CHAPTER IV
That night I passed in a state, mostly open-eyed, I believe, but alwayson the border between dreams and waking. The only thing absolutelyabsent from it was the feeling of rest. The usual sufferings of a youthin love had nothing to do with it. I could leave her, go away from her,remain away from her, without an added pang or any augmentedconsciousness of that torturing sentiment of distance so acute that oftenit ends by wearing itself out in a few days. Far or near was all one tome, as if one could never get any further but also never any nearer toher secret: the state like that of some strange wild faiths that get holdof mankind with the cruel mystic grip of unattainable perfection, robbingthem of both liberty and felicity on earth. A faith presents one withsome hope, though. But I had no hope, and not even desire as a thingoutside myself, that would come and go, exhaust or excite. It was in mejust like life was in me; that life of which a popular saying affirmsthat "it is sweet." For the general wisdom of mankind will always stopshort on the limit of the formidable.
What is best in a state of brimful, equable suffering is that it doesaway with the gnawings of petty sensations. Too far gone to be sensibleto hope and desire I was spared the inferior pangs of elation andimpatience. Hours with her or hours without her were all alike, all inher possession! But still there are shades and I will admit that thehours of that morning were perhaps a little more difficult to get throughthan the others. I had sent word of my arrival of course. I had writtena note. I had rung the bell. Therese had appeared herself in her browngarb and as monachal as ever. I had said to her:
"Have this sent off at once."
She had gazed at the addressed envelope, smiled (I was looking up at herfrom my desk), and at last took it up with an effort of sanctimoniousrepugnance. But she remained with it in her hand looking at me as thoughshe were piously gloating over something she could read in my face.
"Oh, that Rita, that Rita," she murmured. "And you, too! Why are youtrying, you, too, like the others, to stand between her and the mercy ofGod? What's the good of all this to you? And you such a nice, dear,young gentleman. For no earthly good only making all the kind saints inheaven angry, and our mother ashamed in her place amongst the blessed."
"Mademoiselle Therese," I said, "_vous etes folle_."
I believed she was crazy. She was cunning, too. I added an imperious:"_Allez_," and with a strange docility she glided out without anotherword. All I had to do then was to get dressed and wait till eleveno'clock.
The hour struck at last. If I could have plunged into a light wave andbeen transported instantaneously to Dona Rita's door it would no doubthave saved me an infinity of pangs too complex for analysis; but as thiswas impossible I elected to walk from end to end of that long way. Myemotions and sensations were childlike and chaotic inasmuch that theywere very intense and primitive, and that I lay very helpless in theirunrelaxing grasp. If one could have kept a record of one's physicalsensations it would have been a fine collection of absurdities andcontradictions. Hardly touching the ground and yet leaden-footed; with asinking heart and an excited brain; hot and trembling with a secretfaintness, and yet as firm as a rock and with a sort of indifference toit all, I did reach the door which was frightfully like any othercommonplace door, but at the same time had a fateful character: a fewplanks put together--and an awful symbol; not to be approached withoutawe--and yet coming open in the ordinary way to the ring of the bell.
It came open. Oh, yes, very much as usual. But in the ordinary courseof events the first sight in the hall should have been the back of theubiquitous, busy, silent maid hurrying off and already distant. But notat all! She actually waited for me to enter. I was extremely takenaback and I believe spoke to her for the first time in my life.
"_Bonjour_, Rose."
She dropped her dark eyelids over those eyes that ought to have beenlustrous but were not, as if somebody had breathed on them the firstthing in the morning. She was a girl without smiles. She shut the doorafter me, and not only did that but in the incredible idleness of thatmorning she, who had never a moment to spare, started helping me off withmy overcoat. It was positively embarrassing from its novelty. Whilebusying herself with those trifles she murmured without any markedintention:
"Captain Blunt is with Madame."
This didn't exactly surprise me. I knew he had come up to town; I onlyhappened to have forgotten his existence for the moment. I looked at thegirl also without any particular intention. But she arrested my movementtowards the dining-room door by a low, hurried, if perfectly unemotionalappeal:
"Monsieur George!"
That of course was not my name. It served me then as it will serve forthis story. In all sorts of strange places I was alluded to as "thatyoung gentleman they call Monsieur George." Orders came from "MonsieurGeorge" to men who nodded knowingly. Events pivoted about "MonsieurGeorge." I haven't the slightest doubt that in the dark and tortuousstreets of the old Town there were fingers pointed at my back: there goes"Monsieur George." I had been introduced discreetly to severalconsiderable persons as "Monsieur George." I had learned to answer tothe name quite naturally; and to simplify matters I was also "MonsieurGeorge" in the street of the Consuls and in the Villa on the Prado. Iverily believe that at that time I had the feeling that the name ofGeorge really belonged to me. I waited for what the girl had to say. Ihad to wait some time, though during that silence she gave no sign ofdistress or agitation. It was for her obviously a moment of reflection.Her lips were compressed a little in a characteristic, capable manner. Ilooked at her with a friendliness I really felt towards her slight,unattractive, and dependable person.
"Well," I said at last, rather amused by this mental hesitation. I nevertook it for anything else. I was sure it was not distrust. Sheappreciated men and things and events solely in relation to Dona Rita'swelfare and safety. And as to that I believed myself above suspicion.At last she spoke.
"Madame is not happy." This information was given to me not emotionallybut as it were officially. It hadn't even a tone of warning. A merestatement. Without waiting to see the effect she opened the dining-roomdoor, not to announce my name in the usual way but to go in and shut itbehind her. In that short moment I heard no voices inside. Not a soundreached me while the door remained shut; but in a few seconds it cameopen again and Rose stood aside to let me pass.
Then I heard something: Dona Rita's voice raised a little on an impatientnote (a very, very rare thing) finishing some phrase of protest with thewords " . . . Of no consequence."
I heard them as I would have heard any other words, for she had that kindof voice which carries a long distance. But the maid's statementoccupied all my mind. "_Madame n'est pas heureuse_." It had a dreadfulprecision . . . "Not happy . . ." This unhappiness had almost a concreteform--something resembling a horrid bat. I was tired, excited, andgenerally overwrought. My head felt empty. What were the appearances ofunhappiness? I was still naive enough to associate them with tears,lamentations, extraordinary attitudes of the body and some sort of facialdistortion, all very dreadful to behold. I didn't know what I shouldsee; but in what I did see there was nothing startling, at any rate fromthat nursery point of view which apparently I had not yet outgrown.
With immense relief the apprehensive child within me beheld Captain Bluntwarming his back at the more distant of the two fireplaces; and as toDona Rita there was nothing extraordinary in her attitude either, exceptperhaps that her hair was all loose about her shoulders. I hadn't theslightest doubt they had been riding together that morning, but she, withher impatience of all costume (and yet she could dress herself admirablyand wore her dresses triumphantly), had divested herself of her ridinghabit and sat cross-legged enfolded in that ample blue robe like a youngsavage chieftain in a blanket. It covered her very feet. And before thenormal fixity of her enigmatical eyes the smoke of the cigarette ascendedceremonially, straight up, in a slender spiral.
"How are you," was the greeting of Capta
in Blunt with the usual smilewhich would have been more amiable if his teeth hadn't been, just then,clenched quite so tight. How he managed to force his voice through thatshining barrier I could never understand. Dona Rita tapped the couchengagingly by her side but I sat down instead in the armchair nearlyopposite her, which, I imagine, must have been just vacated by Blunt.She inquired with that particular gleam of the eyes in which there wassomething immemorial and gay:
"Well?"
"Perfect success."
"I could hug you."
At any time her lips moved very little but in this instance the intensewhisper of these words seemed to form itself right in my very heart; notas a conveyed sound but as an imparted emotion vibrating there with anawful intimacy of delight. And yet it left my heart heavy.
"Oh, yes, for joy," I said bitterly but very low; "for your Royalist,Legitimist, joy." Then with that trick of very precise politeness whichI must have caught from Mr. Blunt I added:
"I don't want to be embraced--for the King."
And I might have stopped there. But I didn't. With a perversity whichshould be forgiven to those who suffer night and day and are as if drunkwith an exalted unhappiness, I went on: "For the sake of an old cast-offglove; for I suppose a disdained love is not much more than a soiled,flabby thing that finds itself on a private rubbish heap because it hasmissed the fire."
She listened to me unreadable, unmoved, narrowed eyes, closed lips,slightly flushed face, as if carved six thousand years ago in order tofix for ever that something secret and obscure which is in all women.Not the gross immobility of a Sphinx proposing roadside riddles but thefiner immobility, almost sacred, of a fateful figure seated at the verysource of the passions that have moved men from the dawn of ages.
Captain Blunt, with his elbow on the high mantelpiece, had turned away alittle from us and his attitude expressed excellently the detachment of aman who does not want to hear. As a matter of fact, I don't suppose hecould have heard. He was too far away, our voices were too contained.Moreover, he didn't want to hear. There could be no doubt about it; butshe addressed him unexpectedly.
"As I was saying to you, Don Juan, I have the greatest difficulty ingetting myself, I won't say understood, but simply believed."
No pose of detachment could avail against the warm waves of that voice.He had to hear. After a moment he altered his position as it werereluctantly, to answer her.
"That's a difficulty that women generally have."
"Yet I have always spoken the truth."
"All women speak the truth," said Blunt imperturbably. And this annoyedher.
"Where are the men I have deceived?" she cried.
"Yes, where?" said Blunt in a tone of alacrity as though he had beenready to go out and look for them outside.
"No! But show me one. I say--where is he?"
He threw his affectation of detachment to the winds, moved his shouldersslightly, very slightly, made a step nearer to the couch, and looked downon her with an expression of amused courtesy.
"Oh, I don't know. Probably nowhere. But if such a man could be found Iam certain he would turn out a very stupid person. You can't be expectedto furnish every one who approaches you with a mind. To expect thatwould be too much, even from you who know how to work wonders at suchlittle cost to yourself."
"To myself," she repeated in a loud tone.
"Why this indignation? I am simply taking your word for it."
"Such little cost!" she exclaimed under her breath.
"I mean to your person."
"Oh, yes," she murmured, glanced down, as it were upon herself, thenadded very low: "This body."
"Well, it is you," said Blunt with visibly contained irritation. "Youdon't pretend it's somebody else's. It can't be. You haven't borrowedit. . . . It fits you too well," he ended between his teeth.
"You take pleasure in tormenting yourself," she remonstrated, suddenlyplacated; "and I would be sorry for you if I didn't think it's the mererevolt of your pride. And you know you are indulging your pride at myexpense. As to the rest of it, as to my living, acting, working wondersat a little cost. . . . it has all but killed me morally. Do you hear?Killed."
"Oh, you are not dead yet," he muttered,
"No," she said with gentle patience. "There is still some feeling leftin me; and if it is any satisfaction to you to know it, you may becertain that I shall be conscious of the last stab."
He remained silent for a while and then with a polite smile and amovement of the head in my direction he warned her.
"Our audience will get bored."
"I am perfectly aware that Monsieur George is here, and that he has beenbreathing a very different atmosphere from what he gets in this room.Don't you find this room extremely confined?" she asked me.
The room was very large but it is a fact that I felt oppressed at thatmoment. This mysterious quarrel between those two people, revealingsomething more close in their intercourse than I had ever beforesuspected, made me so profoundly unhappy that I didn't even attempt toanswer. And she continued:
"More space. More air. Give me air, air." She seized the embroiderededges of her blue robe under her white throat and made as if to tear themapart, to fling it open on her breast, recklessly, before our eyes. Weboth remained perfectly still. Her hands dropped nervelessly by herside. "I envy you, Monsieur George. If I am to go under I should preferto be drowned in the sea with the wind on my face. What luck, to feelnothing less than all the world closing over one's head!"
A short silence ensued before Mr. Blunt's drawing-room voice was heardwith playful familiarity.
"I have often asked myself whether you weren't really a very ambitiousperson, Dona Rita."
"And I ask myself whether you have any heart." She was looking straightat him and he gratified her with the usual cold white flash of his eventeeth before he answered.
"Asking yourself? That means that you are really asking me. But why doit so publicly? I mean it. One single, detached presence is enough tomake a public. One alone. Why not wait till he returns to those regionsof space and air--from which he came."
His particular trick of speaking of any third person as of a lay figurewas exasperating. Yet at the moment I did not know how to resent it,but, in any case, Dona Rita would not have given me time. Without amoment's hesitation she cried out:
"I only wish he could take me out there with him."
For a moment Mr. Blunt's face became as still as a mask and then insteadof an angry it assumed an indulgent expression. As to me I had a rapidvision of Dominic's astonishment, awe, and sarcasm which was always astolerant as it is possible for sarcasm to be. But what a charming,gentle, gay, and fearless companion she would have made! I believed inher fearlessness in any adventure that would interest her. It would be anew occasion for me, a new viewpoint for that faculty of admiration shehad awakened in me at sight--at first sight--before she opened herlips--before she ever turned her eyes on me. She would have to wear somesort of sailor costume, a blue woollen shirt open at the throat. . . .Dominic's hooded cloak would envelop her amply, and her face under theblack hood would have a luminous quality, adolescent charm, and anenigmatic expression. The confined space of the little vessel'squarterdeck would lend itself to her cross-legged attitudes, and the bluesea would balance gently her characteristic immobility that seemed tohide thoughts as old and profound as itself. As restless, too--perhaps.
But the picture I had in my eye, coloured and simple like an illustrationto a nursery-book tale of two venturesome children's escapade, was whatfascinated me most. Indeed I felt that we two were like children underthe gaze of a man of the world--who lived by his sword. And I saidrecklessly:
"Yes, you ought to come along with us for a trip. You would see a lot ofthings for yourself."
Mr. Blunt's expression had grown even more indulgent if that werepossible. Yet there was something ineradicably ambiguous about that man.I did not like the indefinable tone in which he observed:
/>
"You are perfectly reckless in what you say, Dona Rita. It has become ahabit with you of late."
"While with you reserve is a second nature, Don Juan."
This was uttered with the gentlest, almost tender, irony. Mr. Bluntwaited a while before he said:
"Certainly. . . . Would you have liked me to be otherwise?"
She extended her hand to him on a sudden impulse.
"Forgive me! I may have been unjust, and you may only have been loyal.The falseness is not in us. The fault is in life itself, I suppose. Ihave been always frank with you."
"And I obedient," he said, bowing low over her hand. He turned away,paused to look at me for some time and finally gave me the correct sortof nod. But he said nothing and went out, or rather lounged out with hisworldly manner of perfect ease under all conceivable circumstances. Withher head lowered Dona Rita watched him till he actually shut the doorbehind him. I was facing her and only heard the door close.
"Don't stare at me," were the first words she said.
It was difficult to obey that request. I didn't know exactly where tolook, while I sat facing her. So I got up, vaguely full of goodwill,prepared even to move off as far as the window, when she commanded:
"Don't turn your back on me."
I chose to understand it symbolically.
"You know very well I could never do that. I couldn't. Not even if Iwanted to." And I added: "It's too late now."
"Well, then, sit down. Sit down on this couch."
I sat down on the couch. Unwillingly? Yes. I was at that stage whenall her words, all her gestures, all her silences were a heavy trial tome, put a stress on my resolution, on that fidelity to myself and to herwhich lay like a leaden weight on my untried heart. But I didn't sitdown very far away from her, though that soft and billowy couch was bigenough, God knows! No, not very far from her. Self-control, dignity,hopelessness itself, have their limits. The halo of her tawny hairstirred as I let myself drop by her side. Whereupon she flung one armround my neck, leaned her temple against my shoulder and began to sob;but that I could only guess from her slight, convulsive movements becausein our relative positions I could only see the mass of her tawny hairbrushed back, yet with a halo of escaped hair which as I bent my headover her tickled my lips, my cheek, in a maddening manner.
We sat like two venturesome children in an illustration to a tale, scaredby their adventure. But not for long. As I instinctively, yet timidly,sought for her other hand I felt a tear strike the back of mine, big andheavy as if fallen from a great height. It was too much for me. I musthave given a nervous start. At once I heard a murmur: "You had better goaway now."
I withdrew myself gently from under the light weight of her head, fromthis unspeakable bliss and inconceivable misery, and had the absurdimpression of leaving her suspended in the air. And I moved away ontiptoe.
Like an inspired blind man led by Providence I found my way out of theroom but really I saw nothing, till in the hall the maid appeared byenchantment before me holding up my overcoat. I let her help me into it.And then (again as if by enchantment) she had my hat in her hand.
"No. Madame isn't happy," I whispered to her distractedly.
She let me take my hat out of her hand and while I was putting it on myhead I heard an austere whisper:
"Madame should listen to her heart."
Austere is not the word; it was almost freezing, this unexpected,dispassionate rustle of words. I had to repress a shudder, and as coldlyas herself I murmured:
"She has done that once too often."
Rose was standing very close to me and I caught distinctly the note ofscorn in her indulgent compassion.
"Oh, that! . . . Madame is like a child." It was impossible to get thebearing of that utterance from that girl who, as Dona Rita herself hadtold me, was the most taciturn of human beings; and yet of all humanbeings the one nearest to herself. I seized her head in my hands andturning up her face I looked straight down into her black eyes whichshould have been lustrous. Like a piece of glass breathed upon theyreflected no light, revealed no depths, and under my ardent gaze remainedtarnished, misty, unconscious.
"Will Monsieur kindly let me go. Monsieur shouldn't play the child,either." (I let her go.) "Madame could have the world at her feet.Indeed she has it there only she doesn't care for it."
How talkative she was, this maid with unsealed lips! For some reason orother this last statement of hers brought me immense comfort.
"Yes?" I whispered breathlessly.
"Yes! But in that case what's the use of living in fear and torment?"she went on, revealing a little more of herself to my astonishment. Sheopened the door for me and added:
"Those that don't care to stoop ought at least make themselves happy."
I turned in the very doorway: "There is something which prevents that?" Isuggested.
"To be sure there is. _Bonjour_, Monsieur."