Chapter III
Natalie
Now what Bastin had said about marriage stuck in my mind as his
blundering remarks had a way of doing, perhaps because of the
grain of honest truth with which they were often permeated.
Probably in my position it was more or less my duty to marry. But
here came the rub; I had never experienced any leanings that way.
I was as much a man as others, more so than many are, perhaps,
and I liked women, but at the same time they repelled me.
My old fastidiousness came in; to my taste there was always
something wrong about them. While they attracted one part of my
nature they revolted another part, and on the whole I preferred
to do without their intimate society, rather than work violence
to this second and higher part of me. Moreover, quite at the
beginning of my career I had concluded from observation that a
man gets on better in life alone, rather than with another to
drag at his side, or by whom perhaps he must be dragged. Still
true marriage, such as most men and some women have dreamed of in
their youth, had always been one of my ideals; indeed it was on
and around this vision that I wrote that first book of mine which
was so successful. Since I knew this to be unattainable in our
imperfect conditions, however, notwithstanding Bastin's
strictures, again I dismissed the whole matter from my mind as a
vain imagination.
As an alternative I reflected upon a parliamentary career which
I was not too old to begin, and even toyed with one or two
opportunities that offered themselves, as these do to men of
wealth and advanced views. They never came to anything, for in
the end I decided that Party politics were so hateful and so
dishonest, that I could not bring myself to put my neck beneath
their yoke. I was sure that if I tried to do so, I should fail
more completely than I had done at the Bar and in Literature.
Here, too, I am quite certain that I was right.
The upshot of it all was that I sought refuge in that last
expedient of weary Englishmen, travel, not as a globe-trotter,
but leisurely and with an inquiring mind, learning much but again
finding, like the ancient writer whom I have quoted already, that
there is no new thing under the sun; that with certain variations
it is the same thing over and over again.
No, I will make an exception, the East did interest me
enormously. There it was, at Benares, that I came into touch with
certain thinkers who opened my eyes to a great deal. They
released some hidden spring in my nature which hitherto had
always been striving to break through the crust of our
conventions and inherited ideas. I know now that what I was
seeking was nothing less than the Infinite; that I had "immortal
longings in me." I listened to all their solemn talk of epochs
and years measureless to man, and reflected with a thrill that
after all man might have his part in every one of them. Yes, that
bird of passage as he seemed to be, flying out of darkness into
darkness, still he might have spread his wings in the light of
other suns millions upon millions of years ago, and might still
spread them, grown radiant and glorious, millions upon millions
of years hence in a time unborn.
If only I could know the truth. Was Life (according to Bickley)
merely a short activity bounded by nothingness before and behind;
or (according to Bastin) a conventional golden-harped and haloed
immortality, a word of which he did not in the least understand
the meaning?
Or was it something quite different from either of these,
something vast and splendid beyond the reach of vision,
something God-sent, beginning and ending in the Eternal Absolute
and at last partaking of His attributes and nature and from aeon
to aeon shot through with His light? And how was the truth to be
learned? I asked my Eastern friends, and they talked vaguely of
long ascetic preparation, of years upon years of learning, from
whom I could not quite discover. I was sure it could not be from
them, because clearly they did not know; they only passed on what
they had heard elsewhere, when or how they either could not or
would not explain. So at length I gave it up, having satisfied
myself that all this was but an effort of Oriental imagination
called into life by the sweet influences of the Eastern stars.
I gave it up and went away, thinking that I should forget. But
I did not forget. I was quick with a new hope, or at any rate
with a new aspiration, and that secret child of holy desire grew
and grew within my soul, till at length it flashed upon me that
this soul of mine was itself the hidden Master from which I must
learn my lesson. No wonder that those Eastern friends could not
give his name, seeing that whatever they really knew, as
distinguished from what they had heard, and it was little enough,
each of them had learned from the teaching of his own soul.
Thus, then, I too became a dreamer with only one longing, the
longing for wisdom, for that spirit touch which should open my
eyes and enable me to see.
Yet now it happened strangely enough that when I seemed within
myself to have little further interest in the things of the
world, and least of all in women, I, who had taken another guest
to dwell with me, those things of the world came back to me and
in the shape of Woman the Inevitable. Probably it was so decreed
since is it not written that no man can live to himself alone, or
lose himself in watching and nurturing the growth of his own
soul?
It happened thus. I went to Rome on my way home from India, and
stayed there a while. On the day after my arrival I wrote my name
in the book of our Minister to Italy at that time, Sir Alfred
Upton, not because I wished him to ask me to dinner, but for the
reason that I had heard of him as a man of archeological tastes
and thought that he might enable me to see things which otherwise
I should not see.
As it chanced he knew about me through some of my Devonshire
neighbours who were friends of his, and did ask me to dinner on
the following night. I accepted and found myself one of a
considerable party, some of them distinguished English people who
wore Orders, as is customary when one dines with the
representative of our Sovereign. Seeing these, and this shows
that in the best of us vanity is only latent, for the first time
in my life I was sorry that I had none and was only plain Mr.
Arbuthnot who, as Sir Alfred explained to me politely, must go in
to dinner last, because all the rest had titles, and without even
a lady as there was not one to spare.
Nor was my lot bettered when I got there, as I found myself
seated between an Italian countess and a Russian prince, neither
of whom could talk English, while, alas, I knew no foreign
language, not even French in which they addressed me, seeming
surprised that I did not understand them. I was humiliated at my
own ignorance, although in fact I was not ignorant, only my
education had been classical. Indeed I was a good classic and had
kept up my knowledge more or less, especially since I became an
idle man. In my confusion it occurred to me that the Italian
countess might know Latin from which her own language was
derived, and addressed her in that tongue. She stared, and Sir
Alfred, who was not far off and overheard me (he also knew
Latin), burst into laughter and proceeded to explain the joke in
a loud voice, first in French and then in English, to the
assembled company, who all became infected with merriment and
also stared at me as a curiosity.
Then it was that for the first time I saw Natalie, for owing to
a mistake of my driver I had arrived rather late and had not been
introduced to her. As her father's only daughter, her mother
being dead, she was seated at the end of the table behind a
fan-like arrangement of white Madonna lilies, and she had bent
forward and, like the others, was looking at me, but in such a
fashion that her head from that distance seemed as though it were
surrounded and crowned with lilies. Indeed the greatest art could
not have produced a more beautiful effect which was, however,
really one of naked accident.
An angel looking down upon earth through the lilies of
Heaven--that was the rather absurd thought which flashed into my
mind. I did not quite realise her face at first except that it
seemed to be both dark and fair; as a fact her waving hair which
grew rather low upon her forehead, was dark, and her large, soft
eyes were grey. I did not know, and to this moment I do not know
if she was really beautiful, but certainly the light that shone
through those eyes of hers and seemed to be reflected upon her
delicate features, was beauty itself. It was like that glowing
through a thin vase of the purest alabaster within which a lamp
is placed, and I felt this effect to arise from no chance, like
that of the lily-setting, but, as it were, from the lamp of the
spirit within.
Our eyes met, and I suppose that she saw the wonder and
admiration in mine. At any rate her amused smile faded, leaving
the face rather serious, though still sweetly serious, and a
tinge of colour crept over it as the first hue of dawn creeps
into a pearly sky. Then she withdrew herself behind the screen of
lilies and for the rest of that dinner which I thought was never
coming to an end, practically I saw her no more. Only I noted as
she passed out that although not tall, she was rounded and
graceful in shape and that her hands were peculiarly delicate.
Afterwards in the drawing-room her father, with whom I had
talked at the table, introduced me to her, saying:
"My daughter is the real archaeologist, Mr. Arbuthnot, and I
think if you ask her, she may be able to help you."
Then he bustled away to speak to some of his important guests,
from whom I think he was seeking political information.
"My father exaggerates," she said in a soft and very
sympathetic voice, "but perhaps"--and she motioned me to a seat
at her side.
Then we talked of the places and things that I more
particularly desired to see and, well, the end of it was that I
went back to my hotel in love with Natalie; and as she afterwards
confessed, she went to bed in love with me.
It was a curious business, more like meeting a very old friend
from whom one had been separated by circumstances for a score of
years or so than anything else. We were, so to speak, intimate
from the first; we knew all about each other, although here and
there was something new, something different which we could not
remember, lines of thought, veins of memory which we did not
possess in common. On one point I am absolutely clear: it was not
solely the everyday and ancient appeal of woman to man and man to
woman which drew us together, though doubtless this had its part
in our attachment as under our human conditions it must do,
seeing that it is Nature's bait to ensure the continuance of the
race. It was something more, something quite beyond that
elementary impulse.
At any rate we loved, and one evening in the shelter of the
solemn walls of the great Coliseum at Rome, which at that hour
were shut to all except ourselves, we confessed our love. I
really think we must have chosen the spot by tacit but mutual
consent because we felt it to be fitting. It was so old, so
impregnated with every human experience, from the direst crime of
the tyrant who thought himself a god, to the sublimest sacrifice
of the martyr who already was half a god; with every vice and
virtue also which lies between these extremes, that it seemed to
be the most fitting altar whereon to offer our hearts and all
that caused them to beat, each to the other.
So Natalie and I were betrothed within a month of our first
meeting. Within three we were married, for what was there to
prevent or delay? Naturally Sir Alfred was delighted, seeing that
he possessed but small private resources and I was able to make
ample provision for his daughter who had hitherto shown herself
somewhat difficult in this business of matrimony and now was
bordering on her twenty-seventh year. Everybody was delighted,
everything went smoothly as a sledge sliding down a slope of
frozen snow and the mists of time hid whatever might be at the
end of that slope. Probably a plain; at the worst the upward rise
of ordinary life.
That is what we thought, if we thought at all. Certainly we
never dreamed of a precipice. Why should we, who were young, by
comparison, quite healthy and very rich? Who thinks of precipices
under such circumstances, when disaster seems to be eliminated
and death is yet a long way off?
And yet we ought to have done so, because we should have known
that smooth surfaces without impediment to the runners often end
in something of the kind.
I am bound to say that when we returned home to Fulcombe, where
of course we met with a great reception, including the ringing
(out of tune) of the new peal of bells that I had given to the
church, Bastin made haste to point this out.
"Your wife seems a very nice and beautiful lady, Arbuthnot," he
reflected aloud after dinner, when Mrs. Bastin, glowering as
usual, though what at I do not know, had been escorted from the
room by Natalie, "and really, when I come to think of it, you are
an unusually fortunate person. You possess a great deal of money,
much more than you have any right to; which you seem to have done
very little to earn and do not spend quite as I should like you
to do, and this nice property, that ought to be owned by a great
number of people, as, according to the views you express, I
should have thought you would acknowledge, and everything else
that a man can want. It is very strange that you should be so
favoured and not because of any particular merits of your own
which one can see. However, I have no doubt it will all come even
in the end and you will get your share of troubles, like others.
Perhaps Mrs. Arbuthnot will have no children as there is so much
for them to take. Or perhaps you will lose all your money and
have to work for your living, which might be good for you. Or,"
he added, still thinking aloud after his fashion, "perhaps she
will die young--she has that kind of face, although, of course, I
hope she won't," he added, waking up.
I do not know why, but his wandering words struck me cold; the
proverbial funeral bell at the marriage feast was nothing to
them. I suppose it was because in a flash of intuition I knew
that they would come true and that he was an appointed Cassandra.
Perhaps this uncanny knowledge overcame my natural indignation at
such super-gaucherie of which no one but Bastin could have been
capable, and even prevented me from replying at all, so that I
merely sat still and looked at him.
But Bickley did reply with some vigour.
"Forgive me for saying so, Bastin," he said, bristling all over
as it were, "but your remarks, which may or may not be in
accordance with the principles of your religion, seem to me to be
in singularly bad taste. They would have turned the stomachs of a
gathering of early Christians, who appear to have been the worst
mannered people in the world, and at any decent heathen feast
your neck would have been wrung as that of a bird of ill omen."
"Why?" asked Bastin blankly. "I only said what I thought to be
the truth. The truth is better than what you call good taste."
"Then I will say what I think also to be the truth," replied
Bickley, growing furious. "It is that you use your Christianity
as a cloak for bad manners. It teaches consideration and sympathy
for others of which you seem to have none. Moreover, since you
talk of the death of people's wives, I will tell you something
about your own, as a doctor, which I can do as I never attended
her. It is highly probable, in my opinion, that she will die
before Mrs. Arbuthnot, who is quite a healthy person with a good
prospect of life."
"Perhaps," said Bastin. "If so, it will be God's will and I
shall not complain" (here Bickley snorted), "though I do not see
what you can know about it. But why should you cast reflections
on the early Christians who were people of strong principle
living in rough times, and had to wage war against an established
devil-worship? I know you are angry because they smashed up the
statues of Venus and so forth, but had I been in their place I
should have done the same."
"Of course you would, who doubts it? But as for the early
Christians and their iconoclastic performances--well, curse them,
that's all!" and he sprang up and left the room.
I followed him.
Let it not be supposed from the above scene that there was any
ill-feeling between Bastin and Bickley. On the contrary they were
much attached to each other, and this kind of quarrel meant no
more than the strong expression of their individual views to
which they were accustomed from their college days. For instance
Bastin was always talking about the early Christians and
missionaries, while Bickley loathed both, the early Christians
because of the destruction which they had wrought in Egypt,
Italy, Greece and elsewhere, of all that was beautiful; and the
missionaries because, as he said, they were degrading and
spoiling the native races and by inducing them to wear clothes,
rendering them liable to disease. Bastin would answer that their
souls were more important than their bodies, to which Bickley
replied that as there was no such thing as a soul except in the
stupid imagination of priests, he differed entirely on the point.
As it was quite impossible for either to convince the other,
there the conversation would end, or drift into something in
which they were mutually interested, such as natural history and
the hygiene of the neighbourhood.
Here I may state that Bickley's keen professional eye was not
mistaken when he diagnosed Mrs. Bastin's state of health as
dangerous. As a matter of fact she was suffering from heart
disease that a doctor can often recognise by the colour of the
lips, etc., which brought about her death under the following
circumstances:
Her husband attended some ecclesiastical function at a town
over twenty miles away and was to have returned by a train which
would have brought him home about five o'clock. As he did not
arrive she waited at the station for him until the last train
came in about seven o'clock--without the beloved Basil. Then, on
a winter's night she tore up to the Priory and begged me to lend
her a dog-cart in which to drive to the said town to look for
him. I expostulated against the folly of such a proceeding,
saying that no doubt Basil was safe enough but had forgotten to
telegraph, or thought that he would save the sixpence which the
wire cost.
Then it came out, to Natalie's and my intense amusement, that
all this was the result of her jealous nature of which I have
spoken. She said she had never slept a night away from her
husband since they were married and with so many "designing
persons" about she could not say what might happen if she did so,
especially as he was "such a favourite and so handsome." (Bastin
was a fine looking man in his rugged way.)
I suggested that she might have a little confidence in him, to
which she replied darkly that she had no confidence in anybody.
The end of it was that I lent her the cart with a fast horse
and a good driver, and off she went. Reaching the town in
question some two and a half hours later, she searched high and
low through wind and sleet, but found no Basil. He, it appeared,
had gone on to Exeter, to look at the cathedral where some
building was being done, and missing the last train had there
slept the night.
About one in the morning, after being nearly locked up as a mad
woman, she drove back to the Vicarage, again to find no Basil.
Even then she did not go to bed but raged about the house in her
wet clothes, until she fell down utterly exhausted. When her
husband did return on the following morning, full of information
about the cathedral, she was dangerously ill, and actually passed
away while uttering a violent tirade against him for his supposed
suspicious proceedings.
That was the end of this truly odious British matron.
In after days Bastin, by some peculiar mental process,
canonised her in his imagination as a kind of saint. "So loving,"
he would say, "such a devoted wife! Why, my dear Humphrey, I can
assure you that even in the midst of her death-struggle her last
thoughts were of me," words that caused Bickley to snort with
more than usual vigour, until I kicked him to silence beneath the
table.
