The Ladybird

  'Men have never before been quite free to choose: and to know what

  they are doing.'

  'You mean they've only made themselves free in order voluntarily to

  saddle themselves with new lords and masters?'

  'I do mean that.'

  'In short, life is just a vicious circle?'

  'Not at all. An ever-widening circle, as you say. Always more

  wonderful.'

  'Well, it's all frightfully interesting and amusing--don't you

  think so, Daphne? By the way, Count, where would women be? Would

  they be allowed to criticize their husbands?'

  'Only before marriage,' smiled the Count. 'Not after.'

  'Splendid!' said Basil. 'I'm all for that bit of your scheme,

  Count. I hope you're listening, Daphne.'

  'Oh yes. But then I've only married YOU, I've got my right to

  criticize all the other men,' she said in a dull, angry voice.

  'Exactly. Clever of you! So the Count won't get off! Well now,

  what do you think of the Count's aristocratic scheme for the

  future, Daphne? Do you approve?'

  'Not at all. But then little men have always wanted power,' she

  said cruelly.

  'Oh, big men as well, for that matter,' said Basil, conciliatory.

  'I have been told before,' smiled the Count, 'little men are always

  bossy. I am afraid I have offended Lady Daphne?'

  'No,' she said. 'Not really. I'm amused, really. But I always

  dislike any suggestion of bullying.'

  'Indeed, so do I,' said he.

  'The Count didn't mean bullying, Daphne,' said Basil. 'Come, there

  is really an allowable distinction between responsible power and

  bullying.'

  'When men put their heads together about it,' said she.

  She was haughty and angry, as if she were afraid of losing

  something. The Count smiled mischievously at her.

  'You are offended, Lady Daphne? But why? You are safe from any

  spark of my dangerous and extensive authority.'

  Basil burst into a roar of laughter.

  'It IS rather funny, you to be talking of power and of not being

  criticized,' he said. 'But I should like to hear more: I would

  like to hear more.'

  As they drove home, he said to his wife:

  'You know I like that little man. He's a quaint little bantam.

  And he sets one thinking.'

  Lady Daphne froze to four degrees below zero, under the north wind

  of this statement, and not another word was to be thawed out of

  her.

  Curiously enough, it was now Basil who was attracted by the Count,

  and Daphne who was repelled. Not that she was so bound up in her

  husband. Not at all. She was feeling rather sore against men

  altogether. But as so often happens, in this life based on the

  wicked triangle, Basil could only follow his enthusiasm for the

  Count in his wife's presence. When the two men were alone

  together, they were awkward, resistant, they could hardly get out a

  dozen words to one another. When Daphne was there, however, to

  complete the circuit of the opposing currents, things went like a

  house on fire.

  This, however, was not much consolation to Lady Daphne. Merely to

  sit as a passive medium between two men who are squibbing

  philosophical nonsense to one another: no, it was not good enough!

  She almost hated the Count: low-browed little fellow, belonging to

  the race of prehistoric slaves. But her grudge against her white-

  faced, spiritually intense husband was sharp as vinegar. Let down:

  she was let down between the pair of them.

  What next? Well, what followed was entirely Basil's fault. The

  winter was passing: it was obvious the war was really over, that

  Germany was finished. The Hohenzollern had fizzled out like a very

  poor squib, the Hapsburg was popping feebly in obscurity, the

  Romanov was smudged out without a sputter. So much for imperial

  royalty. Henceforth democratic peace.

  The Count, of course, would be shipped back now like returned goods

  that had no market any more. There was a world peace ahead. A

  week or two, and Voynich Hall would be empty.

  Basil, however, could not let matters follow their simple course.

  He was awfully intrigued by the Count. He wanted to entertain him

  as a guest before he went. And Major Apsley could get anything in

  reason, at this moment. So he obtained permission for the poor

  little Count to stay a fortnight at Thoresway, before being shipped

  back to Austria. Earl Beveridge, whose soul was black as ink since

  the war, would never have allowed the little alien enemy to enter

  his house, had it not been for the hatred which had been aroused in

  him, during the last two years, by the degrading spectacle of the

  so-called patriots who had been howling their mongrel indecency in

  the public face. These mongrels had held the Press and the British

  public in abeyance for almost two years. Their one aim was to

  degrade and humiliate anything that was proud or dignified

  remaining in England. It was almost the worst nightmare of all,

  this coming to the top of a lot of public filth which was

  determined to suffocate the souls of all dignified men.

  Hence, the Earl, who never intended to be swamped by unclean scum,

  whatever else happened to him, stamped his heels in the ground and

  stood on his own feet. When Basil said to him, would he allow the

  Count to have a fortnight's decent peace in Thoresway before all

  was finished, Lord Beveridge gave a slow consent, scandal or no

  scandal. Indeed, it was really to defy scandal that he took such a

  step. For the thought of his dead boys was bitter to him: and the

  thought of England fallen under the paws of smelly mongrels was

  bitterer still.

  Lord Beveridge was at Thoresway to receive the Count, who arrived

  escorted by Basil. The English Earl was a big, handsome man,

  rather heavy, with a dark, sombre face that would have been haughty

  if haughtiness had not been made so ridiculous. He was a

  passionate man, with a passionate man's sensitiveness, generosity,

  and instinctive overbearing. But HIS dark passionate nature, and

  his violent sensitiveness had been subjected now to fifty-five

  years' subtle repression, condemnation, repudiation, till he had

  almost come to believe in his own wrongness. His little, frail

  wife, all love for humanity, she was the genuine article. Himself,

  he was labelled selfish, sensual, cruel, etc., etc. So by now he

  always seemed to be standing aside, in the shadow, letting himself

  be obliterated by the pallid rabble of the democratic hurry. That

  was the impression he gave of a man standing back, half-ashamed,

  half-haughty, semi-hidden in the dark background.

  He was a little on the defensive as Basil came in with the Count.

  'Ah--how do you do, Count Psanek?' he said, striding largely

  forward and holding out his hand. Because he was the father of

  Daphne the Count felt a certain tenderness for the taciturn

  Englishman.

  'You do me too much honour, my lord, receiving me in your house,'

  said the small Count proudly.

  The Earl looked at him slowly,
without speaking: seemed to look

  down on him, in every sense of the words.

  'We are still men, Count. We are not beasts altogether.'

  'You wish to say that my countrymen are so very nearly beasts, Lord

  Beveridge?' smiled the Count, curling his fine nose.

  Again the Earl was slow in replying.

  'You have a low opinion of my manners, Count Psanek.'

  'But perhaps a just appreciation of your meaning, Lord Beveridge,'

  smiled the Count, with the same reckless little look of contempt on

  his nose.

  Lord Beveridge flushed dark, with all his native anger offended.

  'I am glad Count Psanek makes my own meaning clear to me,' he said.

  'I beg your pardon a thousand times, my lord, if I give offence in

  doing so,' replied the Count.

  The Earl went black, and felt a fool. He turned his back on the

  Count. And then he turned round again, offering his cigar-case.

  'Will you smoke?' he said. There was kindness in his tone.

  'Thank you,' said the Count, taking a cigar.

  'I dare say,' said Lord Beveridge, 'that all men are beasts in some

  way. I am afraid I have fallen into the common habit of speaking

  by rote, and not what I really mean. Won't you take a seat?'

  'It is only as a prisoner that I have learned that I am NOT truly a

  beast. No, I am myself. I am not a beast,' said the Count,

  seating himself.

  The Earl eyed him curiously.

  'Well,' he said, smiling, 'I suppose it is best to come to a

  decision about it.'

  'It is necessary, if one is to be safe from vulgarity.'

  The Earl felt a twinge of accusation. With his agate-brown, hard-

  looking eyes he watched the black-browed little Count.

  'You are probably right,' he said.

  But he turned his face aside.

  They were five people at dinner--Lady Beveridge was there as

  hostess.

  'Ah, Count Dionys,' she said with a sigh, 'do you really feel that

  the war is over?'

  'Oh yes,' he replied quickly. 'This war is over. The armies will

  go home. THEIR cannon will not sound any more. Never again like

  this.'

  'Ah, I hope so,' she sighed.

  'I am sure,' he said.

  'You think there'll be no more war?' said Daphne.

  For some reason she had made herself very fine, in her newest dress

  of silver and black and pink-chenille, with bare shoulders, and her

  hair fashionably done. The Count in his shabby uniform turned to

  her. She was nervous, hurried. Her slim white arm was near him,

  with the bit of silver at the shoulder. Her skin was white like a

  hot-house flower. Her lips moved hurriedly.

  'Such a war as this there will never be again,' he said.

  'What makes you so sure?' she replied, glancing into his eyes.

  'The machine of war has got out of our control. We shall never

  start it again, till it has fallen to pieces. We shall be afraid.'

  'Will everybody be afraid?' said she, looking down and pressing

  back her chin.

  'I think so.'

  'We will hope so,' said Lady Beveridge.

  'Do you mind if I ask you, Count,' said Basil, 'what you feel about

  the way the war has ended? The way it has ended for YOU, I mean.'

  'You mean that Germany and Austria have lost the war? It was bound

  to be. We have all lost the war. All Europe.'

  'I agreee there,' said Lord Beveridge.

  'We've all lost the war?' said Daphne, turning to look at him.

  There was pain on his dark, low-browed face. He suffered having

  the sensitive woman beside him. Her skin had a hothouse delicacy

  that made his head go round. Her shoulders were broad, rather

  thin, but the skin was white and so sensitive, so hot-house

  delicate. It affected him like the perfume of some white, exotic

  flower. And she seemed to be sending her heart towards him. It

  was as if she wanted to press her breast to his. From the breast

  she loved him, and sent out love to him. And it made him unhappy;

  he wanted to be quiet, and to keep his honour before these hosts.

  He looked into her eyes, his own eyes dark with knowledge and pain.

  She, in her silence and her brief words seemed to be holding them

  all under her spell. She seemed to have cast a certain muteness on

  the table, in the midst of which she remained silently master,

  leaning forward to her plate, and silently mastering them all.

  'Don't I think we've all lost the war?' he replied, in answer to

  her question. 'It was a war of suicide. Nobody could win it. It

  was suicide for all of us.'

  'Oh, I don't know,' she replied. 'What about America and Japan?'

  'They don't count. They only helped US to commit suicide. They

  did not enter vitally.'

  There was such a look of pain on his face, and such a sound of pain

  in his voice, that the other three closed their ears, shut off from

  attending. Only Daphne was making him speak. It was she who was

  drawing the soul out of him, trying to read the future in him as

  the augurs read the future in the quivering entrails of the

  sacrificed beast. She looked direct into his face, searching his

  soul.

  'You think Europe has committed suicide?' she said.

  'Morally.'

  'Only morally?' came her slow, bronze-like words, so fatal.

  'That is enough,' he smiled.

  'Quite,' she said, with a slow droop of her eyelids. Then she

  turned away her face. But he felt the heart strangling inside his

  breast. What was she doing now? What was she thinking? She

  filled him with uncertainty and with uncanny fear.

  'At least,' said Basil, 'those infernal guns are quiet.'

  'For ever,' said Dionys.

  'I wish I could believe you, Count,' said the Major.

  The talk became more general--or more personal. Lady Beveridge

  asked Dionys about his wife and family. He knew nothing save that

  they had gone to Hungary in 1916, when his own house was burnt

  down. His wife might even have gone to Bulgaria with Prince

  Bogorik. He did not know.

  'But your children, Count!' cried Lady Beveridge.

  'I do not know. Probably in Hungary, with their grandmother. I

  will go when I get back.'

  'But have you never WRITTEN?--never inquired?'

  'I could not write. I shall know soon enough--everything.'

  'You have no son?'

  'No. Two girls.'

  'Poor things!'

  'Yes.'

  'I say, isn't it an odd thing to have a ladybird on your crest?'

  asked Basil, to cheer up the conversation.

  'Why queer? Charlemagne had bees. And it is a Marienkafer--a

  Mary-beetle. The beetle of Our Lady. I think it is quite a

  heraldic insect, Major,' smiled the Count.

  'You're proud of it?' said Daphne, suddenly turning to look at him

  again, with her slow, pregnant look.

  'I am, you know. It has such a long genealogy--our spotted beetle.

  Much longer than the Psaneks. I think, you know, it is a

  descendant of the Egyptian scarabeus, which is a very mysterious

  emblem. So I connect myself with the Pharaohs: just through my

  ladybird.'

  'You feel your ladybird has crept through so many ag
es,' she said.

  'Imagine it!' he laughed.

  'The scarab IS a piquant insect,' said Basil.

  'Do you know Fabre?' put in Lord Beveridge. 'He suggests that the

  beetle rolling a little ball of dung before him, in a dry old

  field, must have suggested to the Egyptians the First Principle

  that set the globe rolling. And so the scarab became the symbol of

  the creative principle--or something like that.'

  'That the earth is a tiny ball of dry dung is good,' said Basil.

  'Between the claws of a ladybird,' added Daphne.

  'That is what it is, to go back to one's origin,' said Lady

  Beveridge.

  'Perhaps they meant that it was the principle of decomposition

  which first set the ball rolling,' said the Count.

  'The ball would have to be THERE first,' said Basil.

  'Certainly. But it hadn't started to roll. Then the principle of

  decomposition started it.' The Count smiled as if it were a joke.

  'I am no Egyptologist,' said Lady Beveridge, 'so I can't judge.'

  The Earl and Countess Beveridge left next day. Count Dionys was

  left with the two young people in the house. It was a beautiful

  Elizabethan mansion, not very large, but with those magical rooms

  that are all a twinkle of small-paned windows, looking out from the

  dark panelled interior. The interior was cosy, panelled to the

  ceiling, and the ceiling moulded and touched with gold. And then

  the great square bow of the window with its little panes

  intervening like magic between oneself and the world outside, the

  crest in stained glass crowning its colour, the broad window-seat

  cushioned in faded green. Dionys wandered round the house like a

  little ghost, through the succession of small and large twinkling

  sitting-rooms and lounge rooms in front, down the long, wide

  corridor with the wide stairhead at each end, and up the narrow

  stairs to the bedrooms above, and on to the roof.

  It was early spring, and he loved to sit on the leaded, pale-grey

  roof that had its queer seats and slopes, a little pale world in

  itself. Then to look down over the garden and the sloping lawn to

  the ponds massed round with trees, and away to the elms and furrows

  and hedges of the shires. On the left of the house was the

  farmstead, with ricks and great-roofed barns and dark-red cattle.

  Away to the right, beyond the park, was a village among trees, and

  the spark of a grey church spire.

  He liked to be alone, feeling his soul heavy with its own fate. He

  would sit for hours watching the elm trees standing in rows like

  giants, like warriors across the country. The Earl had told him

  that the Romans had brought these elms to Britain. And he seemed

  to see the spirit of the Romans in them still. Sitting there alone

  in the spring sunshine, in the solitude of the roof, he saw the

  glamour of this England of hedgerows and elm trees, and the

  labourers with slow horses slowly drilling the sod, crossing the

  brown furrow: and the roofs of the village, with the church steeple

  rising beside a big black yew tree: and the chequer of fields away

  to the distance.

  And the charm of the old manor around him, the garden with its grey

  stone walls and yew hedges--broad, broad yew hedges and a peacock

  pausing to glitter and scream in the busy silence of an English

  spring, when celandines open their yellow under the hedges, and

  violets are in the secret, and by the broad paths of the garden

  polyanthus and crocuses vary the velvet and flame, and bits of

  yellow wallflower shake raggedly, with a wonderful triumphance, out

  of the cracks of the wall. There was a fold somewhere near, and he

  could hear the treble bleat of the growing lambs, and the deeper,

  contented baa-ing of the ewes.