IV
Maurice brought Miss Sharp to-day to interview me. I do not like her much, but the exhibition she gave me of her speed and accuracy in short-hand satisfied me and made me see that I should be a fool to look further. So I have engaged her. She is a small creature, palish with rather good bright brown hair—She wears horn rimmed spectacles with yellow glasses in them so I can't see her eyes at all. I judge people by their eyes. Her hands look as if she had done rather a lot of hard work—they are so very thin. Her clothes are neat but shabby—that is not the last look like French women have—but as if they had been turned to "make do"—I suppose she is very poor. Her manner is icily quiet. She only speaks when she is spoken to. She is quite uninteresting.
It is better for me to have a nonentity—then I can talk aloud my thoughts without restriction. I am to give her double what she is getting now—2000 francs a month—war price.
Some colour came into her cheeks when I offered that and she hesitated,
I said "Don't you think it is enough?"
She answered so queerly.
"I think it is too much, and I was wondering if I would be able to accept it. I want to."
"Then do."
"Very well—I will of course do my very best to earn it"—and with that she bowed and left me.
Anyhow she won't make a noise.
Nina writes since she has married Jim—which she did just before the offensive in March—she has been too happy—or too anxious, to remember her friends—even dear old ones—but now fortunately Jim is wounded in the ankle bone which will keep him at home for two months so she has a little leisure.
"You can't think, Nicholas, what a different aspect the whole war took on when I knew Jim was in the front line—I adore him—and up to now I have managed to keep him adoring me—but I can see I'll have to be careful if he is going to be with me long at a time."
So it would seem that Nina had not obtained the rest and security she hoped for.
I hope my writing a book will rest me. I have arranged all my first chapter in my head—and to-morrow I begin.
June 26th—Miss Sharp came punctually at ten—she had a black and white cotton frock on—There is nothing of her—she is so slight—(a mass of bones probably in evening dress—but thank goodness I shall not see her in evening dress,) she goes at six—She is to have her lunch here—Burton has arranged it. An hour off for lunch which she can have on a tray in the small salon, which I have had arranged for her work room.—Of course it won't take her an hour to eat—but Burton says she must have that time, it is always done.It is a great nuisance for perhaps when 12:30 comes I shall just be in the middle of an inspiration and I suppose off she'll fly like the housemaids used when the servants' hall bell went at home. But I can't say anything.
I was full of ideas and the beginning of my first chapter spouted out, and when Miss Sharp had read it over to me I found she had not made any mistake. That is a mercy.
She went away and typed it, and then had her lunch—and I had mine, but Maurice dropped in and mine took longer than hers—it was half past two when I rang my hand bell for her (it is a jolly little silver one I bought once in Cairo) She answered it promptly—the script in her hand.
"I have had half an hour with nothing to do," she said—"Can you not give me some other work which I can turn to, if this should happen again?"
"You can read a book—there are lots in the book case" I told her—"Or I might leave you some letters to answer."
"Thank you, that would be best"—(She is conscientious evidently).
We began again.
She sits at a table with her notebook, and while I pause she is absolutely still—that is good. I feel she won't count more than a table or chair. I am quite pleased with my work. It is awfully hot to-day and there is some tension in the air—as though somethingwas going to happen. The news is the same—perhaps slightly better.—I am going to have a small dinner to-night. The widow and Maurice and Madame de Clerté—just four and we are going to the play. It is such a business for me to go I seldom turn out.—Maurice is having a little supper in his rooms at the Ritz for us. It is my birthday—I am thirty-one years old.
Friday—What an evening that 26th of June! The theatre was hot and the cramped position worried me so—and the lights made my eye ache—Madame de Clerté and I left before the end and ambled back to the Ritz in my one horse Victoria and went and sat in Maurice's room. We talked of the situation, and the effect of the Americans coming in, bucking everyone up—we were rather cheerful. Then the sirens began—and the guns followed just as Maurice and Odette got back—They seemed unusually loud—and we could hear the bits of shrapnel falling on the terrace beneath us, Odette was frightened and suggested going into the cellar—but as Maurice's rooms are only on the second floor, we did not want to take the trouble.
Fear has a peculiar effect upon some people—Odette's complexion turned grey and she could hardly keep her voice steady. I wondered how soon she would let restraint slip from her and fly out of the room to the cellar. Madame de Clerté was quite unmoved.
Then the dramatic happened—Bang!—the whole house shook and the glass of the window crashed infragments—and Maurice turned out the one light—and lifted a corner of the thick curtain to peep out.
"I believe they got theColome Vendôme" he said awed—and as he spoke another bomb fell on the Ministaìre beside us—and some of the splinters shot into space and buried themselves in our wall.
We were all blown across the room—and Madame de Clerté and I fell in a heap together by the door, which gave way outwards—Odette's shrieks made us think that she was hurt, but she was not, and subsided into a gibbering prayer—Maurice helped Madame de Clerté to rise and I turned on the torch I keep in my pocket, for a minute. I was not conscious of any pain. We sat in the dark and listened to the commotion beneath us for some time, and the crashing bombs but never one so near again.—Maurice's voice soothing Odette was the only sound in our room.
Then Madame de Clerté laughed softly and lit a cigarette.
"A near thing that, Nicholas!" she said—"Let us go down now and see who is killed, and where the explosion actually occurred—The sight is quite interesting you know you can believe me."
"When Bertha hit the —— two days ago, we rushed for taxis to go down to see the place—Coralie—has petrol for her motor since two weeks you know"—and she smiled wickedly—"Monsieur le Ministre must show his gratitude somehow mustn't he?—Coralie is such a dear—Yes—?—So some of us packed in withher—we were quite a large party—and when we got there they were trying to extinguish the fire, and bringing out the bodies—You ought to come with us sometime when we go on these trips—anything for a change."
These women would not have looked on at the sufferings of a mouse before the war—.
The sight in the hall when we did arrive there after the "all clear" went—was remarkable—the great glass doors of the salon blown in and all the windows broken—and thePlace Vendômea mass of debris—not a pane whole there I should think.
But nobody seems very much upset—these things are all in the days work—.
I wonder if in years to come we shall remember the queer recklessness which has developed in almost everyones mentality, or shall we forget about the war and go on just as we were before—Who knows?
I said to Miss Sharp this morning—
"What do you do in the evenings when you leave here"?
I had forgotten for a moment that Maurice had told me that she makes bandages. She looked at me and her manner froze—I can't think why Ifeltshe thought I had no right to question her—I say "looked at me"—but I am never quite sure what her eyes are doing, because she never takes off her yellow glasses—Those appear to be gazing at me at all events.
"I make bandages."
"Aren't you dead tired after working all day with me?"
"I have not thought about it—the bandages are badly needed."
Her pencil was in her hand, and the block ready—she evidently did not mean to go on conversing with me. This attitude of continuous diligence on her part has begun to irritate me. She never fidgets—just works all the time.
I'll ask Burton what he thinks of her at luncheon to-day—As I said before, Burton knows the world.
"What do you think of my typist, Burton?"
He was putting a dish of make-believe before me—it is a meatless day—my one-legged cook is an artist but he thinks me a fool because I won't let him cheat—our want of legs makes us friendly though.
"And with a brother in the trade I could get Monsieur chickens and what he would wish!" he expostulates each week.
"A-hem"—Burton croaked.
I repeated the question.
"The young lady works very regular."
"Yes—That is just it—a kind of a machine."
"She earns her money Sir Nicholas."
"Of course she does—I know all that—But what do you think of her?"
"Beg pardon Sir Nicholas—I don't understand?"
I felt irritated.
"Of course you do—What kind of a creature I mean—?"
"The young lady don't chatter Sir—She don't behave like bits of girls."
"You approve of her then Burton?"
"She's been here a fortnight only, Sir Nicholas, you can't tell in the time"—and that is all I could get out of him—but I felt the verdict when he did give it would be favourable.
Insignificant little Miss Sharp—!
What shall I do with my day—? that is the question—my rotten useless idle day?—I have no more inspiration for my book—besides Miss Sharp has to type the long chapter I gave her yesterday. I wonder if she knows anything about William and Mary furniture really?—she never launches a remark.
Her hands are very red these last days—does making bandages redden the hands?
I wonder what colour her eyes are—one can't tell with that blurred yellow glass—.
Suzette came in just as I wrote that; she seldom turns up in the afternoon. She caught sight of Miss Sharp typing through the open door.
"Tiens!" she spit at me—"Since when?"
"I am writing a book, Suzette."
"I must see her face," and without waiting for permission, Suzette flounced into the small salon.
I could hear her shrill little voice asking Miss Sharp to be so good as to give her an envelope—She mustwrite an address! I watched her—Miss Sharp handed her one, and went on with her work.
Suzette returned, closing the door, without temper, behind her.
"Wouff!" she announced to me—"No anxiety there—anAnglaise—not appetizing—not afausse maigrelike us, as thin as a hairpin! Nothing for thou Nicholas—andMon Dieu!—she does the family washing by her hands—I know! mine look like that when I have taken one of my fortnights at the sea!"
"You think it is washing?—I was wondering—."
"Does she take off her glasses ever, Nicholas?"
"No perhaps she has weak light eyes. One never can tell!"
Suzette was not yet quite at ease about it all—. I was almost driven to ask Miss Sharp to remove her glasses to reassure her.
Women are jealous even of one-legged half blind men! I would like to ask my cook if he has the same trouble—but—Oh! I wish anything mattered!
Suzette showed affection for me after this—and even passion! I would be quite good-looking she said—when I should be finished. Glass eyes were so well made now—"and as for legs!—truly my little cabbage, they are as nimble as a goat's!"
Of course I felt comforted when she had gone.
The hot days pass—Miss Sharp has not asked fora holiday, she plods along, we do a great deal of work—and she writes all my letters. And there are days when I know I am going to be busy with my friends, when I tell her she need not come—there was a whole week at the end of July. Her manner never alters, but when Burton attempted to pay her she refused to take the cheque.
"I did not earn that" she said.
I was angry with Burton because he did not insist.
"It was just, Sir Nicholas."
"No, it was not, Burton—If she did not work here, she was out of pocket not working anywhere else. You will please add the wretched sum to this week's salary."
Burton nodded stubbornly, so I spoke to Miss Sharp myself.
"It was my business as to whether I worked or did not work for a week—therefore you are owed payment in any case—that is logic——."
A queer red came into her transparent skin, her mouth shut firmly—I knew that I had convinced her, and that yet for some reason she hated having to take the money.
She did not even answer, just bowed with that strange aloofness that is not insolent. Her manner is never like a person of the lower classes, trying to show she thinks she is an equal. It has exactly the right note—perfectly respectful as one who is employed, but with the serene unselfconsciousness that only breeding gives.Shades of manner are very interesting to watch. Somehow Iknowthat Miss Sharp, in her washed cotton, with her red little hands, is a lady.
I have not seen my dear Duchesse lately—she has been down to one of her country places—where she sends her convalescents, but she is returning soon. She gives me pleasure—.
August 30th—The interest in the book has flagged lately—I could not think of a thing, so I proposed to Miss Sharp to have a holiday. She accepted the fortnight without enthusiasm. Now she is back and we have begun again—Still I have noflair—Why do I stick to it?—Just because I have said to the Duchesse that Iwillfinish it?——I have an uneasy feeling that I do not want to probe my real reason—I would like to lie even to this Journal. Lots of fellows have been upon the five days' leave lately, things are going better—they jolly one, and I like to see them, but after they go I feel more of a rotten beast than ever. The only times I forget are when Maurice brings the fluffies to dine with me—when they rush up to Paris from Deauville. We drink champagne—(they love to know how much it costs) and I feel gay as a boy—and then in the night I have once or twice reached out for my revolver. They have all gone back to Deauville now.
Perhaps it is Miss Sharp who irritates me with her eternal diligence—What is her life—who are her family? I would like to know but I will not ask—Isit and think and think what to write about in my book. I have almost come to the end of grinding out facts about Walnut and ball fringe—and she sits taking it all down in short-hand, never raising her head, day after day—.
Her hair is pretty—that silky sort of nut brown with an incipient wave in it—her head is set on most gracefully, I must admit, and the complexion is very pale and transparent—But what a firm mouth!—Not cold though—only firm. I have never seen her smile. The hands are well shaped really—awfully well shaped, if one watches them—How long would it take to get them white again I wonder? She has got good feet, too, thin like the hands—. How worn her clothes look—does she never have a new dress—?
Yes Burton, I will see Madame de Clerté—.
Solonge de Clerté is a philosopher—she has her own aims—but I do not know them.
"Writing a book, Nicholas?" There was the devil of a twinkle in her eye—"There is a poor boy wounded in the leg who would make a perfect secretary if you are not satisfied."
I grew irritated—.
"I am quite satisfied"—we heard the noise of the typing machine from beyond—these modern doors allow nothing to be unknown.
"Young, is she?" Madame de Clerté asked turning her glance in that direction.
"I don't know and don't care—she types well"—.
"Hein?"
She saw that I was becoming enraged.—My dinners are good and the war is not yet over—.
"We shall all be terribly interested—yes—when we read the result—."
"Probably"—.
Then she told me of complications occurring about Coralie's husband.
"Of an insanity to attempt the three at once" she sighed—.
And now I can turn to my journal again—Good God—the last pages have all been about Miss Sharp—ridiculous, exasperating Miss Sharp! did I write ridiculous?—No—it is I who am ridiculous—I shall go for a drive—!
God! what is the meaning of it all—!
I have been in hell——I came in from my drive very quietly, it was early, a quarter to six, Miss Sharp goes at six—It was a horribly chilly evening and Burton had lit a bright wood fire—and I suppose its crackling prevented my hearing the sounds which were coming from the next room for a minute. I sat down in my chair—.
What was that?—theroucoulementsof a dove?—No, a woman's voice cooing foolish love words in French and English—and a child's treble gurgling fondness back to her. It seemed as if my heart stoppedbeating—as if every nerve in my spine quivered—a tremendous emotion of I know not what convulsed me.—I lay and listened and suddenly I felt my cheek wet with tears—then some shame, some anger shook me, and I started to my feet, and hobbled to the door which was ajar—I opened it wide—there was Miss Sharp with theconcierge'sdaughter's baby on her lap fondling it—the creature may be six months old. Her horn spectacles lay on the table. She looked up at me, the slightest flash of timidity showing—but her eyes—Oh! God! the eyes of the Madonna—heavenly blue, tender as an angel's—soft as a doe's—. I could have cried aloud with some pain in the soul—and so that brute part of me spoke—.
"How dare you make this noise"?—I said rudely—"do you not know that I have given orders for complete quiet"—.
She rose, holding the child with the greatest dignity—The picture she made could be in the Sistine Chapel.
"I beg your pardon" she said in a voice which was not quite steady—"I did not know you had returned, and Madame Bizot asked me to hold little Augustine while she went to the next floor—it shall not occur again!"
I longed to stay and gaze at them both—I would have liked to have touched the baby's queer little fat fingers—I would have liked—Oh—I know not what—And all the time Miss Sharp held the child protectively, asthough something evil would come from me and harm it.—Then she turned and carried it out of the room—and I went back into my sitting-room and flung myself down in my chair—.
What had I done—Beast—brute—What had I done?
And will she never come back again?—and will life be emptier than ever—?
I could kill myself—.
It shall not be only Suzette but six others for supper to-night—.
Five a.m.—The dawn is here and it is not the rare sound of an August pigeon that I am listening to, but the tender cooing of a woman and a child—God, how can I get it out of my ears.
V
This morning I feel as if I could hardly bear it until Miss Sharp arrives—I dressed early, ready to begin a new chapter although I have not an idea in my head, and, as the time grows nearer, it is difficult for me to remain still here in my chair.
Have I been too impossible?—Will she not turn up?—and if she does not, what steps can I take to find her?—Maurice is at Deauville with the rest, and I do not know Miss Sharp's home address—nor if she has a telephone—probably not. My heart beats—I have every feeling of excitement as stupid as a woman! I analyse it all now, how mental emotion reacts on the physical—even the empty socket of my eye aches—I could hardly control my voice when Burton began a conversation about my orders for the day just now.
"You would not be wishin' for the company of your Aunt Emmeline, Sir Nicholas"?—he asked me—.
"Of course not, Burton, you old fool—"
"You seem so much more restless, sir—lately—"
"I am restless—please leave me alone."
He coughed and retired.
Now I am listening again—it wants two minutes to the hour—she is never late.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten—. It feels as if the blood would burst the veins—I cannot write.
She came after all, only ten minutes beyond her usual time, but they seemed an eternity when I heard the ring and Burton's slow step. I could have bounded from my chair to open the door myself.—It was a telegram! How this always happens when one is expecting anyone with desperate anxiety—A telegram from Suzette.
"I shall return to-night,Mon Chou."
Her cabbage!—Bah!I never want to see her again—.
Miss Sharp must have entered when the door was opened for the telegram, for I had begun to feel pretty low again when I heard her knock at the door of the sitting-room.
She came in and up to my chair as usual—but she did not say her accustomary cold good morning. I looked up—the horn spectacles were over her eyes again, and the rest of her face was very pale—while there was something haughty in the carriage of her small head, it seemed to me. Her eternal pad and pencil were in her little thin, red hands.
"Good morning"—I said tentatively, she made a slight inclination as much as to say—"I recognize you have spoken," then she waited for me to continue.
I felt an egregious ass, I knew I was nervous as a bird, I could not think of anything to say—I, Nicholas Thormonde, accustomed to any old thing! nervous of a little secretary!
"Er—would you read me aloud the last chapter we finished"—I barked at last lamely.
She turned to fetch the script from the other room—.
I must apologize to her, I knew.
She came back and sat down stiffly, prepared to begin.
"I am sorry I was such an uncouth brute yesterday," I said—"It was good of you to come back—. Will you forgive me?"
She bowed again. I almost hated her at that moment, she was making me feel so much—A foolish arrogance rose in me—
"We had better get to work I suppose," I went on pettishly.
She began to read—how soft her voice is, and how perfectly cultivated.—Her family must be very refined gentlefolk—ordinary English typists have not that indescribable distinction of tone.
What voices mean to one!—The delight of that exquisite sound of refinement in the pronunciation. Miss Sharp never misplaces an inflection or slurs a word, she never uses slang, and yet there is nothing pedantic in her selection of language—it is just as if her habitual associates were all of the same class as herself, and that she never heard coarse speech.—Who can she be—?
The music of her reading calmed me—how I wish we could be friends—!
"How old is Madame Bizot's grandchild?" I asked abruptly, interrupting.
"Six months," answered Miss Sharp without looking up.
"You like children?"
"Yes—."
"Perhaps you have brothers and sisters?"
"Yes—."
I knew that I was looking at her hungrily—and that she was purposely keeping her lids lowered—.
"How many?"
"Two—."
The tone said, "I consider your questions impertinent—."
I went on—
"Brothers?"
"One brother."
"And a sister?"
"Yes."
"How old?"
"Eleven and thirteen."
"That is quite a gap between your ages then?"
She did not think it necessary to reply to this—there was the faintest impatience in the way she moved the manuscript.
I was so afraid to annoy her further in case she should give me notice to go, that I let her have her way, and returned to work.
But I was conscious of her presence—thrillinglyconscious of her presence all the morning. I never once was able to take the work naturally, it was will alone which made me grind out the words.
There was no sign of nervousness in Miss Sharp's manner—I simply did not exist for her—I was a bore, a selfish useless bore of an employer, who was paying her twice as much as anyone else would, and she must in return give the most perfect service. As a man I had no meaning. As a wounded human being she had no pity for me—but I did not want her pity—what did I want?—I cannot write it—I cannot face it—. Am I to have a new torment in my life?—Desiring the unattainable?—Eating my heart out; not that woman can never really love me again, but that, well or ill, the consideration ofonewoman is beyond my reach—.
Miss Sharp is not influenced because I am or am not a cripple—If I were as I was when I first put on my grenadier's uniform, I should still not exist for her probably—she can see the worthless creature that I am—Need I always be so?—I wish to God I knew.
Night.
She worked with her usual diligence the entire day almost, not taking the least notice of me, until at five o'clock when my tea came I rang for her—Perhaps it was the irritation reacting upon my sensitive wrenched nerves, but I felt pretty rotten, my hands were damp—another beastly unattractive thing, which as a ruledoes not happen to me—I asked her to pour out the tea.
"If you will be so kind," I said—"I have let Burton go out"—Mercifully this was true—she came in as a person would who knew you had a right to command—you could not have said if she minded or no.
When she was near me I felt happier for some reason.
She asked me how I took my tea—and I told her—.
"Are you not going to have some with me?" I pleaded.
"Mine is already on my table in the next room—thank you"—and she rose.
In desperation I blurted out—.
"Please—do not go!—I don't know why, but I feel most awfully rotten to-day."
She sat down again and poured out her cup.
"If you are suffering shall I read to you?" she said—"It might send you to sleep—" and somehow I fancied that while her firm mouth never softened, perhaps the eyes behind the horn spectacles might not be so stony. And yet with it all something in me resented her pity, if she felt any. Physical suffering produces some weaknesses which respond to sympathy, and the spirit rages at the knowledge that one has given way. I never felt so mad in all my year of hell that I cannot be a man and fight—as I did at that moment.
A French friend of mine said—In English bookspeople were always having tea—handing cups of tea! Tea, tea—every chapter and every scene—tea! There is a great deal of truth in it—tea seems to bring the characters together—at tea time people talk, it is the excuse to call at that hour of leisure. We are too active as a nation to meet at any other time in the day, except for sport—So tea is our link and we shall go down through the ages as tea fiends—because our novelists who portray life accurately, chronicle that most of the thrilling scenes of our lives pass among tea cups!—I ventured to say all this to Miss Sharp by way of drawing her into conversation.
"What could one describe as the French doing most often?"—I asked her—.
She thought a moment.
"They do not make excuses for anything they do, they have not to have a pretext for action as we have—They are much less hypocritical and self-conscious."
I wanted to make her talk—.
"Why are we such hypocrites?"
"Because we have set up an impossible standard for ourselves, and hate to show each other that we cannot act up to it."
"Yes, we conceal every feeling—We show indifference when we feel interest—We pretend we have come on business when we have come simply to see someone we are attracted by—."
She let the conversation drop. This provoked me, as her last remark showed how far from stupid she is.
That nervous feeling overcame me again—Confound the woman!
"Please read," I said at last in desperation, and I closed my one eye.
She picked up a book—it happened to be a volume of de Musset—and she read at random—her French is as perfect as her English—The last thing I remember was "Mimi Pinson"—and when I awoke it was past six o'clock and she had gone home.
I wonder how many of us, since the war, know the desolation of waking—alone and in pain—and helpless—Of course there must be hundreds. If I am a rotter and a coward about suffering, at all events it does not come out in words—and perhaps it is because I am such a mixture that I am able to write it in this journal—If I were purely English I should not be able to let myself go even here—.
Suzette came to dinner—I thought how vulgar she looked—and that if her hands were white they were podgy and the nails short. The three black hairs irritated my cheek when she kissed me—I was brutal and moved my head in irritation—.
"Tiens?! Mon Ami!"—she said and pouted.
"Amuse me!" I commanded—.
"So! it is not love then, Nicholas, thou desirest—Bear!"
"Not in the least—I shall never want love again probably. Divert me!—tell me—tell me of yourscheming little mouse's brain, and your kind little heart—How is it 'dans le metier'?"
Suzette settled herself on the sofa, curled up among the pillows like a plump little tabby cat. She lit a cigarette—.
"Very middling," she whiffed—"Cases of love where all my good counsel remains untaken—a madness for drugs—very foolish—A drug—yes to try—but to continue!—Mon Dieu!they will no longer make fortunes 'dans le metier'—"
"When you have made your fortune, Suzette, what will you do with it?"
"I shall buy that farm for my mother—I shall put Georgine into a convent for the nobility, and arrange a large dot for her—and for me?—I shall gamble in a controlled way at Monte Carlo—."
"You won't marry then, Suzette?"
"Marry!" she laughed a shrill laugh—"For why, Nicholas?—A tie-up to one man,hein?—to what good?—and yet who can say—to be an honored wife is the one experience I do not know yet!"—she laughed again—.
"And who is Georgine—you have not spoken of her before, Suzette?"
She reddened a little under her new terra cotta rouge.
"No?—Oh! Georgine is my little first mistake—but I have her beautifully brought up, Nicholas—with the Holy Mother at St. Brieux. I am then her Aunt—soto speak—the wife of a small shop keeper in Paris, you must know—She adores me—and I give all I can toSt. Georges-des-Près—. Georgine will be a lady and marry the Mayor's son—one day—."
Something touched me infinitely. This queer littledemi-mondainemother—her thoughts set on her child's purity, and the conventional marriage for her—in the future. Her plebeian, insolent little round face so kindly in repose.
I respect Suzette far more than my friends of the world—.
When she left—it was perhaps in bad taste, but I gave her a quite heavy four figure cheque.
"For the education of Georgine—Suzette."
She flung her arms round my neck and kissed me frankly on both cheeks, and tears were brimming over in her merry black eyes.
"Thou hast after all a heart, and art after all a gentleman, Nicholas—Va!—"—and she ran from the room.
VI
For two days after I last wrote, I tried not to see Miss Sharp—I gave short moments to my book—and she answered a number of business letters. She knows most of my affairs now,—Burton transmits all the bills and papers to her.—I can hear them talking through the thin door. The excitement of that time I was so rude seems to have used up my vitality, an utter weariness is upon me, I have hardly stirred from my chair.
The ancient guardsman, George Harcourt, came to lunch yesterday. He was as cynically whimsical as ever—He has a new love—an Italian—and until now she has refused all his offers of presents, so he is taking a tremendous interest in her—.
"In what an incredible way the minds of women work, Nicholas!" he said—"They have frequently a very definite aim underneath, but they 'grasshopper'—."
I looked puzzled I suppose—.
"To 'grasshopper' is a new verb!" he announced—"Daisy Ryven coined it.—It means just as you alight upon a subject and begin tackling it, you spring to another one—These lovely American war workers 'grasshopper' continuously.—It is impossible to keep pace with them."
I laughed.
"Yet they seem to have quite a definite aim—to get pleasure out of life."
Alathea (Harriet Hammond) disguised with colored glasses and plain clothes arrives to take up her duties as secretary to Sir Nicholas (Lew Cody). (A scene from Elinor Glyn's production "Man and Maid" for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer)Alathea (Harriet Hammond) disguised with colored glasses and plain clothes arrives to take up her duties as secretary to Sir Nicholas (Lew Cody). (A scene from Elinor Glyn's production "Man and Maid" for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer)
"To 'grasshopper' does not prevent pleasure to the grasshopper.—It is only fatiguing to the listener. You can have no continued sensible conversation with any of these women—they force you to enjoy only their skins—"
"Can the Contessa talk?"
"She has the languour of the South—She does not jump from one subject to another, she is frankly only interested in love."
"Honestly, George—do you believe there is such a thing as real love?"
"We have discussed this before, Nicholas—You know my views—but I am hoping Violetta will change them. She has just begun to ask daily if I love her"—
"Why do women always do that—even one's little friends continually murmur the question?"
"It is the working of their subconscious minds——Damn good cigars these, my dear boy—pre-war eh?——Yes it is to justify their surrender—They want to be assuredin wordsthat you adore them—because you see the actions of love really prove nothing of love itself. A stranger who has happened to appeal to the senses can call them forth quite as successfully as the lady of one's heart!"
"It is logical of women then to ask that eternal question?"
"Quite—I make a point of answering them always without irritation."
——I wonder—if Miss Sharp loved anyone wouldshe?——but I am determined not to speculate further about her—.
When Colonel Harcourt had gone—I deliberately rang my bell—and when she came into the room I found I was not sure what I had rung for—It is the most exasperating fact that Miss Sharp keeps me in a continual state of nervous consciousness.
Her manner was indifferently expectant, if one can use such a paradoxical description—.
"I—I—wondered if you played the piano?—"I blurted out.
She looked surprised—if one can ever say she looks anything, with the expression of her eyes completely hidden. She answered as usual with one word—.
"Yes."
"I suppose you would not play to me?—er—it might give me an inspiration for the last chapter—"
She went and opened the lid of the instrument.
"What sort of music do you like?" she asked.
"Play whatever you think I would appreciate."
She began a Fox trot, she played it with unaccountable spirit and taste, so that the sound did not jar me—but the inference hurt a little. I said nothing, however. Then she played "Smiles," and the sweet commonplace air said all sorts of things to me—Desire to live again, and dance, and enjoy foolish pleasures—How could this little iceberg of a girl put so much devilment into the way she touched the keys? If it had not been for the interest this problem caused me, thelonging the sounds aroused in me to be human again, would have driven me mad.
No one who can play dance music with that lilt can be as cold as a stone—.
From this she suddenly turned to Debussy—she played a most difficult thing of his—I can't remember its name—then she stopped.
"Do you like Debussy?" I asked.
"No, not always."
"Then why did you play it?"
"I supposed you would."
"If you had said in plain words, 'I think you are a rotter who wants first dance music, then an unrestful modern decadent, brilliantly clever set of disharmonies,' you could not have expressed your opinion of me more plainly."
She remained silent—I could have boxed her ears.
I leaned back in my chair, perhaps I gave a short harsh sigh—if a sigh can be harsh—I was conscious that I had made some explosive sound.
She turned back to the piano again and began "Waterlily" and then "1812"—and the same strange quivering came over me that I experienced when I heard the cooing of the child.—My nerves must be in an awful rotten state—Then a longing to start up and break something shook me, break the windows, smash the lamp—yell aloud—I started to my one leg—and the frightful pain of my sudden movement did me good and steadied me.
Miss Sharp had left the piano and came over to me—.
"I am afraid you did not like that," she said—"I am so sorry"—her voice was not so cold as usual.
"Yes I did—" I answered—"forgive me for being an awful ass—I—I—love music tremendously, you see—"
She stood still for a moment—I was balancing myself by the table, my crutch had fallen. Then she put out her hand.
"Can I help you to sit down again?"—she suggested.
And I let her—I wanted to feel her touch—I have never even shaken hands with her before. But when I felt her guiding me to the chair, the maddest desire to seize her came over me—to seize her in my arms to tear off those glasses, to kiss those beautiful blue eyes they hid—to hold her fragile scrap of a body tight against my breast, to tell her that I loved her—and wanted to hold her there, mine and no one else's in all the world——My God! what am I writing—I must crush this nonsense—I must be sane—. But—what an emotion! The strongest I have ever felt about a woman in my life—.
When I was settled in the chair again—things seemed to become blank for a minute and then I heard Miss Sharp's voice with a tone—could it be of anxiety? in it? saying "Drink this brandy, please." She must have gone to the dining-room and fetched the decanterand glass from the case, and poured it out while I was not noticing events.
I took it.
Again I said—"I am awfully sorry I am such an ass."
"If you are all right now—I ought to go back to my work," she remarked—.
I nodded—and she went softly from the room. When I was alone, I used every bit of my will to calm myself—I analysed the situation. Miss Sharp loathes me—I cannot hold her by any means if she decides to go—. The only way I can keep her near me is by continuing to be the cool employer—And to do this I must see her as little as possible—because the profound disturbance she is able to cause in me, reacts upon my raw nerves—and with all the desire in the world to behave like a decent, indifferent man, the physical weakness won't let me do so, and I am so bound to make a consummate fool of myself.
When I was in the trenches and the shells were coming, and it was beastly wet and verminy and uncomfortable, I never felt this feeble, horrible quivering—I know just what funk is—I felt it the day I did the thing they gave me the V.C. for. This is not exactly funk—I wish I knew what it was and could crush it out of myself—.
Oh! if I could only fight again!—that was the best sensation in life—the zest—the zest!—What is it which prompts us to do decent actions? I cannot rememberthat I felt any exaltation specially—it just seemed part of the day's work—but how one slept! How one enjoyed any old thing—!
Would it be better to end it all and go out quite? But where should I go?—themewould not be dead.—I am beginning to believe in reincarnation. Such queer things happened among the fellows—I suppose I'd be born again as ugly of soul as I am now—I must send for some books upon the subject and read it up—perhaps that might give me serenity.
The Duchesse returned yesterday. I shall go and see her this afternoon I think,—perhaps she could suggest some definite useful work I could do—It is so abominably difficult, not being able to get about. What did she say?—She said I could pray—I remember—she had not time, she said—but theBon Dieuunderstood—I wonder if He understands me—? or am I too utterly rotten for Him to bother about?
The Duchesse was so pleased to see me—she kissed me on both cheeks—.
"Nicholas! thou art better!" she said—"As I told you—the war is going to end well—!"
"And how is the book?" she asked presently—"It should be finished—I am told that your work is intermittent—."
My mind jumped to Maurice as the connecting link—the Duchesse of course must have seen him—butI myself have seen very little of Maurice lately—how did he know my work was intermittent—?
"Maurice told you?" I said.
"Maurice?"—her once lovely eyes opened wide—she has a habit of screwing them up sometimes when she takes off her glasses.—"Do you suppose I have been on apartie de plaisir, my son—that I should have encountered Maurice—!"
I dared not ask who was her informant—.
"Yes, I work for several days in succession, and then I have no ideas. It is a pretty poor performance anyway—and is not likely to find a publisher."
"You are content with your Secretary?"
This was said with an air of complete indifference. There was no meaning in it of the kind Madame de Clerté would have instilled into the tone.
"Yes—she is wonderfully diligent—it is impossible to dislodge her for a moment from her work. She thinks me a poor creature I expect."
The Duchesse's eyes, half closed now, were watching me keenly—.
"Why should she think that, Nicholas—you can't after all fight."
"No——but—."
"Get well, my boy—and these silly introspective fancies will leave you—Self analysis all the time for those who sit still—they imagine that they matter to theBon Dieuas much as aCorps d'Armée—!"
"You are right, Duchesse, that is why I said MissSharp—my typist—probably thinks me a poor creature—she gets at my thoughts when I dictate."
"You must master your thoughts——"
And then with a total change of subject she remarked.
"Thou art not in love, Nicholas?"
I felt a hot flush rise to my face—What an idiotic thing to do—more silly than a girl—Again how I resent physical weakness reacting on my nerves.
"In love!"—I laughed a little angrily—"With whom could I possibly be in love,chère amie?! You would not suggest that Odette or Coralie or Alice could cause such an emotion!"
"Oh! for them perhaps no—they are for the senses of men—they are the exotic flowers of this forcing time—they have their uses—although I myself abhor them as types—but—is there no one else?"
"Solonge de Clerté?—Daisy Ryven?—both with husbands—."
"Not as if that prevented things" the Duchesse announced reflectively—"Well, well—Some of myblessésshow just your symptoms, Nicholas, and I discover almost immediately it is because they are in love—with the brain—with the imagination you must understand—that is the only dangerous kind—. When it is with a pretty face alone—a good dose and a new book helps greatly."
"There would be no use in my being in love, Duchesse—"
"It would depend upon the woman—you want sympathy and a guiding hand—Va!—"
Sympathy and a guiding hand!
"I liked ruling and leading when I was a man—"
"——We all have our ups and downs—I like my own bed—but last night an extra batch ofblesséscame in—and I had to give it up to one whose back was a mass of festers—he would have lain on the floor else—. What will you—hein?—We have to learn to accommodate ourselves to conditions, my son."
Suddenly the picture of this noble woman's courage came to me vividly, her unvarying resourcefulness—her common sense—her sympathy with humanity—her cheerfulness—I never heard her complain or repine, even when fate took her only son at Verdun—Such as these are the glory of France—and Coralie and Odette and Alice seemed to melt into nothingness—.
"The war will be finished this autumn—" she told me presently—"and then our difficult time will begin—. Quarrels for all the world—Not good fighting—But you will live to see a Renaissance, Nicholas—and so prepare for it."
"What can I do, dear friend—If you knew how much I want to do something!"
"Your first duty is to get well.—Have yourself patched together—finished so to speak, and then marry and found a family to take the place of all who have perished. It was good taste when I was young not to have too many—but now!—France wants children—andEngland too. There is a duty for you, Nicholas!"
I kissed her hand—.
"If I could find a woman like you!" I cried—"indeed then I would worship her—."
"So—so—! There are hundreds such as I—when I was young I lived as youth lives—You must not be too critical, Nicholas."
She was called away then, back to one of the wards, and I hobbled down the beautiful staircases by myself—the lift was not working. The descent was painful and I felt hot and tired when I reached the ground floor, it was quite dusk then, and the one light had not yet been lit. A slight wisp of a figure passed along the end of the corridor. I could not see plainly, but I could have sworn it was Miss Sharp—I called her name—but no one answered me so I went on out,—the servant, aged ninety, now joining me, he assisted me into my one horse Victoria beyond the concierge's lodge.
Miss Sharp and the Duchesse!—? Why if this is so have I never been told about it?—The very moment Maurice returns I must get him to investigate all about the girl—In the meantime I think I shall go to Versailles—. I cannot stand Paris any longer—and themasseurcan come out there, it is not an impossible distance away.