CHAPTER III
Without caring much about it I was conscious of sudden illumination. Isaid to myself confidently that these two people had been quarrelling allthe morning. I had discovered the secret of my invitation to that lunch.They did not care to face the strain of some obstinate, inconclusivediscussion for fear, maybe, of it ending in a serious quarrel. And sothey had agreed that I should be fetched downstairs to create adiversion. I cannot say I felt annoyed. I didn't care. My perspicacitydid not please me either. I wished they had left me alone--but nothingmattered. They must have been in their superiority accustomed to makeuse of people, without compunction. From necessity, too. Sheespecially. She lived by her wits. The silence had grown so marked thatI had at last to raise my eyes; and the first thing I observed was thatCaptain Blunt was no longer to be seen in the garden. Must have goneindoors. Would rejoin us in a moment. Then I would leave mother and sonto themselves.
The next thing I noticed was that a great mellowness had descended uponthe mother of the last of his race. But these terms, irritation,mellowness, appeared gross when applied to her. It is impossible to givean idea of the refinement and subtlety of all her transformations. Shesmiled faintly at me.
"But all this is beside the point. The real point is that my son, likeall fine natures, is a being of strange contradictions which the trialsof life have not yet reconciled in him. With me it is a littledifferent. The trials fell mainly to my share--and of course I havelived longer. And then men are much more complex than women, much moredifficult, too. And you, Monsieur George? Are you complex, withunexpected resistances and difficulties in your _etre intime_--your innerself? I wonder now . . ."
The Blunt atmosphere seemed to vibrate all over my skin. I disregardedthe symptom. "Madame," I said, "I have never tried to find out what sortof being I am."
"Ah, that's very wrong. We ought to reflect on what manner of beings weare. Of course we are all sinners. My John is a sinner like theothers," she declared further, with a sort of proud tenderness as thoughour common lot must have felt honoured and to a certain extent purifiedby this condescending recognition.
"You are too young perhaps as yet . . . But as to my John," she brokeoff, leaning her elbow on the table and supporting her head on her old,impeccably shaped, white fore-arm emerging from a lot of precious, stillolder, lace trimming the short sleeve. "The trouble is that he suffersfrom a profound discord between the necessary reactions to life and eventhe impulses of nature and the lofty idealism of his feelings; I may say,of his principles. I assure you that he won't even let his heart speakuncontradicted."
I am sure I don't know what particular devil looks after the associationsof memory, and I can't even imagine the shock which it would have beenfor Mrs. Blunt to learn that the words issuing from her lips had awakenedin me the visual perception of a dark-skinned, hard-driven lady's maidwith tarnished eyes; even of the tireless Rose handing me my hat whilebreathing out the enigmatic words: "Madame should listen to her heart."A wave from the atmosphere of another house rolled in, overwhelming andfiery, seductive and cruel, through the Blunt vibration, bursting throughit as through tissue paper and filling my heart with sweet murmurs anddistracting images, till it seemed to break, leaving an empty stillnessin my breast.
After that for a long time I heard Mme. Blunt _mere_ talking with extremefluency and I even caught the individual words, but I could not in therevulsion of my feelings get hold of the sense. She talked apparently oflife in general, of its difficulties, moral and physical, of itssurprising turns, of its unexpected contacts, of the choice and rarepersonalities that drift on it as if on the sea; of the distinction thatletters and art gave to it, the nobility and consolations there are inaesthetics, of the privileges they confer on individuals and (this wasthe first connected statement I caught) that Mills agreed with her in thegeneral point of view as to the inner worth of individualities and in theparticular instance of it on which she had opened to him her innermostheart. Mills had a universal mind. His sympathy was universal, too. Hehad that large comprehension--oh, not cynical, not at all cynical, infact rather tender--which was found in its perfection only in some rare,very rare Englishmen. The dear creature was romantic, too. Of course hewas reserved in his speech but she understood Mills perfectly. Millsapparently liked me very much.
It was time for me to say something. There was a challenge in thereposeful black eyes resting upon my face. I murmured that I was veryglad to hear it. She waited a little, then uttered meaningly, "Mr. Millsis a little bit uneasy about you."
"It's very good of him," I said. And indeed I thought that it was verygood of him, though I did ask myself vaguely in my dulled brain why heshould be uneasy.
Somehow it didn't occur to me to ask Mrs. Blunt. Whether she hadexpected me to do so or not I don't know but after a while she changedthe pose she had kept so long and folded her wonderfully preserved whitearms. She looked a perfect picture in silver and grey, with touches ofblack here and there. Still I said nothing more in my dull misery. Shewaited a little longer, then she woke me up with a crash. It was as ifthe house had fallen, and yet she had only asked me:
"I believe you are received on very friendly terms by Madame de Lastaolaon account of your common exertions for the cause. Very good friends,are you not?"
"You mean Rita," I said stupidly, but I felt stupid, like a man who wakesup only to be hit on the head.
"Oh, Rita," she repeated with unexpected acidity, which somehow made mefeel guilty of an incredible breach of good manners. "H'm, Rita. . . .Oh, well, let it be Rita--for the present. Though why she should bedeprived of her name in conversation about her, really I don'tunderstand. Unless a very special intimacy . . ."
She was distinctly annoyed. I said sulkily, "It isn't her name."
"It is her choice, I understand, which seems almost a better title torecognition on the part of the world. It didn't strike you so before?Well, it seems to me that choice has got more right to be respected thanheredity or law. Moreover, Mme. de Lastaola," she continued in aninsinuating voice, "that most rare and fascinating young woman is, as afriend like you cannot deny, outside legality altogether. Even in thatshe is an exceptional creature. For she is exceptional--you agree?"
I had gone dumb, I could only stare at her.
"Oh, I see, you agree. No friend of hers could deny."
"Madame," I burst out, "I don't know where a question of friendship comesin here with a person whom you yourself call so exceptional. I reallydon't know how she looks upon me. Our intercourse is of course veryclose and confidential. Is that also talked about in Paris?"
"Not at all, not in the least," said Mrs. Blunt, easy, equable, but withher calm, sparkling eyes holding me in angry subjection. "Nothing of thesort is being talked about. The references to Mme. de Lastaola are in avery different tone, I can assure you, thanks to her discretion inremaining here. And, I must say, thanks to the discreet efforts of herfriends. I am also a friend of Mme. de Lastaola, you must know. Oh, no,I have never spoken to her in my life and have seen her only twice, Ibelieve. I wrote to her though, that I admit. She or rather the imageof her has come into my life, into that part of it where art and lettersreign undisputed like a sort of religion of beauty to which I have beenfaithful through all the vicissitudes of my existence. Yes, I did writeto her and I have been preoccupied with her for a long time. It arosefrom a picture, from two pictures and also from a phrase pronounced by aman, who in the science of life and in the perception of aesthetic truthhad no equal in the world of culture. He said that there was somethingin her of the women of all time. I suppose he meant the inheritance ofall the gifts that make up an irresistible fascination--a greatpersonality. Such women are not born often. Most of them lackopportunities. They never develop. They end obscurely. Here and thereone survives to make her mark even in history. . . . And even that is nota very enviable fate. They are at another pole from the so-calleddangerous women who are merely coquettes.
A coquette has got to work forher success. The others have nothing to do but simply exist. Youperceive the view I take of the difference?"
I perceived the view. I said to myself that nothing in the world couldbe more aristocratic. This was the slave-owning woman who had neverworked, even if she had been reduced to live by her wits. She was awonderful old woman. She made me dumb. She held me fascinated by thewell-bred attitude, something sublimely aloof in her air of wisdom.
I just simply let myself go admiring her as though I had been a mereslave of aesthetics: the perfect grace, the amazing poise of thatvenerable head, the assured as if royal--yes, royal even flow of thevoice. . . . But what was it she was talking about now? These were nolonger considerations about fatal women. She was talking about her sonagain. My interest turned into mere bitterness of contemptuousattention. For I couldn't withhold it though I tried to let the stuff goby. Educated in the most aristocratic college in Paris . . . at eighteen. . . call of duty . . . with General Lee to the very last cruel minute. . . after that catastrophe end of the world--return to France--to oldfriendships, infinite kindness--but a life hollow, without occupation. . . Then 1870--and chivalrous response to adopted country's call and againemptiness, the chafing of a proud spirit without aim and handicapped notexactly by poverty but by lack of fortune. And she, the mother, havingto look on at this wasting of a most accomplished man, of a mostchivalrous nature that practically had no future before it.
"You understand me well, Monsieur George. A nature like this! It is themost refined cruelty of fate to look at. I don't know whether I sufferedmore in times of war or in times of peace. You understand?"
I bowed my head in silence. What I couldn't understand was why hedelayed so long in joining us again. Unless he had had enough of hismother? I thought without any great resentment that I was beingvictimized; but then it occurred to me that the cause of his absence wasquite simple. I was familiar enough with his habits by this time to knowthat he often managed to snatch an hour's sleep or so during the day. Hehad gone and thrown himself on his bed.
"I admire him exceedingly," Mrs. Blunt was saying in a tone which was notat all maternal. "His distinction, his fastidiousness, the earnestwarmth of his heart. I know him well. I assure you that I would neverhave dared to suggest," she continued with an extraordinary haughtinessof attitude and tone that aroused my attention, "I would never have daredto put before him my views of the extraordinary merits and the uncertainfate of the exquisite woman of whom we speak, if I had not been certainthat, partly by my fault, I admit, his attention has been attracted toher and his--his--his heart engaged."
It was as if some one had poured a bucket of cold water over my head. Iwoke up with a great shudder to the acute perception of my own feelingsand of that aristocrat's incredible purpose. How it could havegerminated, grown and matured in that exclusive soil was inconceivable.She had been inciting her son all the time to undertake wonderful salvagework by annexing the heiress of Henry Allegre--the woman and the fortune.
There must have been an amazed incredulity in my eyes, to which her ownresponded by an unflinching black brilliance which suddenly seemed todevelop a scorching quality even to the point of making me feel extremelythirsty all of a sudden. For a time my tongue literally clove to theroof of my mouth. I don't know whether it was an illusion but it seemedto me that Mrs. Blunt had nodded at me twice as if to say: "You areright, that's so." I made an effort to speak but it was very poor. Ifshe did hear me it was because she must have been on the watch for thefaintest sound.
"His heart engaged. Like two hundred others, or two thousand, allaround," I mumbled.
"Altogether different. And it's no disparagement to a woman surely. Ofcourse her great fortune protects her in a certain measure."
"Does it?" I faltered out and that time I really doubt whether she heardme. Her aspect in my eyes had changed. Her purpose being disclosed, herwell-bred ease appeared sinister, her aristocratic repose a treacherousdevice, her venerable graciousness a mask of unbounded contempt for allhuman beings whatever. She was a terrible old woman with those straight,white wolfish eye-brows. How blind I had been! Those eyebrows aloneought to have been enough to give her away. Yet they were as beautifullysmooth as her voice when she admitted: "That protection naturally is onlypartial. There is the danger of her own self, poor girl. She requiresguidance."
I marvelled at the villainy of my tone as I spoke, but it was onlyassumed.
"I don't think she has done badly for herself, so far," I forced myselfto say. "I suppose you know that she began life by herding the villagegoats."
In the course of that phrase I noticed her wince just the least bit. Oh,yes, she winced; but at the end of it she smiled easily.
"No, I didn't know. So she told you her story! Oh, well, I suppose youare very good friends. A goatherd--really? In the fairy tale I believethe girl that marries the prince is--what is it?--a _gardeuse d'oies_.And what a thing to drag out against a woman. One might just as soonreproach any of them for coming unclothed into the world. They all do,you know. And then they become--what you will discover when you havelived longer, Monsieur George--for the most part futile creatures,without any sense of truth and beauty, drudges of all sorts, or elsedolls to dress. In a word--ordinary."
The implication of scorn in her tranquil manner was immense. It seemedto condemn all those that were not born in the Blunt connection. It wasthe perfect pride of Republican aristocracy, which has no gradations andknows no limit, and, as if created by the grace of God, thinks itennobles everything it touches: people, ideas, even passing tastes!
"How many of them," pursued Mrs. Blunt, "have had the good fortune, theleisure to develop their intelligence and their beauty in aestheticconditions as this charming woman had? Not one in a million. Perhapsnot one in an age."
"The heiress of Henry Allegre," I murmured.
"Precisely. But John wouldn't be marrying the heiress of Henry Allegre."
It was the first time that the frank word, the clear idea, came into theconversation and it made me feel ill with a sort of enraged faintness.
"No," I said. "It would be Mme. de Lastaola then."
"Mme. la Comtesse de Lastaola as soon as she likes after the success ofthis war."
"And you believe in its success?"
"Do you?"
"Not for a moment," I declared, and was surprised to see her lookpleased.
She was an aristocrat to the tips of her fingers; she really didn't carefor anybody. She had passed through the Empire, she had lived through asiege, had rubbed shoulders with the Commune, had seen everything, nodoubt, of what men are capable in the pursuit of their desires or in theextremity of their distress, for love, for money, and even for honour;and in her precarious connection with the very highest spheres she hadkept her own honourability unscathed while she had lost all herprejudices. She was above all that. Perhaps "the world" was the onlything that could have the slightest checking influence; but when Iventured to say something about the view it might take of such analliance she looked at me for a moment with visible surprise.
"My dear Monsieur George, I have lived in the great world all my life.It's the best that there is, but that's only because there is nothingmerely decent anywhere. It will accept anything, forgive anything,forget anything in a few days. And after all who will he be marrying? Acharming, clever, rich and altogether uncommon woman. What did the worldhear of her? Nothing. The little it saw of her was in the Bois for afew hours every year, riding by the side of a man of unique distinctionand of exclusive tastes, devoted to the cult of aesthetic impressions; aman of whom, as far as aspect, manner, and behaviour goes, she might havebeen the daughter. I have seen her myself. I went on purpose. I wasimmensely struck. I was even moved. Yes. She might have been--exceptfor that something radiant in her that marked her apart from all theother daughters of men. The few remarkable personalities that count insociety and who were admitted into Henry Allegre's Pavil
ion treated herwith punctilious reserve. I know that, I have made enquiries. I knowshe sat there amongst them like a marvellous child, and for the rest whatcan they say about her? That when abandoned to herself by the death ofAllegre she has made a mistake? I think that any woman ought to beallowed one mistake in her life. The worst they can say of her is thatshe discovered it, that she had sent away a man in love directly shefound out that his love was not worth having; that she had told him to goand look for his crown, and that, after dismissing him she had remainedgenerously faithful to his cause, in her person and fortune. And this,you will allow, is rather uncommon upon the whole."
"You make her out very magnificent," I murmured, looking down upon thefloor.
"Isn't she?" exclaimed the aristocratic Mrs. Blunt, with an almostyouthful ingenuousness, and in those black eyes which looked at me socalmly there was a flash of the Southern beauty, still naive andromantic, as if altogether untouched by experience. "I don't think thereis a single grain of vulgarity in all her enchanting person. Neither isthere in my son. I suppose you won't deny that he is uncommon." Shepaused.
"Absolutely," I said in a perfectly conventional tone, I was now on mymettle that she should not discover what there was humanly common in mynature. She took my answer at her own valuation and was satisfied.
"They can't fail to understand each other on the very highest level ofidealistic perceptions. Can you imagine my John thrown away on someenamoured white goose out of a stuffy old salon? Why, she couldn't evenbegin to understand what he feels or what he needs."
"Yes," I said impenetrably, "he is not easy to understand."
"I have reason to think," she said with a suppressed smile, "that he hasa certain power over women. Of course I don't know anything about hisintimate life but a whisper or two have reached me, like that, floatingin the air, and I could hardly suppose that he would find an exceptionalresistance in that quarter of all others. But I should like to know theexact degree."
I disregarded an annoying tendency to feel dizzy that came over me andwas very careful in managing my voice.
"May I ask, Madame, why you are telling me all this?"
"For two reasons," she condescended graciously. "First of all becauseMr. Mills told me that you were much more mature than one would expect.In fact you look much younger than I was prepared for."
"Madame," I interrupted her, "I may have a certain capacity for actionand for responsibility, but as to the regions into which this veryunexpected conversation has taken me I am a great novice. They areoutside my interest. I have had no experience."
"Don't make yourself out so hopeless," she said in a spoilt-beauty tone."You have your intuitions. At any rate you have a pair of eyes. You areeverlastingly over there, so I understand. Surely you have seen how farthey are . . ."
I interrupted again and this time bitterly, but always in a tone ofpolite enquiry:
"You think her facile, Madame?"
She looked offended. "I think her most fastidious. It is my son who isin question here."
And I understood then that she looked on her son as irresistible. For mypart I was just beginning to think that it would be impossible for me towait for his return. I figured him to myself lying dressed on his bedsleeping like a stone. But there was no denying that the mother washolding me with an awful, tortured interest. Twice Therese had openedthe door, had put her small head in and drawn it back like a tortoise.But for some time I had lost the sense of us two being quite alone in thestudio. I had perceived the familiar dummy in its corner but it lay nowon the floor as if Therese had knocked it down angrily with a broom for aheathen idol. It lay there prostrate, handless, without its head,pathetic, like the mangled victim of a crime.
"John is fastidious, too," began Mrs. Blunt again. "Of course youwouldn't suppose anything vulgar in his resistances to a very realsentiment. One has got to understand his psychology. He can't leavehimself in peace. He is exquisitely absurd."
I recognized the phrase. Mother and son talked of each other inidentical terms. But perhaps "exquisitely absurd" was the Blunt familysaying? There are such sayings in families and generally there is sometruth in them. Perhaps this old woman was simply absurd. She continued:
"We had a most painful discussion all this morning. He is angry with mefor suggesting the very thing his whole being desires. I don't feelguilty. It's he who is tormenting himself with his infinitescrupulosity."
"Ah," I said, looking at the mangled dummy like the model of someatrocious murder. "Ah, the fortune. But that can be left alone."
"What nonsense! How is it possible? It isn't contained in a bag, youcan't throw it into the sea. And moreover, it isn't her fault. I amastonished that you should have thought of that vulgar hypocrisy. No, itisn't her fortune that cheeks my son; it's something much more subtle.Not so much her history as her position. He is absurd. It isn't whathas happened in her life. It's her very freedom that makes him tormenthimself and her, too--as far as I can understand."
I suppressed a groan and said to myself that I must really get away fromthere.
Mrs. Blunt was fairly launched now.
"For all his superiority he is a man of the world and shares to a certainextent its current opinions. He has no power over her. She intimidateshim. He wishes he had never set eyes on her. Once or twice this morninghe looked at me as if he could find it in his heart to hate his oldmother. There is no doubt about it--he loves her, Monsieur George. Heloves her, this poor, luckless, perfect _homme du monde_."
The silence lasted for some time and then I heard a murmur: "It's amatter of the utmost delicacy between two beings so sensitive, so proud.It has to be managed."
I found myself suddenly on my feet and saying with the utmost politenessthat I had to beg her permission to leave her alone as I had anengagement; but she motioned me simply to sit down--and I sat down again.
"I told you I had a request to make," she said. "I have understood fromMr. Mills that you have been to the West Indies, that you have someinterests there."
I was astounded. "Interests! I certainly have been there," I said, "but. . ."
She caught me up. "Then why not go there again? I am speaking to youfrankly because . . ."
"But, Madame, I am engaged in this affair with Dona Rita, even if I hadany interests elsewhere. I won't tell you about the importance of mywork. I didn't suspect it but you brought the news of it to me, and so Ineedn't point it out to you."
And now we were frankly arguing with each other.
"But where will it lead you in the end? You have all your life beforeyou, all your plans, prospects, perhaps dreams, at any rate your owntastes and all your life-time before you. And would you sacrifice allthis to--the Pretender? A mere figure for the front page of illustratedpapers."'
"I never think of him," I said curtly, "but I suppose Dona Rita'sfeelings, instincts, call it what you like--or only her chivalrousfidelity to her mistakes--"
"Dona Rita's presence here in this town, her withdrawal from the possiblecomplications of her life in Paris has produced an excellent effect on myson. It simplifies infinite difficulties, I mean moral as well asmaterial. It's extremely to the advantage of her dignity, of her future,and of her peace of mind. But I am thinking, of course, mainly of myson. He is most exacting."
I felt extremely sick at heart. "And so I am to drop everything andvanish," I said, rising from my chair again. And this time Mrs. Bluntgot up, too, with a lofty and inflexible manner but she didn't dismiss meyet.
"Yes," she said distinctly. "All this, my dear Monsieur George, is suchan accident. What have you got to do here? You look to me like somebodywho would find adventures wherever he went as interesting and perhapsless dangerous than this one."
She slurred over the word dangerous but I picked it up.
"What do you know of its dangers, Madame, may I ask?" But she did notcondescend to hear.
"And then you, too, have your chivalrous feelings," she wen
t on,unswerving, distinct, and tranquil. "You are not absurd. But my son is.He would shut her up in a convent for a time if he could."
"He isn't the only one," I muttered.
"Indeed!" she was startled, then lower, "Yes. That woman must be thecentre of all sorts of passions," she mused audibly. "But what have yougot to do with all this? It's nothing to you."
She waited for me to speak.
"Exactly, Madame," I said, "and therefore I don't see why I shouldconcern myself in all this one way or another."
"No," she assented with a weary air, "except that you might ask yourselfwhat is the good of tormenting a man of noble feelings, however absurd.His Southern blood makes him very violent sometimes. I fear--" And thenfor the first time during this conversation, for the first time since Ileft Dona Rita the day before, for the first time I laughed.
"Do you mean to hint, Madame, that Southern gentlemen are dead shots? Iam aware of that--from novels."
I spoke looking her straight in the face and I made that exquisite,aristocratic old woman positively blink by my directness. There was afaint flush on her delicate old cheeks but she didn't move a muscle ofher face. I made her a most respectful bow and went out of the studio.