PART TWO
CHAPTER I
Sometimes I wonder yet whether Mills wished me to oversleep myself
or not: that is, whether he really took sufficient interest to
care. His uniform kindliness of manner made it impossible for me
to tell. And I can hardly remember my own feelings. Did I care?
The whole recollection of that time of my life has such a peculiar
quality that the beginning and the end of it are merged in one
sensation of profound emotion, continuous and overpowering,
containing the extremes of exultation, full of careless joy and of
an invincible sadness--like a day-dream. The sense of all this
having been gone through as if in one great rush of imagination is
all the stronger in the distance of time, because it had something
of that quality even then: of fate unprovoked, of events that
didn't cast any shadow before.
Not that those events were in the least extraordinary. They were,
in truth, commonplace. What to my backward glance seems startling
and a little awful is their punctualness and inevitability. Mills
was punctual. Exactly at a quarter to twelve he appeared under the
lofty portal of the Hotel de Louvre, with his fresh face, his ill-
fitting grey suit, and enveloped in his own sympathetic atmosphere.
How could I have avoided him? To this day I have a shadowy
conviction of his inherent distinction of mind and heart, far
beyond any man I have ever met since. He was unavoidable: and of
course I never tried to avoid him. The first sight on which his
eyes fell was a victoria pulled up before the hotel door, in which
I sat with no sentiment I can remember now but that of some slight
shyness. He got in without a moment's hesitation, his friendly
glance took me in from head to foot and (such was his peculiar
gift) gave me a pleasurable sensation.
After we had gone a little way I couldn't help saying to him with a
bashful laugh: "You know, it seems very extraordinary that I
should be driving out with you like this."
He turned to look at me and in his kind voice:
"You will find everything extremely simple," he said. "So simple
that you will be quite able to hold your own. I suppose you know
that the world is selfish, I mean the majority of the people in it,
often unconsciously I must admit, and especially people with a
mission, with a fixed idea, with some fantastic object in view, or
even with only some fantastic illusion. That doesn't mean that
they have no scruples. And I don't know that at this moment I
myself am not one of them."
"That, of course, I can't say," I retorted.
"I haven't seen her for years," he said, "and in comparison with
what she was then she must be very grown up by now. From what we
heard from Mr. Blunt she had experiences which would have matured
her more than they would teach her. There are of course people
that are not teachable. I don't know that she is one of them. But
as to maturity that's quite another thing. Capacity for suffering
is developed in every human being worthy of the name."
"Captain Blunt doesn't seem to be a very happy person," I said.
"He seems to have a grudge against everybody. People make him
wince. The things they do, the things they say. He must be
awfully mature."
Mills gave me a sidelong look. It met mine of the same character
and we both smiled without openly looking at each other. At the
end of the Rue de Rome the violent chilly breath of the mistral
enveloped the victoria in a great widening of brilliant sunshine
without heat. We turned to the right, circling at a stately pace
about the rather mean obelisk which stands at the entrance to the
Prado.
"I don't know whether you are mature or not," said Mills
humorously. "But I think you will do. You . . . "
"Tell me," I interrupted, "what is really Captain Blunt's position
there?"
And I nodded at the alley of the Prado opening before us between
the rows of the perfectly leafless trees.
"Thoroughly false, I should think. It doesn't accord either with
his illusions or his pretensions, or even with the real position he
has in the world. And so what between his mother and the General
Headquarters and the state of his own feelings he. . . "
"He is in love with her," I interrupted again.
"That wouldn't make it any easier. I'm not at all sure of that.
But if so it can't be a very idealistic sentiment. All the warmth
of his idealism is concentrated upon a certain 'Americain,
Catholique et gentil-homme. . . '"
The smile which for a moment dwelt on his lips was not unkind.
"At the same time he has a very good grip of the material
conditions that surround, as it were, the situation."
"What do you mean? That Dona Rita" (the name came strangely
familiar to my tongue) "is rich, that she has a fortune of her
own?"
"Yes, a fortune," said Mills. "But it was Allegre's fortune
before. . . And then there is Blunt's fortune: he lives by his
sword. And there is the fortune of his mother, I assure you a
perfectly charming, clever, and most aristocratic old lady, with
the most distinguished connections. I really mean it. She doesn't
live by her sword. She . . . she lives by her wits. I have a
notion that those two dislike each other heartily at times. . .
Here we are."
The victoria stopped in the side alley, bordered by the low walls
of private grounds. We got out before a wrought-iron gateway which
stood half open and walked up a circular drive to the door of a
large villa of a neglected appearance. The mistral howled in the
sunshine, shaking the bare bushes quite furiously. And everything
was bright and hard, the air was hard, the light was hard, the
ground under our feet was hard.
The door at which Mills rang came open almost at once. The maid
who opened it was short, dark, and slightly pockmarked. For the
rest, an obvious "femme-de-chambre," and very busy. She said
quickly, "Madame has just returned from her ride," and went up the
stairs leaving us to shut the front door ourselves.
The staircase had a crimson carpet. Mr. Blunt appeared from
somewhere in the hall. He was in riding breeches and a black coat
with ample square skirts. This get-up suited him but it also
changed him extremely by doing away with the effect of flexible
slimness he produced in his evening clothes. He looked to me not
at all himself but rather like a brother of the man who had been
talking to us the night before. He carried about him a delicate
perfume of scented soap. He gave us a flash of his white teeth and
said:
"It's a perfect nuisance. We have just dismounted. I will have to
lunch as I am. A lifelong habit of beginning her day on horseback.
She pretends she is unwell unless she does. I daresay, when one
thinks there has been hardly a day for five or six years that she
didn't begin with a ride. That's the reason she is always rushing
away from Paris where she can't go out in the morning alone. Here,
of course, it's different. And as I, too, am a stranger here I can
go out with her. Not that I particularly care to do it."
These last words were addressed to Mills specially, with the
addition of a mumbled remark: "It's a confounded position." Then
calmly to me with a swift smile: "We have been talking of you this
morning. You are expected with impatience."
"Thank you very much," I said, "but I can't help asking myself what
I am doing here."
The upward cast in the eyes of Mills who was facing the staircase
made us both, Blunt and I, turn round. The woman of whom I had
heard so much, in a sort of way in which I had never heard a woman
spoken of before, was coming down the stairs, and my first
sensation was that of profound astonishment at this evidence that
she did really exist. And even then the visual impression was more
of colour in a picture than of the forms of actual life. She was
wearing a wrapper, a sort of dressing-gown of pale blue silk
embroidered with black and gold designs round the neck and down the
front, lapped round her and held together by a broad belt of the
same material. Her slippers were of the same colour, with black
bows at the instep. The white stairs, the deep crimson of the
carpet, and the light blue of the dress made an effective
combination of colour to set off the delicate carnation of that
face, which, after the first glance given to the whole person, drew
irresistibly your gaze to itself by an indefinable quality of charm
beyond all analysis and made you think of remote races, of strange
generations, of the faces of women sculptured on immemorial
monuments and of those lying unsung in their tombs. While she
moved downwards from step to step with slightly lowered eyes there
flashed upon me suddenly the recollection of words heard at night,
of Allegre's words about her, of there being in her "something of
the women of all time."
At the last step she raised her eyelids, treated us to an
exhibition of teeth as dazzling as Mr. Blunt's and looking even
stronger; and indeed, as she approached us she brought home to our
hearts (but after all I am speaking only for myself) a vivid sense
of her physical perfection in beauty of limb and balance of nerves,
and not so much of grace, probably, as of absolute harmony.
She said to us, "I am sorry I kept you waiting." Her voice was low
pitched, penetrating, and of the most seductive gentleness. She
offered her hand to Mills very frankly as to an old friend. Within
the extraordinarily wide sleeve, lined with black silk, I could see
the arm, very white, with a pearly gleam in the shadow. But to me
she extended her hand with a slight stiffening, as it were a recoil
of her person, combined with an extremely straight glance. It was
a finely shaped, capable hand. I bowed over it, and we just
touched fingers. I did not look then at her face.
Next moment she caught sight of some envelopes lying on the round
marble-topped table in the middle of the hall. She seized one of
them with a wonderfully quick, almost feline, movement and tore it
open, saying to us, "Excuse me, I must . . . Do go into the dining-
room. Captain Blunt, show the way."
Her widened eyes stared at the paper. Mr. Blunt threw one of the
doors open, but before we passed through it we heard a petulant
exclamation accompanied by childlike stamping with both feet and
ending in a laugh which had in it a note of contempt.
The door closed behind us; we had been abandoned by Mr. Blunt. He
had remained on the other side, possibly to soothe. The room in
which we found ourselves was long like a gallery and ended in a
rotunda with many windows. It was long enough for two fireplaces
of red polished granite. A table laid out for four occupied very
little space. The floor inlaid in two kinds of wood in a bizarre
pattern was highly waxed, reflecting objects like still water.
Before very long Dona Rita and Blunt rejoined us and we sat down
around the table; but before we could begin to talk a dramatically
sudden ring at the front door stilled our incipient animation.
Dona Rita looked at us all in turn, with surprise and, as it were,
with suspicion. "How did he know I was here?" she whispered after
looking at the card which was brought to her. She passed it to
Blunt, who passed it to Mills, who made a faint grimace, dropped it
on the table-cloth, and only whispered to me, "A journalist from
Paris."
"He has run me to earth," said Dona Rita. "One would bargain for
peace against hard cash if these fellows weren't always ready to
snatch at one's very soul with the other hand. It frightens me."
Her voice floated mysterious and penetrating from her lips, which
moved very little. Mills was watching her with sympathetic
curiosity. Mr. Blunt muttered: "Better not make the brute angry."
For a moment Dona Rita's face, with its narrow eyes, its wide brow,
and high cheek bones, became very still; then her colour was a
little heightened. "Oh," she said softly, "let him come in. He
would be really dangerous if he had a mind--you know," she said to
Mills.
The person who had provoked all those remarks and as much
hesitation as though he had been some sort of wild beast astonished
me on being admitted, first by the beauty of his white head of hair
and then by his paternal aspect and the innocent simplicity of his
manner. They laid a cover for him between Mills and Dona Rita, who
quite openly removed the envelopes she had brought with her, to the
other side of her plate. As openly the man's round china-blue eyes
followed them in an attempt to make out the handwriting of the
addresses.
He seemed to know, at least slightly, both Mills and Blunt. To me
he gave a stare of stupid surprise. He addressed our hostess.
"Resting? Rest is a very good thing. Upon my word, I thought I
would find you alone. But you have too much sense. Neither man
nor woman has been created to live alone. . . ." After this
opening he had all the talk to himself. It was left to him
pointedly, and I verily believe that I was the only one who showed
an appearance of interest. I couldn't help it. The others,
including Mills, sat like a lot of deaf and dumb people. No. It
was even something more detached. They sat rather like a very
superior lot of waxworks, with the fixed but indetermined facial
expression and with that odd air wax figures have of being aware of
their existence being but a sham.
I was the exception; and nothing could have marked better my status
of a stranger, the completest possible stranger in the moral region
in which those people lived, moved, enjoying or suffering their
incomprehensible emotions. I was as much of a stranger as the most
hopeless castaway stumbling in the dark upon a hut of natives and
finding them in the grip of some situation appertaining to the
mentalities, prejudices, and problems of an undiscovered country--
of a country of which he had not even had one single clear glimpse
before.
It was even worse in a way. It ought to have been more
disconcerting. For, pursuing the image of the cast-away blundering
upon the complications of an unknown scheme of life, it was I, the
castaway, who was the savage, the simple innocent child of nature.
Those people were obviously more civilized than I was. They had
more rites, more ceremonies, more complexity in their sensations,
more knowledge of evil, more varied meanings to the subtle phrases
of their language. Naturally! I was still so young! And yet I
assure you, that just then I lost all sense of inferiority. And
why? Of course the carelessness and the ignorance of youth had
something to do with that. But there was something else besides.
Looking at Dona Rita, her head leaning on her hand, with her dark
lashes lowered on the slightly flushed cheek, I felt no longer
alone in my youth. That woman of whom I had heard these things I
have set down with all the exactness of unfailing memory, that
woman was revealed to me young, younger than anybody I had ever
seen, as young as myself (and my sensation of my youth was then
very acute); revealed with something peculiarly intimate in the
conviction, as if she were young exactly in the same way in which I
felt myself young; and that therefore no misunderstanding between
us was possible and there could be nothing more for us to know
about each other. Of course this sensation was momentary, but it
was illuminating; it was a light which could not last, but it left
no darkness behind. On the contrary, it seemed to have kindled
magically somewhere within me a glow of assurance, of unaccountable
confidence in myself: a warm, steady, and eager sensation of my
individual life beginning for good there, on that spot, in that
sense of solidarity, in that seduction.
