinite tact, gives + rise, I was told by Herr Dose, to the most exquisite thrill known to man. + He brought me on that morose afternoon a copy of the “Synonima,” in + Italian and French, of St. Fliscus, printed by Simon Magniagus of Milan in + 1480, and opened the vellum covers with careful fingers. + </p> + <p> + “In all the assemblage of human atoms that inhabit this vessel,” said he, + “there is but one who is imbued with reverence for the past and a sense of + the preciousness of the unique. I need not tell you, Herr Baronet, who are + a scholar, that of this book only two copies exist in this ink-sodden + universe. One is in the University Library of Bologna; the other is before + your eyes. It is also the only book known to have been printed by + Magniagus. See the beautiful, small Roman type—a masterpiece. Ach, + Herr Baronet! to have accomplished one such work in a lifetime, and then + to sit among the blessed saints and look down on earth and know that the + two sole copies in existence are cherished by the elect, what a reward, + what eternal happiness!” + </p> + <p> + I turned over the pages. The faint perfume of mouldy lore ascended and I + remembered the smell of the “Histoire des Uscoques” in the Embankment + Gardens. + </p> + <p> + “The <i>odor di femina</i> in the nostrils of the scholar,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Famina?</i> Woman?” he cried, scandalised. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my friend,” said I. “All things sublunar can be translated into + terms of woman. St. Fliscus wrote because he hadn’t a wife; Simon + Magniagus stopped printing because he got married and devoted his + existence to reproducing himself instead of St. Fliscus.” + </p> + <p> + “Ach, that is very interesting,” said he. “Could you tell me the date of + Magniagus’s marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “I never heard of him till this moment, my dear Herr Doctor. But depend + upon it, he was either married or was going to be married, and she ran + away from him and left him without the heart to print for posterity, and + when he took his seat among the saints she said she was so glad; he was a + stupid old ink-sodden fellow!” + </p> + <p> + He departed sorrowingly from the deck, clasping the precious volume to his + heart. Allusive or discursive speech scared him like indecency; and I had + used his gem but as a peg whereon flauntingly to hang it. It took me three + days to tame him and to induce him to show me another of his treasures, + recently acquired in Athens. Ioannes Georgius Godelmann’s <i>Tractate de + Lamiis</i>, printed by Nicholas Bassaeus of Frankfurt. I read him Keats’s + poem about the young lady of Corinth, of which he had never heard. His + mental attitude towards it was the indulgent one of an old diplomatist + towards a child’s woolly lamb. For him literature had never existed and + printing ended in the year 1600. But I was sorry when he left me at + Constantinople, where he counted on striking the track of a Bohemian + herbal, printed at Prague, and never more to be read by any of the sons of + man. In the summer he was going book-hunting in Iceland. By chance I have + learned since that he died there. Peace to his ashes! For aught I could + see he dwelt in a mild stupor of happiness, absorbed in the intoxication + of a tremulous pursuit. I wondered whether his soul contained that + antidote—the <i>odor di femina</i>. Perhaps he met it at Reykjavic + and he died of dismay. + </p> + <p> + I thought that my landing at Alexandretta was alone responsible for the + continuance of my dotage, and hoped that fresh scenes would banish + Carlotta’s distracting image. But no, it was one of the many vain + reflections on which I based a false philosophy. Whether in Beyrout, or + the land of the “sweet singer of Persephone,” or Alexandria, or on the + Cannebiere of Marseilles, or in the queer half-Orient of Algiers whither a + restless pursuit of the Identical led me, or in Lisbon, or in the + mountainous republic of Andorre, where I hoped to find primitive wisdom + and to shape a theory from first principles, and whence I was ironically + driven by fleas—whether on land or sea, in cities or in solitudes, + the vanished hand harped on my heartstrings and the voice that was still + (as far as I was concerned) cooed its dove-notes into my ears. + </p> + <p> + I remember overhearing myself described on a steamboat by a pretty + American girl of sixteen, as “a quaint gentle old guy who talks awful rot + which no one can understand, and is all the time thinking about something + else.” My sudden emergence from the companion-way, where I was lighting a + cigarette, brought red confusion into the young person’s cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “How old do you think I am?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, about sixty,” quoth the damsel. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad I’m quaint and gentle, even though I do talk rot,” said I. + </p> + <p> + With the resourcefulness of her nation she linked her arm in mine and + started a confidential walk up and down the deck. + </p> + <p> + “You are just a dear,” she remarked. + </p> + <p> + She could not have said more to Anastasius Dose had he been there; as far + as I can recollect he must just then have been dying of the Inevitable in + Iceland. Perhaps the few months had brought me to resemble him. + Instinctively I put my hand to my head to reassure myself that I was not + wearing a rakish little soft felt hat with a partridge-feather, and I + reflected with some complacency that my rimless pince-nez did not give me + the owlish appearance produced by Anastasius Dose’s great round, + iron-rimmed goggles. From such crumbs of vanity are we sometimes reduced + to take comfort. + </p> + <p> + “I just want to know what you are,” said my young American friend. + </p> + <p> + Shall I confess my attraction? She brought a dim suggestion of Carlotta. + She had Carlotta’s colouring and Carlotta’s candour. But there the + resemblance stopped. The grey matter of her brain had been distilled from + the air of Wall Street, and there were precious few things between earth + and sky of which she hadn’t prescience. + </p> + <p> + “I’m a broken-down philosopher,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s nothing. So is everybody as soon as they get sense. What did + you make your money in?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve not made any money,” I answered, meekly. + </p> + <p> + “I thought all people who were knighted in your country had made piles of + money.” + </p> + <p> + “Knighted!” I exclaimed. “What on earth do you think a quaint old guy like + myself could possibly have done to get knighted?” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’re a baronet,” she said, severely. + </p> + <p> + “I assure you it is not my fault.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought all baronets were wicked. They are in the novels. Somehow you + don’t look like a baronet. You ought to have a black moustache and an + eyeglass and smoke a cigar and sneer. But, say, how do you fill up the + time if you do nothing to make money?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going through the world,” said I, “on an adventurous quest, like a + knight—or a baronet, if you will—of the Round Table. I am in + quest of a Theory of Life.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess I was born with it,” cried young New York. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I’ll die without finding it,” said I. + </p> + <p> + London again. My quiet house. Antoinette and Stenson. The well-ordered + routine of comfort. My books. The dog’s-eared manuscript of the “History + of Renaissance Morals,” unpacked by Stenson and hid in its usual place on + the writing-table. Nothing changed, yet everything utterly different. + </p> + <p> + A growing distaste for the forced acquaintanceships of travel and a + craving for home brought me back. Save perhaps in health I had profited + little by my journeyings. My bodily shell formed part of strange + landscapes and occurred in fortuitous gatherings of men, but my heart was + all the time in my Mausoleum by the Regent’s Park. I was drawn thither by + a force almost magnetic, irresistible. My two domestics welcomed me home, + but no one else. Only my lawyers knew of my arrival. With them alone had I + corresponded during the many months of my absence. Stay; I did write one + letter to Mrs. McMurray while I was at Verona, in reply to an enquiry as + to what had become of Carlotta and myself. I answered courteously but + briefly that Carlotta had run away with Pasquale and that I should be + abroad for an indefinite period. But not even a letter from my lawyers + awaited me. I thought somewhat wistfully that I would willingly have paid + six and eight pence for it. But the feeling was momentary. + </p> + <p> + Then began a queer, untroubled life. Without definite resolve I became a + recluse, living forlornly from day to day. Like a bat I avoided the outer + sunshine and took my melancholy walks at night. I had a pride in + cherishing the habit of solitude. Were it not that I entertained a real + dislike of roots and water and the damp and manifold discomforts of a + cave, with which form of habitat the ministrations of Stenson and + Antoinette would have been inconsistent, I should have gone forth into the + nearest approach to a Thebaid I could discover. I was, in fact, touched by + the mild mania of the hermit. My club I never entered. A line drawn from + east to west, a tangent at the lowest point of the Zoological Gardens + formed the southern boundary of my wanderings. Once I spied in the + distance that very kind soul, Mrs. McMurray, and rushed into a + providential omnibus, so as to avoid recognition. My History remained + untouched. The glamour of the Renaissance had vanished. For occupation I + read the Neo-Platonists, Thaumaturgy, Demonology and the like, which I had + always found a fascinating although futile study. I regretted my bowing + acquaintance with modern science, which forbade my setting up a laboratory + with alembics and magic crystals wherewith to conduct experiments for the + finding of the Elixir Vitae and the Philosopher’s Stone. + </p> + <p> + I seldom read the newspapers. I had an idea, like an eminent personage of + the period, that a sort of war was going on, but it failed to interest me + greatly. I shrank from the noise of it. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said Antoinette, “will get ill if he does not go out into the + sunshine.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said I, “regards the sunshine as an impertinent intrusion into + a soul that loves the twilight.” + </p> + <p> + If I had made the same remark to an Englishwoman, she would have pitied me + for a poor, half-witted gentleman. But Antoinette has her nation’s + instinctive appreciation of soul-states, and her sympathy was none the + less comprehending when she shook her head mournfully and said that it was + bad for the stomach. + </p> + <p> + “My good Antoinette,” I remarked, harking back in my mind to a speculation + of other days, “if you go on worrying me in this manner about my stomach, + I will build a tower forty feet high in the back garden, and live on top, + and have my meals sent up by a lift, and never come down again.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur might as well be in Paradise,” said Antoinette. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said I. And I thought of the bottle of prussic acid with mingled + sentiments. + </p> + <p> + All through these many months I had Judith dwelling, a pale ghost, in the + back of my mind. We had parted so finally that correspondence between us + had seemed impertinent. But although I had not written to her, no small + part of the infinite sadness that had fallen upon my life was the shadow + of her destiny. Sweet, wine-loving Judith! How many times did I picture + her sitting pinched and wistful in the little tin mission church at + Hoxton! Had I, Marcus Ordeyne, condemned her to that penitentiary? Who can + hold the balance of morals so truly as to decide? + </p> + <p> + At last I received a letter from her on the anniversary of our parting. + She had found salvation in a strange thing which she called duty. “I am + fulfilling an appointed task,” she wrote, “and the measure of my success + is the measure of my happiness. I am bringing consolation to a wayward and + tormented spirit. A year has swept aside the petty feminine vanities, the + opera-glasses, so to speak, through which a woman complacently views her + influence over a man, and it has cleared my vision. A year has proved + beyond mortal question that without me this wayward and tormented spirit + would fail. I hold in my hands the very soul of a man. What more dare a + woman ask of the high gods? You see I use your metaphors still. Dearest of + all dear friends, do not pity me. Beyond all the fires of love through + which one passes there is the star of Duty, and happy the individual who + can live in its serenity.” + </p> + <p> + This was astonishingly like the Theory of Life which I set out from Verona + to seek, and which had hitherto eluded me. It was not very new, or subtle, + or inspiring. But that is the way of things. No matter through what realms + of the fantastic you may travel, you arrive inevitably at the commonplace. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII + </h2> + <p> + I answered Judith’s letter. After the long silence it seemed, at first, + strange to write to her; but soon I found myself opening my heart as I had + never done before to man or woman. The fact that, accident aside, we were + never to meet again, drew the spiritual elements in us nearer together, + and the tone of her letter loosened the bonds of my natural reserve. I + told her of my past year of life, of the locked memorial chamber upstairs, + of the madness through which I had passed, of my weary pursuit of the + Theory, and of my attitude towards her solution of the problem. Having + written the letter I felt comforted, knowing that Judith would understand. + </p> + <p> + I finished it about six o’clock one afternoon, and shrinking from giving + it to Stenson to post, as it was the first private letter I had written + since my arrival in London, I took it myself to the pillar-box. The fresh + air reproached me for the unreasonable indoor life I had been leading, and + invited me to remain outside. It was already dark. An early touch of frost + in the November air rendered it exhilarating. I walked along the decorous, + residential roads of St. John’s Wood feeling less remote from my kind, + more in sympathy with the humdrum dramas in progress behind the rows of + lighted windows. Now and then a garden gate opened and a man in evening + dress, and a woman, a vague, dainty mass of satin and frills and fur, + emerged, stood for a moment in the shaft of light cast by the open + hall-door beyond, which framed the white-capped and aproned parlour-maid, + and entering a waiting hansom, drove off into the darkness whither my + speculative fancy followed them. Now and then silhouettes appeared upon + the window-blinds, especially on the upper floors, for it was the dressing + hour and the cares of the day were being thrown aside with the workaday + garments. In one house, standing far back from the road, the drawing-room + curtains had not been drawn. As I passed, I saw a man tossing up a + delighted child in his arms, and the mother standing by. <i>Ay de mi!</i> + A commonplace of ten thousand homes, when the man returns from his toil. + Yet it moved me. To earn one’s bread; to perpetuate one’s species; to + create duties and responsibilities; to meet them like a brave man; to put + the new generation upon the right path; to look back upon it all and say, + “I have fulfilled my functions,” and pass forth quietly into the eternal + laboratory—is not that Life in its truth and its essence? And the + reward? The commonplace. The welcome of wife and children—and the + tossing of a crowing babe in one’s arms. And I had missed it all, lived + outside it all. I had spoken blasphemously in my besotted ignorance of + these sacred common things, and verily I had my recompense in a desolate + home and a life of about as much use to humanity as that of St. Simeon + Stylites on top of his pillar. + </p> + <p> + So I walked along the streets on the track of the wisdom which Judith had + revealed to me, and I seemed to be on the point of reaching it when I + arrived at my own door. + </p> + <p> + “But what the deuce shall I do with it when I get it?” I said, as I let + myself in with my latch-key. + </p> + <p> + I had just put my stick in the stand and was taking off my overcoat, when + the door of the room next the diningroom opened, and Antoinette rushed out + upon me. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!” she cried, wringing her hands. “Oh, Monsieur! + How shall I tell you?” + </p> + <p> + The good soul broke into sobbing and weeping. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter, Antoinette?” Z asked. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur must not be angry. Monsieur is good like the Bon Dieu. But it + will give pain to Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “But what is it?” I cried, mystified. “Have you spoiled the dinner?” + </p> + <p> + I was a million miles from any anticipation of her answer. + </p> + <p> + <i>“Monsieur-she has come back!”</i> + </p> + <p> + I grew faint for a moment as from a blow over the heart. Antoinette raised + her great tear-stained face. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur must not drive her away.” + </p> + <p> + I pushed her gently aside and entered the little room which I had + furnished once as her boudoir. + </p> + <p> + On the couch sat Carlotta, white and pinched and poorly clad. At first I + was only conscious of her great brown eyes fixed upon me, the dog-like + appeal of our first meeting intensified to heart-breaking piteousness. On + seeing me she did not rise, but cowered as if I would strike her. I looked + at her, unable to speak. Antoinette stood sobbing in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said I, at last. + </p> + <p> + “I have come home,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “You have been away a long time,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Why have you come?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “I had no money,” said Carlotta, with her expressive gesture of upturned + palms. “I had nothing but that.” She pointed to a tiny travelling bag. + “Everything else was at the Mont de Piete—the pawnshop—and + they would not keep me any longer at the pension. I owed them for three + weeks, and then they lent me money to buy my ticket to London. I said Seer + Marcous would pay them back. So I came home.” + </p> + <p> + “But where—where is Pasquale?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “He went five, six months ago. He gave me some money and said he would + send some more. But he did not send any. He went to South Africa. He said + there was a war and he wanted to fight, and he said he was sick of me. Oh, + he was very unkind,” she cried with the quiver of her baby lips. “I wish I + had never seen him.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you married?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Damn him!” said I, between my teeth. + </p> + <p> + “He was going to marry me, but then he said it did not matter in Paris. At + first he was so nice, but after a little—oh, Seer Marcous dear, he + was so cruel.” + </p> + <p> + There was a short silence. Antoinette wept by the door, uttering little + half-audible exclamations <i>“la pauvre petite, le cher ange!”</i> + </p> + <p> + Carlotta regarded me wistfully. I saw a new look of suffering in her eyes. + For myself I felt numb with pain. + </p> + <p> + “What kind of a pension were you living in?” I asked, unutterable horrors + coming into my head. + </p> + <p> + “It was a French family, an old lady and two old daughters, and one fat + German professor. Pasquale put me there. It was very respectable,” she + added, with a wan smile, “and so dull. Madame Champet would scarcely let + me go into the street by myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank heaven you did not fall into worse hands,” said I. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta unpinned her old straw hat, quite a different garment from the + dainty head-wear she delighted in a year before, and threw it on the couch + beside her. A tress of her glorious bronze hair fell loose across her + forehead, adding to the woebegone expression of her face. She rose, and as + she did so I seemed to notice a curious change in her. She came to me with + extended hands. + </p> + <p> + “Seer Marcous—” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + I took her hands in mine. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear,” said I, “why did you leave me?” + </p> + <p> + “I was wicked. And I was a little fool,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + I sighed, released her, walked a bit apart. There was a blubber from the + egregious old woman in the threshold. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Monsieur is not going to drive her away.” + </p> + <p> + I turned upon her. + </p> + <p> + “Instead of standing there weeping like a fountain and doing nothing, why + aren’t you getting Mademoiselle’s room ready for her?” + </p> + <p> + “Because Monsieur has the key,” wailed Antoinette. + </p> + <p> + “That’s true,” said I. + </p> + <p> + Then I reflected on the futility of converting bedchambers into mausoleums + for the living. The room shut up for a year would not be habitable. It + would be damp and inch-deep in dust. + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle shall sleep in my room to-night,” I said, “and Stenson can + make me up a bed and put what I want here. Go and arrange it with him.” + </p> + <p> + Antoinette departed. I turned to Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “Are you very tired, my child?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—so tired.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you write, so that things could have been got ready for you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I was too unhappy. Seer Marcous—” she said after a + little pause and then stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to have a baby.” + </p> + <p> + She said it in the old, childlike way, oblivious of difference of sex; + with her little foreign insistence on the final consonants. I glanced + hurriedly at her. The fact was obvious. She stood with her hands + helplessly outspread. The pathos of her would have wrung the heart of a + devil. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God, you’ve come home,” said I, huskily. + </p> + <p> + She began to cry softly. I put my arm round her shoulders, and comforted + her. She sobbed out incoherent things. She wished she had never seen + Pasquale. I was good. She would stay with me always. She would never run + away again. + </p> + <p> + I took her upstairs, and opened the door of her room with the key that I + had carried for a year on my bunch, and turned on the electric light. + </p> + <p> + “See what are still usable of your old things,” said I, “and I will send + Antoinette up to you.” + </p> + <p> + She looked around her, somewhat puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Why should I sleep in your room when this one is ready for me—my + night dress—even the hot water?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said I, “that hot water was put for you a year ago. It must be + cold now.” + </p> + <p> + “And my red slippers—and my dressing-gown!” she cried, quaveringly. + </p> + <p> + Then sinking in a heap on the floor beside the dusty bed, she burst into a + passion of tears. + </p> + <p> + I stole away and sent Antoinette to minister to her. + </p> + <p> + A year before I had raved and ranted, deeming life intolerable and cursing + the high gods; I suffered then, it is true; but I hope I may never again + go through the suffering of that first night of Carlotta’s return. Even + now I can close my eyes and feel the icy grip on my heart. + </p> + <p> + She came down to dinner about an hour later, dressed in a pink wrapper, + one of the last things she had bought, which Antoinette (as she explained + to excuse her delay) had been airing before the fire. She sat opposite me, + in her old place, penitent, subdued, yet not shy or ill at ease. Stenson + waited on us, grave and imperturbable as if we had put back the clock of + time a twelvemonth. The only covert reference he made to the event was to + murmur discreetly in my ear: + </p> + <p> + “I have brought up a bottle of the Pommery, Sir Marcus, in the hope you + would drink some.” + </p> + <p> + I was touched, for the good fellow had no other way of showing his + solicitude. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta allowed him to fill her glass. She sipped the wine, and declared + that it did her good. She was no longer a teetotaller, she explained. Once + she drank too much, and the next day had a headache. + </p> + <p> + “Why should one have a headache?” + </p> + <p> + “Nemesis,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “What is Nemesis?” + </p> + <p> + I found myself answering her question in the old half-jesting way. And in + her old way she replied: + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand.” + </p> + <p> + How vividly familiar it was, and yet how agonisingly strange! + </p> + <p> + “Where is Polyphemus?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Dead,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h! How did poor Polyphemus die?” + </p> + <p> + “He was smitten by Destiny at the end of the last act of a farcical + tragedy.” + </p> + <p> + The ghost of a “<i>hou!</i>” came from Carlotta. She composed herself + immediately. + </p> + <p> + “I often used to think of Polyphemus and Seer Marcous and Antoinette,” she + said, musingly. “And then I wished I was back. I have been very wicked.” + </p> + <p> + She put her elbows on the table, and framing her face with her hands + looked at me, and shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you are good! Oh, you are good!” + </p> + <p> + “Go on with your dinner, my child,” said I, “and wonder at the genius of + Antoinette who has managed to cook it and look after you at the same + time.” + </p> + <p> + She obeyed meekly. I watched her eat. She was famished. I learned that she + had had nothing since the early morning coffee and roll. In spite of pain, + I was curiously flattered by her return. I represented <i>something</i> to + her, after all—even though the instinct of the prodigal cat had + driven her hither. I am sure it had never crossed her mind that my doors + might be shut against her. Her first words were, “I have come home.” The + first thing she did when we went into the drawing-room after dinner was to + fondle my hand and lay it against her cheek and say, with a deep sigh: + </p> + <p> + “I am so happy.” + </p> + <p> + However shallow her butterfly nature was, these things came from its + depths. No man can help feeling pleased at a child’s or an animal’s + implicit trust in him. And the pleasure is of the purest. He feels that + unreasoning intuition has penetrated to some latent germ of good in his + nature, and for the moment he is disarmed of evil. Carlotta, then, came + blindly to what was best in me. In her thoughts she sandwiched me between + the cat and the cook: well, in most sandwiches the mid-ingredient is the + most essential. + </p> + <p> + She curled herself up in the familiar sofa-corner, and as it was a chilly + night I sent for a wrap which I threw over her limbs. + </p> + <p> + “See, I have the dear red slippers,” she remarked, arching her instep. + </p> + <p> + “And I have my dear Carlotta,” said I. + </p> + <p> + I drew my chair near her, and gradually I learned all the unhappy story. + </p> + <p> + Pasquale had made love to her from the very first minute of their + acquaintance—even while I was hunting for the <i>L’Histoire Comique + de Francion</i>. He had met her many times unknown to me. They had + corresponded, her letters being addressed to a little stationer’s shop + close by. She did not love him. Of that I have an absolute conviction. But + he was young, he was handsome, he had the libertine’s air and manner. She + was docile. And she was ever positively truthful. If I had questioned her + she would have confessed frankly. But I never questioned, as I never + suspected. I wondered sometimes at her readiness in quoting him. I noticed + odd coincidences; but I was too ineffectual to draw inferences from + phenomena. His appearance on the Paddington platform was prearranged; his + duchessa at Ealing a myth. + </p> + <p> + Apparently he had dallied with his fancy. The fruit was his any day for + the plucking. Perhaps a rudimentary sentiment of loyalty towards me + restrained him. Who can tell? The night of our meeting with Hamdi brought + the crisis. The Turk’s threats had alarmed both Carlotta and myself. It + was necessary for him to strike at once. He saw her the next day—would + to heaven I had remained at home!—told her I was marrying her to + save her from Hamdi. I loved the other woman. He would save her equally + well from Hamdi. The other woman met her soon after parting from Pasquale + and besought her to give me up. She did not know what to do. Poor child, + how should she have known? On the previous evening I had told her she was + to marry me. She was ready to obey. She went to bed thinking that she was + to marry me. In the morning she went for her music lesson. Pasquale was + waiting for her. They walked for some distance down the road. He hailed a + cab and drove away with her. + </p> + <p> + “He said he loved me,” said Carlotta, “and he kissed me, and he told me I + must go away with him to Paris and marry him. And I felt all weak, like + that—” she dropped her arms helplessly in an expressive gesture, + “and so what could I do?” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you think, Carlotta, that I might be sorry—perhaps unhappy?” + I asked as gently as I could. + </p> + <p> + “He said you would be quite happy with the other woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you believe him?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s why I said I have been very wicked,” Carlotta answered, simply. + </p> + <p> + She went on with her story—an old, miserable, detestable, execrable + story. At first all went merrily. Then she fell ill in Paris. It was her + first acquaintance with the northern winter. Her throat proved to be + delicate and she was laid up with bronchitis. To men of Pasquale’s type, a + woman ill is of no more use than a spavined horse or a broken-down + motor-car. More than that, she becomes an infernal nuisance. It was in his + temperament to perform sporadic acts of fantastic chivalry. It appealed to + something romantic, theatrical, in his facile nature. But to devote + himself to a woman in sickness—that was different. The fifteenth + century Italian hated like the devil continued association with pain. He + would have thrown his boots to a beggar, but he would have danced in his + palace over the dungeons where his brother rotted in obscurity. + </p> + <p> + So poor Carlotta was neglected, and began to eat the bread of disillusion. + When she got well, there was a faint recrudescence of affection. Has not + this story been written a million miserable times? Why should I rend my + heart again by retelling it? Wild rages, jealousies, quarrels, tears— + </p> + <p> + “And then one day he said, ‘You damned little fool, I am sick to death of + you,’ and he went away, and I never saw him again. He wrote and he sent + his valet to put me in the pension.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet, Carlotta,” said I bitterly, “you would go back to him if he sent + for you?” + </p> + <p> + She sprang forward and gripped me by the arm—I was sitting quite + close to her—and her face wore the terror-stricken expression of a + child frightened with bogies. + </p> + <p> + “Go back? After what he has done to me? You would not send me back? Seer + Marcous, darling, you will keep me with you? I will be good, good, good. + But go back to Pasquale? Oh, no-o-o!” + </p> + <p> + She fell back in her sofa-corner, and fixed her great, deep imploring eyes + on me. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said I, “you know this is your home as long as ever you choose + to stay in it—but—” and I stroked her hair gently—“if he + comes back when your child is born—his child—” + </p> + <p> + She drew herself up superbly. + </p> + <p> + “It is my child—my very, very own,” cried Carlotta. “It is mine, + mine—and I shall not allow any one to touch it—” and then her + face softened—“except Seer Marcous.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII + </h2> + <p> + Behold Carlotta again installed in my house which she regarded as her + home. Heaven forbid that I should sow any doubt thereof in her mind. + </p> + <p> + I had learned perhaps one lesson: the meaning of love. The love that is + desire alone, though sung in all romance of all the ages, is of the brute + nature and is doomed to perish. The love that pardons, endures through + wrong, contents itself in abnegation, is of the imperishable things that + draw weak man a little nearer to the angels. When Carlotta wept upon my + shoulder during those few first moments of her return I knew that all + resentment was gone from my heart, that it would have been a poor, ignoble + thing. Had she come back to me leprous of body and abominable of spirit, + it would not have mattered. I would have forgiven her, loved her, + cherished her just the same. It was a question, not of reason, not of + human pity, not of quixotism; not of any argument or sentiment for which I + could be responsible. I was helpless, obeying a reflex action of the soul. + </p> + <p> + The days passed tranquilly. In spite of pain I felt an odd happiness. I + had nothing selfishly to hope for. Perhaps I had aged five years in one, + and I viewed life differently. It was enough for me that she had come + home, to the haven where no harm could befall her. She was my appointed + task, even as her husband was Judith’s. I recognised in myself the man + with the one talent. The deep wisdom of the parable can be taken to inmost + heart for comfort only by men of little destinies. With infinite love and + patience to mould Carlotta into a sweet, good woman, a wise mother of the + child that was to be—that was the inglorious task which Providence + had set me to accomplish. In its proportion to the aggregate of human + effort it was infinitesimal. But who shall say that it was not worth the + doing? Save writing a useless book, in what other sphere of sublunar + energy could I have been effectual? I did not thus analyse my attitude at + the time; the man who does so is a poser, a mime to his own audience; but + looking back, I think I was guided by some such unformulated + considerations. + </p> + <p> + Although my hermit mania was in itself radically cured, yet I altered + nothing in my relations with the outside world. I wrote to Judith a brief + account of what had occurred and received from her a sympathetic answer. + My reading among the Mystics and Thaumaturgists put me on the track of + Arabic. I found that Carlotta knew enough of the language to give me + elementary instruction, and thus the whirligig of time brought in its + revenge by constituting me her pupil, to our joint edification. + </p> + <p> + After a while the unhappiness of the past seemed to have faded from her + mind. She spoke little of Paris, less of the dull pension, and never of + Pasquale. She bore towards him an animal’s silent animosity against a + human being who has done it an unforgettable injury. On the other hand, as + I have since discovered, she was slowly developing, and had begun to + realise that in giving herself light-heartedly to a man whom she did not + love, she had committed a crime against her sex, for which she had paid a + heavy penalty: a sentiment, however, which did not mitigate her resentment + against him. Often I saw her sitting with knitted brows, her needlework + idle on her lap, evidently unravelling some complicated problem; presently + she would either shake her head sadly as if the intellectual process were + too hard for her and resume her needle, or if she happened to catch my + glance, she would start, smile reassuringly at me, and apply herself with + exaggerated zeal to her work. These fits of abstraction were not those of + a woman speculating on mysteries of the near future. Such Carlotta also + indulged in, and they were easy to recognise, by the dreaminess of her + eyes and the faint smile flickering about her lips. The moods of knitted + brows were periods of soul-travail, and I wondered what they would bring + forth. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon I came home and found her weeping over a book. When I bent + down to see what she was reading—she had acquired a taste for novels + during the dull pension time in Paris—she caught my head with both + hands. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Seer Marcous, do you think they ought to make me wear a great ‘A’?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Like Hester Prynne—see.” + </p> + <p> + She showed me Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Scarlet Letter.” + </p> + <p> + “What made you take this out of the shelves?” + </p> + <p> + “The title,” she replied, simply. “I am so fond of red things; but I + should not like that great red ‘A’.” + </p> + <p> + “Those were days,” said I, “when people thought they could only be good by + being very cruel.” + </p> + <p> + “They would have been more cruel if Hester had not loved the minister,” + said Carlotta, looking at me wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “My dear little girl,” said I, seeing whither her thoughts were tending, + “do not bother your brain with psychological problems.” + </p> + <p> + “What are—?” began Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + I pinched the question, as it were, out of her cheek and smiled and took + away the book. + </p> + <p> + “They are a dreadful disease my little girl has been afflicted with for + some time. When you sit and wrinkle your forehead like this,” and I + scowled forbiddingly, whereat Carlotta laughed, “you are suffering from + acute psychological problem.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I am thinking,” said Carlotta, reflectively. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t think too much, dear, just now,” said I. “It is best for you to be + happy and calm and contented. Otherwise I’ll have to tell the doctor, and + he’ll give you the blackest and nastiest physic you have ever tasted.” + </p> + <p> + “To cure me of a what-you-call-it problem?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I, emphatically. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Hou!</i>” laughed Carlotta in a superior way, “physic can’t cure + that.” + </p> + <p> + “You are relying on an exploded fallacy immortalised in a hackneyed + Shakespearian quotation,” I remarked. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” said Carlotta, encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” I asked, taken aback. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you darling Seer Marcous,” cried Carlotta. “It is so lovely to hear + you talk!” + </p> + <p> + So I went on talking, and the distress occasioned by the “Scarlet Letter” + was forgotten. + </p> + <p> + I have mentioned Carlotta’s needlework. This was undertaken at the sapient + instigation of Antoinette, who in her turn, I am sure, neglected the ladle + for the scissors, and cast many of her duties upon the silent but + sympathetic Stenson. Carlotta herself delighted in these preparations. She + was never happier than when curled up on the sofa, a box of chocolates by + her side, her work-basket frothing over, like a great dish of <i>oeufs a + la neige</i>, with lawn or mull or what-not, and (I verily believe to + complete her content) my ungainly figure and hatchet-face within her + purview. She would eat and sew industriously. Sometimes she would press + too hard on a sweetmeat and with a little cry would hold up a sticky + finger and thumb. + </p> + <p> + “Look,” she would say, puckering up her face. + </p> + <p> + And to save from soilure the dainty fabric she was working at, I would + rise and wipe her fingers with my handkerchief; whereupon she would coo + out the sweetest “thank you,” in the world, and perhaps hold up a + diminutive garment. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it pretty?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear,” I would say, and I would turn aside wondering at the + exquisite refinements of pain that men were sometimes called upon to bear. + </p> + <p> + At last the time came. I sat up all night in a torture of suspense, having + got it into my foolish head that Carlotta might die. The doctor came upon + me at six in the morning sitting half frozen at the bottom of the stairs. + When he gave me his cheery news he seemed to develop from a middle-aged, + commonplace man into a radiant archangel. + </p> + <p> + I met Antoinette soon afterwards, busy, important, exultant. She + nevertheless graciously accorded me a brief interview. + </p> + <p> + “And to think, Monsieur,” she exclaimed, as if the crowning triumph of a + million ions of evolution had at, last been attained, “to think that it is + a boy!” + </p> + <p> + “You would have been just as pleased if it had been a girl,” said I. + </p> + <p> + She shook her wise, fat head. “Women <i>ca ne vaut pas grand’ chose.</i>” + </p> + <p> + Let it be remembered that “women are of no great account” is a sentiment + expressed, not by me, but by Antoinette. But all the same I soon found + myself a cipher in the house, where the triumvirate of the negligible sex, + Antoinette, the nurse and Carlotta, reigned despotically. + </p> + <p> + To write much of Carlotta’s happiness would be to treat of sacred things + at which I can only guess. She dwelt in rapture. The joy and meaning of + the universe were concentrated in the tiny bundle of pink flesh that lay + on her bosom. I used to sit by her side while she talked unwearyingly of + him. He was a thing of infinite perfections. He had such a lot of hair. + </p> + <p> + “She won’t believe, sir,” said the nurse, “that it will all drop off and a + new crop come.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h!” said Carlotta. “It can’t be so cruel. For it is my hair—see, + Seer Marcous, darling; isn’t it just my hair?” + </p> + <p> + It was her great solicitude that the boy should resemble her. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know about his nose,” she remarked critically. “There is so + little of it yet and it is so soft—feel how soft it is. But his eyes + are brown like mine, and his mouth—now look, aren’t they just the + same?” + </p> + <p> + She put her cheek next to the child’s and invited me to compare the two + adjacent baby mouths. They were, of a truth, very much alike. + </p> + <p> + She was jealous of the baby, desirous of having it always with her to tend + and fondle, impatient of the nurse and Antoinette. It was a thing so + intensely hers that she resented other hands touching it. Oddly enough, of + me she made an exception. Nothing delighted her more than to put the + little creature into my awkward and nervous arms, and watch me carry it + about the room. I think she wanted to give me something, and this share in + the babe was the most precious gift she could devise. + </p> + <p> + Of Pasquale she continued to say nothing. In her intense joy of motherhood + he seemed to have become the dim creature of a dream. I had registered the + birth without consulting her—in the legal names of the parents. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to call him, Carlotta?” I asked one day. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mon petit chou.</i> That’s what Antoinette says. It’s a beautiful + name.” + </p> + <p> + “There are many points in calling an infant one’s little cabbage,” I + admitted, “but soon he’ll grow up to be as old as I am, and—” I + sighed, “who would call me their <i>petit chow</i>?” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta laughed. + </p> + <p> + “That is true. We shall have to find a name.” She reflected for a few + moments; then put her arms round my neck and continued her reflections. + </p> + <p> + “He shall be Marcus—another Marcus Ordeyne. Then perhaps some day he + will be ‘Seer Marcous’ like you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean when I die?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not for years and years and years!” she cried, tightening her clasp + in alarm. “But the child lives longer than the father. It is fate. He will + live longer than I.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us hope so, dear,” I answered. “But it is just because I am not his + father that he can’t be Sir Marcus when I die. He can have my name; but my + title—” + </p> + <p> + “Who will have it?” + </p> + <p> + “No one.” + </p> + <p> + “It will die too?” + </p> + <p> + “It will be quite dead.” + </p> + <p> + “You are his father, you know, <i>really</i>,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “The law of England takes no count, unfortunately, of things of the + spirit,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “What are things of the spirit?” + </p> + <p> + “The things, my dear,” said I, “that you are beginning to understand.” I + bent down and kissed the child as it lay on her lap. “Poor little Marcus + Ordeyne,” I said. “My poor quaintly fathered little son, I’m afraid there + is much trouble ahead of you, but I’ll do my best to help you through it.” + </p> + <p> + “Bless you, dear,” said Carlotta, softly. + </p> + <p> + I looked at her in wonder. She had spoken for the first time like a grown + woman—like a woman with a soul. + </p> + <p> + A few weeks later. + </p> + <p> + We were sitting at breakfast. The morning newspaper contained the account + of a battle and the lists of British officers killed. I scanned as usual + the melancholy columns, when a name among the dead caught my eye—and + I stared at it stupidly. Pasquale was dead, killed outright by a Boer + bullet. The wild, bright life was ended. It seemed a horrible thing, and, + much as he had wronged me, my first sentiment was one of dismay. He was + too gallant and beautiful a creature for death. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta poured out my tea and came round with the cup which she deposited + by my side. To prevent her peeping over my shoulder at the paper, as she + usually did, I laid it on the table; but her quick eye had already read + the great headlines. + </p> + <p> + “Great Battle. British officers killed. Oh, let me see, Seer Marcous.” + </p> + <p> + “No, dear,” said I. “Go and eat your breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at me strangely. I tried to smile; but as I am an incompetent + actor my grimace was a proclamation of disingenuousness. + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t I read it?” she asked, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Because I say you mustn’t, Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + She continued to look at me. She had suddenly grown pale. I stirred my tea + and made a pretence of sipping it. + </p> + <p> + “Go on with your breakfast, my child,” I repeated. + </p> + <p> + “There is something—something about him in the paper,” said + Carlotta. “He is a British officer.” + </p> + <p> + In the face of her intuition further concealment appeared useless. + Besides, sooner or later she would have to know. + </p> + <p> + “He is a British officer no longer, dear,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Is he dead?” + </p> + <p> + My mind flew back to an evening long ago—long, long ago it seemed—when + another newspaper had told of another death, and my ears caught the echo + of the identical question that had then fallen from her lips. I dreaded + lest she should say again, “I am so glad.” + </p> + <p> + I beckoned her to my side, and pointing with my finger to the name watched + her face anxiously. She read, stared for a bit in front of her and turned + to me with a piteous look. I drew her to me, and she laid her face against + my shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why I’m crying, Seer Marcous, dear,” she said, after a + while. + </p> + <p> + I made her drink some of my tea, but she would eat nothing, and presently + she went upstairs. She had not said that she was glad. She had wept and + not known the reason for her tears. I railed at myself for my doubts of + her. + </p> + <p> + She was subdued and thoughtful all the day. In the evening, instead of + curling herself up in the sofa-corner among the cushions, she sat on a + stool by my feet as I read, one hand supporting her chin, the other + resting on my knee. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad he was a brave man,” she said at last, alluding to Pasquale for + the first time since the morning. “I like brave men.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Dulce et decorum est.</i> He died for his country,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “It does not hurt me now so much to think of him,” said Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + I could not help feeling a miserable pang of jealousy at Pasquale’s + posthumous rehabilitation as a hero in Carlotta’s heart. Yet, was it not + natural? Was it not the way of women? I saw myself far remote from her, + and though she never spoke of him again I divined that her thoughts dwelt + not untenderly on his memory. I was absurd, I know. But I had begun almost + to believe in my make-believe paternity, and I was jealous of the rightful + claims of the dead man. + </p> + <p> + And yet had he lived he might have come back one day with his conquering + air and his irresistible laugh, and carried them both away from me. In + sparing me this crowning humiliation I thanked the high gods. + </p> + <p> + But never to this day has she mentioned his name again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV + </h2> + <p> + How shall I set down that which happened not long afterwards? + </p> + <p> + The death of a baby is so commonplace, so unimportant. Few reasoning + people, viewing the matter in the abstract, can do otherwise than rejoice + that a human being is saved from the weariness of the tired years that + make up life. For who shall disprove the pessimist’s assertion that it is + better not to have been born than to come into the world, and that it is + better to die than to live? But those from whom the single hope of their + existence is ravished find little consolation in reason. Grief is the most + intensely egotistical of emotions. I have lost all that makes life + beautiful to me. Is not that enough for the stricken soul? + </p> + <p> + To Carlotta it meant a passage through the valley of the shadow. To me, at + first, it meant the life of Carlotta, and then a blank in my newly ordered + scheme of things. The curse of ineffectuality still pursued me. I had + allotted to myself my humble task—the development of the new + generation in the form of Carlotta’s boy, and even that small usefulness + was I denied by Fate. + </p> + <p> + A chill, a touch of croup, an agonised watching, and the tiny thing lay + dead. Antoinette and I had to drag it stone cold from Carlotta’s bosom. I + alone carried it to burial. The little white coffin rested on the opposite + seat of the hired brougham, and on it was a bunch of white flowers given + by Antoinette. In the cemetery chapel another fragment of humanity awaited + sepulture, and the funeral service was read over both bodies. I stood + alone by the little white coffin. A crowd of mourners were grouped beside + the black one. I glanced at the inscription as I passed: “Jane Elliot, in + the eighty-sixth year of her age.” The officiant referred in the service + to “our dear brother and sister, here departed.” It was either an awful + jest or an awful verity. + </p> + <p> + My “quaintly fathered little son” had small need of my help through the + troubles of his life. His mother needed all that I could give. Without me + she would have died. That I verily believe. I was her solitary plank in + the welter wherein she would have been submerged. She clung to me—literally + clung to me. I sat for hours with her grasp upon me. To feel assured of my + physical presence alone seemed to bring her calm. + </p> + <p> + Recent as are those sleepless days and nights, their memory is all + confused. The light burning dimly in the familiar chamber which I had once + sealed up as a tomb; the shadows on the wall; the fevered face and great + hollow eyes of Carlotta against the pillows; her little hand clutching + mine in desperation; the soft tread of the nurse, that is all I remember. + And when she recovered her wits and grew sane, although for a long time + she spoke little, and scarcely noticed me otherwise, she claimed me by her + side. She was still dazed by the misery of her darkness. It was only then + that I realised the part the child had played in her development. Her + nature had been stirred to the quick; the capacity for emotion had been + awakened. She had left me without a qualm. She had given herself to + Pasquale without a glimmer of passion. She had returned to me like a + wounded animal seeking its home. For the child alone the passionate human + love had sprung flaming from the seed hidden in her soul. And now the + child was dead, and the sun had gone from her sky, and she was benumbed + with the icy blackness of the world. + </p> + <p> + Then came a time when her speech was loosened and she talked to me + incessantly of the child, until one day she spoke of it as living and + clamoured for it, and relapsed into her fever. + </p> + <p> + At last one morning she awakened from a sound sleep and found me watching; + for I had relieved the nurse at six o’clock. She smiled at me for the + first time since the child fell sick, and took my hand and kissed it. + </p> + <p> + “It is like waking into heaven to see your face, Seer Marcous, darling,” + she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “I hope heaven is peopled by a better-looking set of fellows,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Hou!</i>” laughed Carlotta. “Don’t you know you are beautiful?” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t throw an old jest in my teeth, Carlotta,” said I, and I + reminded her how she had once screamed with laughter when I had told her I + was very beautiful. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta listened patiently until I had ended, and then she said, with a + little sigh: + </p> + <p> + “You cannot understand, Seer Marcous, darling. I have been thinking of my + little baby and the angels—and all the angels are like you.” + </p> + <p> + To cover the embarrassment my modesty underwent, I laughed and drew the + picture of myself with long flaxen hair and white wings. + </p> + <p> + “My angels hadn’t got wings,” said Carlotta, seriously. “They all wore + dressing-gowns. They were real angels. And the one that was most like you + brought my baby in his arms for me to kiss; and when he put it on a white + cloud to sleep, and took me up in his arms instead and carried me away, + away, away through the air, I didn’t cry at leaving baby. Wasn’t that + funny? I snuggled up close to him—like that”—she illustrated + the action of “snuggling” beneath the bed-clothes—“and it was so + comfy.” + </p> + <p> + The pale sunshine of a fine February morning filtered into the room from + behind the curtains. I turned off the dimmed electric lamp and let full + daylight into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” cried Carlotta, turning to the window, “how lovely the good sun is! + It is more like heaven than ever. Do you know,” she added, mysteriously, + “just before I woke it was all dark, and I had lost my angels and I was + looking for them.” + </p> + <p> + I counselled her sagely to look for no more members of the Hierarchy <i>en + deshabille</i>, but to content herself with the humbler denizens of this + planet. She pressed my hand. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll try to be contented, Seer Marcous, darling.” + </p> + <p> + She did her best, poor child, when I was by; but I heard that often she + would sit by a little pile of garments and take them up one by one and cry + her heart out—so that though she quickly recovered, her cheeks + remained wan and drawn, and pain lingered in her eyes. The weather changed + to fog and damp and she spent the days crouching by the fire, sometimes + not stirring a muscle for an hour together. Her favourite seat was the + fender-stool in the drawing-room. Her own boudoir downstairs, where she + used to receive instruction from the excellent Miss Griggs, she scarcely + entered. + </p> + <p> + She broke one of these fits suddenly and called me by her own pet version + of my name. I looked up from the writing-table where I was studying the + Arabic grammar. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I have been thinking—oh, thinking, thinking so long. I’ve been + thinking that you must love me very much.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Carlotta,” said I, with a half smile. “I suppose I do.” + </p> + <p> + “As much as I loved my baby,” she said, seriously, + </p> + <p> + “I used to love you in a different way, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “And now?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps in the same sort of way, Carlotta.” + </p> + <p> + “I loved my baby because it was mine,” she remarked, looking at the flames + through one hand’s delicate fingers. “I wanted to do everything for him + and didn’t want him to do anything for me. I would have died for him. It + is so strange. Yes, I think you must love me like that, Seer Marcous. + Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because when I found you in the Embankment Gardens nearly two years ago + you were about as helpless as your little baby,” I replied, somewhat + disingenuously. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta gave me a quick glance. + </p> + <p> + “You thought me then what you call an infernal nuisance. Oh, I know now. I + have grown wise. But you were always good. You looked good when you sat on + the seat. You were reading a dirty little book.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>L’Histoire des Uscoques,</i>” I murmured. How far away it seemed. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. I regarded her for a moment or two. She was sunk again + in serious reflection. I sighed—at the general dismalness of life, I + suppose—and resumed my Arabic. + </p> + <p> + “Seer Marcous.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you drive me away when I came back?” + </p> + <p> + I shut up the Arabic grammar and went and sat beside her on the + fenderstool. + </p> + <p> + “My dear little girl—what a question! How could I drive you away + from your own home?” + </p> + <p> + She flashed a queer, scared look at me, then at the fire, then at me again + and then burst out crying, her head and arms on her knees. + </p> + <p> + I muttered a man’s words of awkward comfort, saying something about the + baby. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t baby I’m crying about,” sobbed Carlotta. “It’s me! And it’s you! + And it’s all the things I’m beginning to understand.” + </p> + <p> + I patted her head and lit a cigarette and wandered about the room, rather + puzzled by Carlotta’s psychological development, and yet stirred by a + faint thrill at her recognition of my affection. At the same time the sad + “too late, too late,” was knelled in my ears, and I thought of the + might-have-been, and rode the merry-go-round of regret’s banalities. I had + grown old. Passion had died. Hope—the hope of hearing the patter of + a child’s feet about my house, the hope of pride in a quasi-paternity, of + handing on, vicariously though it were, the torch of life—hope was + dead and it was buried in a little white coffin. Only a great, quiet love + remained. I was a tired old man, and Carlotta was to me an infinitely + loved sister—or daughter—or granddaughter even—so old + did I feel. And when I raised her from the fender-stool, and kissed the + tears from her eyes, it was as grandfatherly a kiss as had ever been given + in this world. + </p> + <p> + The same old problem again. What the deuce to do with Carlotta? Yet not + quite the same: rather, what the deuce to do with Carlotta and myself? In + our strange relationship we were inextricably bound together. + </p> + <p> + First, she needed sunshine—instead of the forlorn bleakness of an + English spring—and a change from this house of pain and death. And + then I, too, felt the need of wider horizons. London had grown to be a + nightmare city which I never entered. Its restless ambitions were not + mine. Its pleasures pleased me not. With not five of its five million + inhabitants dared I speak heart to heart. Judith had gone out of my life. + My aunts and cousins regarded me as beyond the moral pale. Mrs. McMurray + was still unaware of my return to England. I confess to shabby treatment + of my kind friend. I know she would have flown to aid Carlotta in her + troubles; but would she have understood Carlotta? Reasoning now I am + convinced that she would: in those days I did not reason. I shrank like a + snail into its shell. The simile is commonplace; but so was I—the + most commonplace human snail that ever occupied a commonplace ten-roomed + shell. And now the house and its useless books and its million-fold more + useless manuscript “History of Renaissance Morals,” all its sombre + memories and its haunting ghosts of ineffectualities, became an + unwholesome prison in which I was wasting away a feeble existence. I + resolved to quit it, to leave my books, to abjure Renaissance morals, and + to go forth with Carlotta into the wilderness and the sunshine, there to + fulfil whatever destiny the high gods should decree. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV + </h2> + <p> + Again I sit on the housetop in Mogador on the Morocco coast, where a month + ago I began to write these latter pages. Time has passed quickly since + that day. + </p> + <p> + I said then that on the previous afternoon something had happened. It was + something which I might have foreseen, which, in fact, with my habit of + putting the telescope to my blind eye, I obstinately had refused to + foresee. During our wanderings I had watched the flowering of her splendid + beauty as she drank in health from the glow of her own Orient. I had noted + the widening of her intellect, the quickening of her sympathies. I had + been conscious of the expansion of her soul in the great silences when the + stars flamed over the infinite sea of sand. But a growing wistfulness that + was no longer the old doglike pleading of her glorious eyes, a gathering + sadness that was not an aftermath of grief for the child that had gone—into + this, if I did remark it, I did not choose to inquire. Instead, I + continued my study of Arabic and cultivated the acquaintance of a learned + Moor whose conversation afforded—and still affords—me peculiar + pleasure. One of these days I shall make a book of his Table-talk. But now + I have to tell of Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + She accepted with alacrity my proposal that morning to ride over to the + Palm Tree House for luncheon, as we had done several times before. To + please me, I think, she had resolutely overcome her natural indolence. So + much so that she had come to love the nomad life of steamers and caravans, + and had grown restless, eager for fresh scenes, craving new impressions. + It was I who had cried a halt at Mogador where this furnished house to + let, belonging to a German merchant absent in Europe, tempted me to rest + awhile. I am not so young as Carlotta, and I awakened to the fact of a + circumambient universe so many years ago that I have grown slumberous. + Carlotta, if left to herself, would have gone on riding camels through + Africa to the end of time. She had changed in many essentials. Instead of + regarding me as an amiable purveyor of sweetmeats and other necessaries of + life to which by the grace of her being Carlotta she was entitled, she + treated me with human affection and sympathy, keeping her own wants in the + background, anxious only to anticipate mine. But she still loved + sweetmeats and would eat horrible Moorish messes with an avidity only + equalled by my repugnance. She was still the same Carlotta. On the other + hand again, she had of late abandoned her caressing habits. If she laid + her hand on my arm, she did it timorously—whereat I would laugh and + she would grow confused. Once she had driven me to frenzy with her + fondling. Those days had passed. I told myself that I was as old as the + sphinx we had moralised over in Egypt. + </p> + <p> + We lunched, then, at the Palm Tree House and rode back in the cool of the + afternoon to Mogador. We were alone, as we knew the path across the tongue + of desert, and had no need of a guide and the rabble of sore-eyed urchins + who, like their attendant flies, infest the tourist on his journeyings. On + our right the desert rose to meet a near horizon; on our left sandhills + and boulders cut off the view; ahead the shimmering line beyond which the + sea and city lay. We were enveloped by solitude and stillness. In the + clear African air objects detached themselves against the sky with + startling definition. + </p> + <p> + I had unconsciously ridden a bit ahead of Carlotta, thinking my own + thoughts, and sighing as a man often does sigh, for the vague unattainable + which is happiness. Suddenly I missed her by my side, and turning round + saw a sight that made my heart beat with its sheer beauty. It was only + Carlotta on her barbarically betrapped and besaddled mule. But it was + Carlotta glorified in colour. She held above her head a cotton parasol, + which she had bought to her delight and my disgust in Mogador; an + impossible thing, all deep cherry reds and yellows; a hateful thing made + for a pantomime—or for this African afternoon. Outspread and + luminous in the white sunlight its cherry reds and yellows floated like + translucences of wine above Carlotta’s bronze hair crowned by a white sun + hat, her warm flesh-tints, and the dazzling white of her surah silk + blouse; the whole picture cut out vivid against the indigo of the sky. It + was a radiant vision. I stared openmouthed, smitten with the pang that + sudden and transient loveliness can sometimes deal, as Carlotta + approached, her figure swaying with the jog of her barbaric beast. Her + eyes were fixed on mine. She halted, and for a moment we looked at one + another; and in those wonderful eyes I saw for the first time a beautiful + sadness, a spiritual appeal. The moment passed. We started again, side by + side, neither speaking. I did not look at her, conscious of a vague + trouble. Things that I had thought dead stirred in my heart. + </p> + <p> + Presently like a dawn of infinite delicacy rose the city before us. Its + fairy minarets and towers gleamed first white in an atmosphere of pale + amethyst toning through shades of green to the blue of the zenith. And the + lazy sea lay at the city’s foot a pavement of lapis lazuli. But all was + faint, unreal. Far, far away a group of palms caught opalescent + reflections. A slight breeze had sprung up, raising minute particles of + sand which caused the elfland on the horizon to quiver like a mirage. + </p> + <p> + “It is a dream-city,” said I, in admiration. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta did not reply. I thought she had not heard. We jogged on a little + in silence. At last she drew very close to me. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we ever get there?” she asked, pointing ahead with the hand that + held the reins. + </p> + <p> + “To Mogador? Yes, I hope so,” I answered with a laugh. I thought she was + tired. + </p> + <p> + “No, not Mogador. The dream-city—where every one wants to get.” + </p> + <p> + “You have travelled far, my dear,” said I, “to hanker now after + dream-cities and the unattainable. I knew a little girl once who would + have asked: ‘What is a dream-city?” + </p> + <p> + “She doesn’t ask now because she knows,” replied Carlotta. “No. We shall + never get there. It looks as if we were riding straight into it—but + when we get close, it will just be Mogador.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you happy, Carlotta?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Are you, Seer Marcous?” + </p> + <p> + “I? I am a philosopher, my child, and a happy philosopher would be a <i>lusus + naturae</i>, a freak, a subject for a Barnum & Bailey Show. If they + caught him they would put him between the hairy man and the living + skeleton.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I’m getting to be a philosopher, too,” said Carlotta, “and I + hate it! Sometimes I think I hate everything and everybody—save you, + Seer Marcous, darling. It’s wicked of me. I must have been born wicked. + But I used to be happy. I never wanted to go to dream-cities. I was just + like a cat. Like Polyphemus. Do you remember Polyphemus?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I. And then set off my balance by this strange conversation + with Carlotta, I added: “I killed him.” + </p> + <p> + She turned a startled face to me. + </p> + <p> + “You killed him? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “He laughed at me because I was unhappy,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Through me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; through you. But that’s neither here nor there. We were not + discussing the death of Polyphemus. We were talking about being + philosophers, and you said that as a philosopher you hated everything and + everybody except me. Why do you exclude me, Carlotta?” + </p> + <p> + We were riding so near together that my leg rubbed her saddle-girth. I + looked hard at her. She turned away her head and put the pantomime parasol + between us. I heard a little choking sob. + </p> + <p> + “Let us get off—and sit down a little—I want to cry. + </p> + <p> + “The end of all feminine philosophy,” I said, somewhat brutally. “No. It’s + getting late. That’s only Mogador in front of us. Let us go to it.” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta shifted her parasol quickly. + </p> + <p> + “What has happened to you, Seer Marcous? You have never spoken to me like + that before.” + </p> + <p> + “The very deuce seems to have happened,” said I, angrily—though why + I should have felt angry, heaven only knows. “First you turn yourself into + a Royal Academy picture with that unspeakable umbrella of yours and the + trumpery blue sky and sunshine, and make my sentimental soul ache; and + then you—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a very pretty umbrella,” said Carlotta, looking upwards at it + demurely. + </p> + <p> + “Give it to me,” I said. + </p> + <p> + She yielded it with her usual docility. I cast it upon the desert. Being + open it gave one or two silly rebounds, then lay still. Carlotta reined up + her mule. + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h!” she said, in her old way. + </p> + <p> + I dismounted hurriedly, and helped her down and passed my arm through the + two bridles. + </p> + <p> + “My dear child,” said I, “what is the meaning of all this? Here we have + been living for months the most tranquil and unruffled existence, and now + suddenly you begin to talk about dream-cities and the impossibility of + getting there, and I turn angry and heave parasols about Africa. What is + the meaning of it?” + </p> + <p> + The most extraordinary part of it was that I should be treating Carlotta + as a grown-up woman, after the fashion of the hero of a modern French + novel. Perhaps I was younger than I thought. + </p> + <p> + She kept her eyes fixed downward. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you angry with me?” she asked in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t the remotest idea,” said I. + </p> + <p> + She lifted her eyelids slowly—oh, very, very slowly, glanced + quiveringly at me, while the shadow of a smile fluttered round her lips. I + verily believe the baggage exulted in her feminine heart. I turned away, + leading the two animals, and picked up the parasol which I closed and + restored to her. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you wanted to cry,” I remarked. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t,” said Carlotta, plaintively. + </p> + <p> + “And you won’t tell me why you exclude me from your universal hatred?” + </p> + <p> + Carlotta dug up the sand with the point of her foot. The sight of it + recalled the row of pink toes thrust unashamedly before my eyes on the + second day of her arrival in London. An old hope, an old fear, an old + struggle renewed themselves. She was more adorably beautiful even than the + Carlotta of the pink tus, and spiritually she was reborn. I heard her + whisper: + </p> + <p> + “I can’t.” + </p> + <p> + Now I had sworn to myself all the oaths that a man can swear that I should + be Carlotta’s grandfather to the end of time. Hitherto I had felt the + part. Now suddenly grey beard and slippered pantaloons are cast aside and + I am young again with a glow in my heart which beats fast at her beauty. I + shut my teeth. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said I to myself. “The curtain shall not rise on that farcical + tragedy again.” + </p> + <p> + I threw the reins on the neck of Carlotta’s mule, which with its companion + had been regarding us with bland stupidity. + </p> + <p> + “I think we had better ride on, Carlotta,” I said. “Mount.” + </p> + <p> + She meekly gave me her little foot and I hoisted her into the saddle. + </p> + <p> + We did not exchange a word till we reached Mogador. But each of us felt + that something had happened. + </p> + <p> + At dinner we met as usual. Carlotta spoke somewhat feverishly of our + travels, and asked me numberless questions, betraying an unprecedented + thirst for information. I never gave her historical instruction with less + zest. + </p> + <p> + After the meal we went onto the flat roof. Carlotta poured out my coffee + at the small table beside the long Madeira cane chair which was my + accustomed seat. The starlit night was blue and languorous. From some cafe + came the monotonous strains of Moorish music, the harsh strings and harsh + men’s voices softened by the distance. Carlotta took my coffee-cup when I + had finished and set it down in her granddaughterly way. Then she stood in + front of me. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you make a little room for me on your chair, Seer Marcous, + darling?” + </p> + <p> + I shifted my feet from the foot-rest and she sat down. I may observe that + I was not, in oriental bashawdom, occupying the one and only chair on the + housetop. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about the stars,” she said. + </p> + <p> + I knew what she meant. She loved the old Greek myths; their poetry, + obscured though it was through my matter-of-fact prose, appealed to her + young imagination. She was passing through an exquisite phase of + development. + </p> + <p> + I scanned the heavens for a text and found one in the Pleiades. And I told + her how these were seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione who herself was + the daughter of the Sea, and how they were all pure maidens, save one, and + were the companions of Artemis; how Orion the hunter, who was afterwards + slain by Artemis and whose three-starred girdle gleamed up there in the + sky, pursued them with evil intent, and how they prayed the gods for + deliverance and were changed into the everlasting stars; and, lastly, how + the one who was not a maiden, for she loved a mortal, shrank away from her + sisters through shame and was invisible to the eye of man. + </p> + <p> + “She was ashamed,” said Carlotta in a low voice, “because she loved some + one afterwards, one of the gods, who would not look at her because she had + given herself to a mortal. A woman then has a fire here”—she clasped + her hands to her bosom—“and wishes she could burn away to nothing, + nothing, just to air, and become invisible.” + </p> + <p> + She was rising hurriedly on the last word, but I brought my hands down on + her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Carlotta, my child,” said I, “what do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + She seized my wrists and struggling to rise, panted out in desperation: + </p> + <p> + “You are one of the gods, and I wish I were changed into an invisible + star.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t,” said I, huskily. + </p> + <p> + By main force I drew her to me and our lips met. She yielded, and this + time the whole soul of Carlotta came to me in the kiss. + </p> + <p> + “It’s beautiful to snuggle up against you again,” said my ever direct + Carlotta, after a while. “I haven’t done it—oh, for such a long + time.” She sighed contentedly. “Seer Marcous—” + </p> + <p> + “You must call me Marcus now,” said I, somewhat fatuously. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head as it lay on my shoulder. “No. You are Marcus—or + Sir Marcus—to everybody. To me you are always Seer Marcous. Seer + Marcous, darling,” she half whispered after a pause. “Once I did not know + the difference between a god and a mortal. It was only that morning when I + woke up—” + </p> + <p> + “You took me for a saint in a dressing-gown,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the same thing,” she retorted. And then taking up her parable, she + told me in her artless way the inner history of her heart since that + morning; but what she said is sacred. Also, a man feels himself to be a + pitiful dog of a god when a woman relates how she came to establish him on + her High Altar. + </p> + <p> + Later we struck a lighter vein and spoke of the present, the enchantment + of the hour, the scented air, the African stars. + </p> + <p> + “It seems, my dear,” said I, “that we have got to Nephelococcygia after + all.” + </p> + <p> + “What is Nephelococcygia?” asked Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + I relented. “It’s a base Aristophanic libel on our dream-city,” said I. + </p> + <p> + Thus out of evil has come good; out of pain has grown happiness; out of + horror has sprung an everlasting love. Many a man will say that in all my + relations with Carlotta I have comported myself as a fool, and that my + marriage is the crowning folly. Well, I pretend not unto wisdom. Wisdom + would have married me to five thousand a year, a position in fashionable + society, my Cousin Dora and premature old age antecedent to eternal + destruction. I hold that my salvation has lain the way of folly. Again, it + may be urged against me that I have squandered my life, that with all my + learning, such as it is, I have achieved nothing. I once thought so. I + boasted of it in my diary when I complacently styled myself a waster in + Earth’s factory. Oh, that diary! Let me here solemnly retract and abjure + every crude and idiot opinion and reflection of life set forth in that + frenetic record! I regard myself not as a waster—I remember a + passage in Epictetus treating of the ways of Providence: + </p> + <p> + “For what else can I do, a lame old man, than sing hymns to God? If then I + were a nightingale I would do the part of a nightingale: if I were a swan, + I would do like a swan. But now I am a rational creature and I ought to + praise God; this is my work, I do it, nor will I desert this post so long + as I am allowed to keep it; and I exhort you to join in this same song.” + </p> + <p> + No, I am neither nightingale nor swan, and cannot add, as they do, to the + beauty of the earth. The lame old man has his limitations; but within + them, he can, by cleaving to his post and praising God, fulfil his + destiny. + </p> + <p> + Carlotta coming onto the housetop to summon me to lunch looks over my + shoulder as I write these words. + </p> + <p> + “But you are not a lame old man!” she cries in indignation. “You are the + youngest and strongest and cleverest man in the world!” + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do with these miraculous gifts?” I ask, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “You are to become famous,” she says, with conviction. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, my dear. We will have to go to some new land where attaining + fame is easier for a beginner than in London; and we’ll send for + Antoinette and Stenson to help us.” + </p> + <p> + “That will be very nice,” she observes. + </p> + <p> + So I am to become famous. <i>Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut</i>. And + Carlotta has got a soul of her own now and means to make the most of it. + It will lead me upward somewhere. But whether I am to be king of New + Babylon or Prime Minister of New Zealand or lawgiver to a Polynesian tribe + is a secret as yet hidden in the lap of the gods, whence Carlotta + doubtless will snatch it in her own good time. + </p> + <p> + “You are writing a lot of rubbish,” says Carlotta. + </p> + <p> + “And a little truth. The mixture is Life,” I answer. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne, by William J. 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