The crashing gradually subsided.
“Flute! How careless I’ve become! Pardon! And here Monsieur Daniel has his little breakfast! This morning I have created a new dish, eggs as all Americans love them!”
He settled the tray onto the table and whisked the cover of a large silver vegetable dish off a plate. There indeed were four fried eggs, all curled about with at least a half pound of beautiful broiled bacon. Daniel, looking at this and the pots of hot milk and hot coffee, the plates of toast and dishes of butter and jam, the bowl of grapes, and even the pitcher of water, wondered weakly how there was enough china left in the pantry for the other trays.
The food spread so elegantly before him made his stomach quiver, faintly but unmistakably, and he wondered idly if he had a slight hangover. He remembered with an almost ghastly pleasure the last drink he’d drunk the night before, after Sara and Honor had gone off to bed, when he and Tim had gone tidily out to the kitchen with the glasses of their unexpected bout and had had one last snort. They had not meant, any of them, to sit drinking and talking all night. Each was tired and Nan and Lucy had long since disappeared. But it had been good to sit there talking of food and people and pacifism and . . .
“Thank you, thank you, old fellow,” Daniel said. “Now if only I had a cigarette I could almost forget the horrors of my past. I could almost forget that night in Cairo, or was it Pago Pago?”
François stiffened, stood trembling slightly like a melancholy pointer.
“. . . but no, enough of that.”
“Would Monsieur Daniel accept one of my cigarettes? Of course they are not like American ones, mine being slightly perfumed. They are called The Pride of the Harem. Perhaps they would remind Monsieur Daniel of . . .?”
“Other days? Thank you, François. I shall accept one. My memories will be most pleasant, I assure you.” Daniel smiled as lasciviously as he could manage and lay the cigarette beside his coffee cup. Then as François stood looking down at him eagerly, he sank back and closed his eyes again.
A long silence, then Daniel snored almost too faintly to be heard, and François sighed.
Dan heard him tiptoe to the door, stopping as he went to pick up a pair of slacks and to fold them over the back of a chair with a disapproving cluck of his tongue. The door closed.
Just outside his room the little fountain poured out its thin constant stream, monotonous and musical. A breeze changed its notes, flattening the water for some moments against the stone before the water flowed straight again. Daniel listened without knowing, not only there at that moment in his tousled bed, but everywhere about the house. Sometimes he would forget to understand what Sara or the others or even Nan were saying while his ears pricked toward the ancient trickle of the fountain. In his dreams the rhythm of those waters beat like his own heart or the pulse of blood. Away from it, anywhere out of hearing, he felt uneasy now.
Daniel stretched, then rolled so that his feet could hang down comfortably over the end of the bed.
When he was old and filthy rich, he’d decided, he would command a bed three meters long. It would have sheets of striped pajama silk, these suspended above his toes with a delicate framework of wrought silver so that his feet could point straight upward without being dragged at by the weight of bedding. There would be blankets, of course, of the very softest materials and they’d be fixed in a way that when he was cold they’d automatically unroll from the foot of the bed and cover as much of him as needed warmth.
It might be a little difficult to work that one out—he’d have to have one of his brilliant young secretaries devote himself to the problem. Then by a series of subtle blackmailings he would get the poor devil in his power entirely and buy the idea for a pittance or perhaps a small monthly pension, an idea that would then add another cool million or two to his pocket.
People all over the world who were as tall and as bony as Daniel—for in spite of his advanced age at that far-distant time, he would still be lean and hard and in perfect physical condition—people who for countless generations had been forced to sleep folded into uncomfortable positions or with their feet dangling over the bed-end and people of all lengths who had spent wretched nights when they were too sleepy to pull up an extra blanket over their chilled bodies, when it would inevitably be too short, would bless his name.
He, of course, would have one improvement in his own bed that would not be for general sale. Each night, or for as many nights as his whim dictated, a beautiful woman would be tucked somewhere into the mighty expanse of those striped-pajama-silk sheets and electrically regulated blankets. She would be of whatever size he wanted and of any color from moonbeam to a deep purplish brown. One of his most trusted secretaries would make it his sole responsibility to see that she was sweet smelling and in all other ways delightful.
Daniel yawned, then opened his eyes, struggling to stay awake.
“‘“Hot dog!” cried Mr. Pennyfeather!’” he quoted, then rolled toward the little table, looking as if it might sag under the heavily laden tray. He lay looking at the clutter of food for a moment before pouring himself a cup of sloppily put-together coffee.
Why in hell had François brought him all this food? The man was madly in love with him, of course. That was obvious from the way he giggled, fluttered, blushed like a schoolgirl at Dan’s faintest look in his direction. But was there also a maternal feeling hidden somewhere in that hollow chest, along with all those girlish throbbings? Do I bring out the mother in him? Dan wondered irritably. Does he long to plump me up, to make me big and strong enough to fight life’s battles?
Daniel spread strawberry jam thickly on a piece of his now cold toast and—while he was deciding whether it would be a good idea or not to eat in bed, watched three large drops of jam drip from his toast onto the pillow.
Damn and blast! What would Sara say?
For a moment Daniel felt almost panicky, then remembered he was no longer a small boy and that Sara, even in those far-distant days, had never beaten him nor even given him what might be called a tongue lashing. You’d think she was a demon, he thought, the way I cringe at the thought of her seeing this spotted pillow case. Anyway, she’ll probably never see it and besides she’s too polite and decent to mention it. Do I think she’d wait until the parson came to supper and then point at me and laugh stridently and tell everyone what I’d done? That I was a naughty rascal? You’d think so from the way I act.
Sara has me buffaloed is all, and she always has. She’s thoughtful and never shouts or scolds and she’s never cruel, yet I am still scared to death of what she’ll say, even after all these years of being away at school and not even seeing her. She was good to me when I was little. Honor and I worshipped her and that’s the trouble: We still do, even if we don’t want to. We resent her importance to us; we’d rather spend all that admiration and consciousness on other people and she’s there taking it.
Does she even want it? Daniel wondered. Does she even know that we are both obsessed with her?
But I never really thought of any of this before, that she might not even want us to think she’s so almightly goddamned wonderful—I took it for grtanted that she loved us that way but I don’t know that she does. In fact, I know she doesn’t, as she doesn’t seem to ask anything from us. And yet we’re always thinking about her, wondering what she’ll do and say and wear and whether she’ll be in good spiritrs or pale and closed-mouthed as she sometimes is. That isn’t right. We should be thinking more about women. I’m a man and should be thinking more about my future wife. I do, of course, but Sara’s always there making me wonder what she’ll think of the way my girl stands or eats cold chicken or gets drunk.
Daniel finished his coffee, then poured warm milk into the cup and drank that. He then carefully scraped at the red blotches on the pillow with the butter knife, licking it off, while his mind circled lazily around the surprising idea that his older sister might not find him as important as he found her.
He’d ask Honor. She was a quie
t girl but she had pretty good ideas about some things. It would be rather embarrassing talking that way about Sara, of course. But Daniel felt he must find out, that a man should not live as long as he had without clarifying some of his more youthful impressions.
He stuck a fork into one of the eggs, which was quite stiff by now, then sighed with exasperation. What would he do with the damned things? François always looked so completely crushed when Daniel sent food back that he’d tried to hide them, putting them down the toilet, but that was disgusting. He’d even tried hiding his unwanted eggs in the clothes, which became even more disgusting when they were forgotten. He decided he might make a couple sandwiches for later.
Except he knew he would never eat them and that they would be put away and grow progressively nastier. Food was something to be enjoyed in public in this house, not nibbled in secrecy. He had never had such good things to eat before in his life and by God he was not going to start acting as if he were a sneaky child again in prep school, even to protect the heart of his slave from misery.
He ate three of the cold eggs, which did not take long. He then laid a piece of toast over the fourth egg so François might not notice it. Daniel wondered what had come over him that he no longer enjoyed the breakfasts that would have delighted him only a few months before. He was the type who matured rapidly, Daniel knew, and now ham and eggs were almost as odious to him as the liverwurst sandwich with chocolate malted milk that he’d so hungered for only a couple of years before. Daniel wished, almost passionately, that he had gone down to the wine celler before François had brought in this ghastly tray. Tim might have been there. They would have cracked two bottles of beer, had maybe had a wee nip of gin first, and a bowl of pretzels for something light from the icebox.
At the thought of the cold stream of beer washing from his throat the cloying taste of the jam and milk and stiff cold fried eggs, Daniel almost moaned aloud. He stretched back jerkily under the sheets and his eyes closed.
Why do I feel so different today? he wondered. It’s a little like Christmas morning when I was a little kid. Are we going somewhere today? To Chamonix or Châtel-Saint-Denis? No? But something else very nice, but then everything is nice here. Last night, lighting a little fire so late at night after the long ride from Dijon and sitting there getting just a wee bit tight and talking with Tim and Sara was so good. Is it that we’re all going to get dressed up tonight, at least the women are, and are having a party? I doubt this is what my excitement is about, I’m too old to get excited over things like this, but maybe we’ll dance. Oh God! I can ask Nan to dance with me!
He threw one long arm restlessly over his face and now his breath came faster.
I can say, Nan, will you dance with me? Or, Nan, may I have this dance? It’s perfectly simple—I’ve often done this before. She’ll say, Why of course, Daniel, and look up at me and her eyes will widen as she smiles so she looks almost like she is blind. Then I’ll hold out my arms and she’ll be in them, like smoke, like a flower, like the most beautiful body that I’ve ever dreamed of and there, in my owns arms, she’ll be and it will not be a dream. The music will rise around us like water, like passionate wings, hiding us, covering us.
There was a knock at the door and Daniel lay without breathing. The seocnd knock was louder. There was a pause, then he heard three bangs. He decided not to snore nor even open his eyes. He lay breathing quietly.
François opened the door and apparently stood looking at Daniel for a moment before he spoke. “I do not wish to disturb Monsieur Daniel,” he announced into the air, “if he is asleep; however . . .?” He paused to pick something up from the floor and to fling it scornfully into a corner. “Yesterday Madame Porter was most annoyed with me to find the room still unmade at lunchtime and what am I to do, I say to her, if young Monsieur Daniel is still in his bed? Should I clean around him as if he is a chair or perhaps a small insignificant tuffet?”
There was a silence. Daniel hid his face as he couldn’t quite keep himself from grinning.
“Well,” François said, “I can only say that I have at least done my part to keep the peace. Now if Madame makes things difficult, I will at least be innocent.”
The door closed with the small but firm sound of his outraged nobility.
The old boy’s right, Daniel told himself. You must get up. It looks like hell in here and how can he clean the room with me in it? People on the terrace can see in. Sara will be mightily peeved. I’ll get up right now and take a shower.
But then in minutes Daniel was heavily asleep again, dreaming troubled but exciting dreams that made him sigh and cry out as if he were in pain.
ii
It was early when Honor first awoke that morning. Sun slanted low through the thin white curtains and a tender breeze sent them billowing, swaying their fat ruffles against the floorboards. The little fountain pouted and dripped right below her open windows. Birds sang frantically in all the trees. She felt happy as a healthy baby and in the same unthinking way.
As soon as she came to life enough to realize it, though, she was engulfed by a sickening wave of discouragement. The very thought of being alive was almost more than she could endure. The idea of another day, a whole day, to crawl through seemed vile to her. What would she do with it and with herself? And why should she do anything?
Perhaps she would lose her voice. She knew, though, that Tim suspected her from the last time of doing this to escape. It was so convenient but three times in one month would be overworking a good thing. She thought longingly of the blissful feeling of peace it gave her to sit in a room full of people knowing she need not answer any of their goddamned silly questions, that she needn’t even listen to them.
Sara, of course, knew, as it was Sara who’d taught her how to escape in that way. Honor still remembered her own shocked outrage on that day when she’d been full of pity for her sister whose throat was too sore to speak, only to then have come upon Sara singing quietly to herself in the bathroom. Sara, who never mentioned it, never lost her voice again and this summer had never once shown that she knew what Honor’s silences meant.
Honor wished Sara would, sometimes, engage. It would be good to be scolded or frowned at in displeasure instead of having her sister treat her always with such impassive courtesy.
She pulled a thin blanket up over her shoulders. The memory of her terrible dream made her uncomfortable and she shivered. She had only dreamed it a few times in her life, but now twice this summer the dream had sent her shaking and cold with sweat from her bed to sit half sick by the open window for the rest of the night.
She heard again—without wanting to—the dreadfully shrill screams of rage and filth that poured from her own mouth in those dream scenes and she felt the sting of her face where Sara slapped and slapped her, the blood under her own fingernails where she clawed at her older sister. It was awful. What made her dream like that? Should she talk to a psychiatrist when she went back to the university? Perhaps it meant she secretly hated Sara or maybe it was a revolt against too much of the famous “Tennant Reserve,” too many years of polite good manners. Yes, that was probably it—she should ask Timothy.
Perhaps if she got up now she’d find him drifting somewhere through the airy freshness of the rooms downstairs. She began to throw the covers off, knowing she would find him, understanding this so clearly it was as if she’d made a rendezvous with him. Go to the mirror, her mind said, and you’ll find Timothy. Look into the mirror and he will come, just as he came the night she felt so lonely and had gone down for fruit and had found him standing in the window. I saw him in the mirror, she thought, and stood looking at his white hair glimmering, his eyes. Then he came to me without speaking and led me to the couch and put a shawl over me and soon we were drinking hot milk and brandy and talking about what we remembered from Sunday school. She’d meant to tell him then about the dream that had sent her down there but it had seemed unimportant.
Why bother him? she wondered now. Why go downstairs?
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She lay in a sort of torpor, feeling the blanket becoming too hot but not being bothered to push it away. Soon Honor was asleep, her face becoming young and smooth again and her mouth growing soft and loving, no longer drooping brokenheartedly.
iii
It was much later when Honor woke the second time.
She got up blindly, went swiftly into the dressing room, and began her meticulous toilet. She knew from experience that if she started to think she would grow too miserable to face the day, falling back asleep again in order to put off for a little longer having to talk to anyone or to answer with a smile.
I should take the veil, she thought, wiping herself vigorously after her shower. There is surely a sisterhood that has vows of silence. But I would miss my perfumed bathoil and looking down there at the enamel on my toenails and putting a little brown on my eyelids and running this little white pencil under my too-brittle fingernails.
She looked in the long mirror, assessing herself expertly. All she needed, certainly, was an ostrich-feather boa to be like a naughty drawing of a directoire coquette, her feet in silly satin mules, her hair piled up silkily into a soft bun on the top of her head and nothing on in between. A directoire coquette through the wrong end of an opera glass, she said. God am I big. I am beautiful but I am so enormous, so tall. Maybe it’s glandular, maybe this is why I’m so unhappy. Other people don’t seem to feel so low and miserable and lost as I do. They seem to have more normal-sized emotions. All mine are oversized, exaggerated, like me.
She put on panties carefully, then a white tennis dress. She slipped her feet into high-heeled white shoes, admiring her long brown legs. She felt as clean, as sterile, as boring as a dairy lunch.
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