The Second E. F. Benson Megapack

by E. F. Benson

  Dodo’s face recovered all its radiance.

  “And he was the father who begot you,” she said. “How can I ever forget that, you joy of mine? I should be a beast if I wanted to. But he did look rather wicked just now. I think we had better turn, or Edith will have finished lunch and gone away.”

  * * * *

  Waldenech’s appearance did not belie him: he both looked and felt very wicked indeed. The sight of Dodo so soon to become the mother of another man’s child had caused to break out into hideous activity a volcano that had long smoldered under the slag and ashes of his drunken and debauched days, and he flamed with a jealousy the more passionate because it had so long slumbered. He felt confused and bewildered by the violence of this unexpected passion, and, as Dodo had said, he felt he must steady himself. He wanted to think clearly and constructively, to determine exactly what he must do, and how he must do it. At present he knew only of one necessity, that, even as he had taken Dodo away from Jack years ago, so now he must take Jack away from Dodo. The particular old brandy, taken in sufficient quantities, would clear his head, and enable him to think out ways and means.

  He shut himself into his sitting-room at the Ritz, and by degrees the monstrous nightmare-like lucidity that alcohol brings to heavy drinkers brightened in his brain, and he sat there emancipated from all moral laws, and thought clearly and connectedly, seeing himself and his desires as the legitimate center of all existence; nothing else and nobody else could be reckoned with. His jealousy that had shot flaming up, no longer flared and flickered: it shone with a steady and tremendous light, a beacon to guide him, and show him the way he must follow. What should happen to himself he did not care, nor did it enter into his calculations: most likely it would be better when he had accounted for Jack to account for himself also. That would arrange itself: he would see, when the time came, how he felt about it. And the time had better be soon, for there was no reason for delay. But he pushed away from him a glass which he had just refilled: he had drunk himself steady, and knew that if he went on he would drink himself maudlin and confused again. It would have been strange if by this time he did not know the stages, even as a man knows the stairs in his own house.

  He sat still a moment longer, rehearsing in his mind what he had taken so long to construct. He would go to the house in Eaton Square, so that Dodo would be there, and he would see her look on what he had done. To make the picture complete that touch was necessary, though he did not want to hurt her. Then he would have finished with them, and would finish with himself, instead of waiting for the farce of a trial, and the ignominy of what must follow.

  The afternoon had already waned, and looking at his watch he saw that it was after seven. That was a suitable hour to go on his errand, for it was probable that Jack would be at home now, soon to dress for dinner. As he got up to get from his despatch-box the revolver that he knew was there, he saw the glass of brandy which a little while ago he had pushed away from him, still standing there, and from habit merely he drank it off. Then he put the weapon, completely loaded, into his pocket, and took one more look round before leaving the room. Somehow deep down in him, and smothered and shadowed, was some vague repugnance towards what he was going to do, and once more, forgetful of his resolution not to trespass on the steadiness of nerves the spirit brought him, he refilled and emptied his glass. That, he felt sure, would soon stifle any conflicting voices within him. His plan was actively seated in his brain; inertia, almost, would achieve it.

  He had been indoors all the afternoon, and an instinct for fresh air and the evening breeze caused him to go on foot across the Green Park. The air was fresh but coldish, and it or the extra brandy he had just taken seemed quickly to harmonize and quiet that vague jangle of repugnance that twanged discordantly in his mind, and he became reconciled to himself again. But the wish not to hurt Dodo became rather more pronounced in his poor fuddled brain. He had to kill Jack, but he hoped she would not mind very much: he could make her understand surely that he was obliged to do it. He had always been devoted to her, even when he most outraged the merest decencies of their married life, and this morning the sight of her glorious beauty had wakened not jealousy only. She was superb in her wonderful womanhood: she was more beautiful now than she had ever been, and Nadine was not fit to sit beside her.

  It was with surprise that he saw he had come to the house. A motor was at the door, which stood open. On the pavement there was a footman bearing a coat and hat, holding a rug in his hand: another, bareheaded, stood by the door. Waldenech told himself that he had come very opportunely, for it was clear that they would soon come out.

  He hesitated a moment, swaying a little where he stood, not certain whether he should just wait for them, or go into the house. Soon he decided to take this latter course, for it was possible that Dodo or Nadine might be going without Jack, and seeing him standing there would ask him what he wanted. That risked his whole plan: they might suspect something, and with one hand in his coat pocket, where his fingers grasped the thing he had brought with him, he went up the three steps that led to the front door.

  “Is Lord Chesterford in?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. But his Lordship is just going out,” said the man.

  “Please tell him that Prince Waldenech would like to speak to him. I shall not detain his Lordship more than a moment!”

  * * * *

  Dodo and her husband had dined early, for they were going to the opera which began at eight, and at this moment the dining-room door, which opened on to the back of the hall opposite the staircase, was thrown open, and Waldenech heard Dodo’s voice.

  “Come on, Jack,” she said, “or we shall miss the overture which is the best part, and you will say it is my fault.”

  She came quickly round the corner, resplendent and jeweled, and saw his figure with its back to the light that came in through the open door, so that for half-a-second she did not recognize him. Simultaneously, Jack came out of the dining-room just behind her. As he came out he turned up the electric light in the hall which had not been lit, and she saw Waldenech’s face. And at the moment he took out of his pocket what his right hand was fingering.

  “Stand aside, Dodo,” he said rather thickly. “It is not for you.”

  Not more than half-a-dozen paces separated them, and for answer Dodo walked straight up to him, with arms outstretched so that he could not pass her, screening Jack. She was menacing as a Greek fury, beautiful as the dawn, dominant as the sun.

  “You coward and murderer,” she said. “Give me that.”

  For one half-second he stood nerveless and irresolute, his poor sodden wits startled into sobriety by the power and glory of her, and without a moment’s hesitation she seized the revolver that was pointed straight at her, and tore it from his hand. By a miracle of good luck it did not go off.

  “Out of the house,” she cried, “for I swear to you that in another second I will shoot you like a dog. Did you think you would frighten me? Frighten me! You drunken brute.”

  She stood there like some splendid wild animal at bay, absolutely fearless and irresistible. Without a single word, he turned, and shuffled out into the street again.

  “Shut the door,” said Dodo to the footman.

  Then suddenly and unmistakably she felt the life within her stir, and a start of blinding pain shot through her. So short had been the whole scene that Jack hurrying after her had only just reached her side, when she dropped the revolver, and laid her arms on his shoulders, leaning on him with all her weight.

  “Jack, my time has come,” she said. “Oh, glory to God, my dear!”

  * * * *

  Just as dawn began to brighten in the sky, Dodo’s baby was born, and soon made a lusty announcement that he lived. Presently Jack was admitted for a moment just to see his son, and then went out again to wait. It was but a couple of hours afterwards that he was again sent for by a well-pleased nurse.

  “I never saw such vitality,” said this excellent woman. “It’s
like what they tell about the gipsies.”

  Dodo was lying propped up in bed, and her baby was at her breast. She gave Jack a brilliant smile of welcome.

  “Oh, Jack, you and David and I!” she said. “Was there ever such a family? I may talk to you for five minutes, and then David and I are going to sleep. But about last night. I don’t know how much the servants saw, or what they know, but Waldenech came here to shoot you. He was drunk, poor wretch, he couldn’t face me for a moment. It was such a deplorable failure that I feel sure he won’t try it again, but I should be happier if he left England. See your solicitor about it, have him threatened if he doesn’t go. Do that this morning, dear, and when I wake be able to tell me he has gone. And now, oh, you and David and I! I told you I should behave in some unusual manner, but I didn’t think Waldenech would be concerned in it. Jack, kiss the top of David’s adorable head, but don’t disturb him. And then, my dearest, kiss me, and I shall instantly go to sleep. And neither Waldenech nor I will be able to go to Nadine’s wedding, but my reason for not going is much the nicest. Isn’t it, oh my David?”

  * * * *

  About ten o’clock Jack went out to do as Dodo had bidden him, and preferring to walk, crossed the Green Park, and went through the arcade fronting the Ritz Hotel. He had forgotten to ask Dodo where Waldenech was staying, but fancied that when he was in England last winter, he had stopped here. So he went through the revolving-door, and into the Bureau.

  “Is Prince Waldenech stopping here?” he asked.

  The clerk looked down to consult the register of guests before he answered:

  “His Serene Highness left for Paris this morning.”

  DODO WONDERS— (Part 1)

  CHAPTER I

  DODO DE SENECTUTE

  Dodo was so much interested in what she had herself been saying, that having just lit one cigarette, she lit another at it, and now contemplated the two with a dazed expression. She was talking to Edith Arbuthnot, who had just returned from a musical tour in Germany, where she had conducted a dozen concerts consisting entirely of her own music with flaring success. She had been urged by her agent to give half a dozen more, the glory of which, he guaranteed, would completely eclipse that of the first series, but instead she had come back to England. She did not quite know why she had done so: her husband Bertie had sent the most cordial message to say that he and their daughter Madge were getting on quite excellently without her—indeed that seemed rather unduly stressed—but…here she was. The statement of this, to be enlarged on no doubt later, had violently switched the talk on to a discussion on free will.

  Edith, it may be remarked, had arrived at her house in town only to find that her husband and daughter had already gone away for Whitsuntide, and being unable to support the idea of a Sunday alone in London, had sent off a telegram to Dodo, whom she knew to be at Winston, announcing her advent, and had arrived before it. On the other hand, her luggage had not arrived at all, and for the present she was dressed in a tea-gown of Dodo’s, and a pair of Lord Chesterford’s tennis-shoes which fitted her perfectly.

  “I wonder,” said Dodo. “We talk glibly about free will and we haven’t the slightest conception what we really mean by it. Look at these two cigarettes! I am going to throw one away in a moment, and smoke the other, but there is no earthly reason why I should throw this away rather than that, or that than this: they are both precisely alike. I think I can do as I choose, but I can’t. Whatever I shall do, has been written in the Book of Fate; something comes in—I don’t know what it is—which will direct my choice. I say to myself, ‘I choose to smoke cigarette A and throw away cigarette B,’ but all the time it has been already determined. So in order to score off the Book of Fate, I say that I will do precisely the opposite, and do it. Upon which Fate points with its horny finger to its dreadful book, and there it has all been written down since the beginning of the world if not before. Don’t let us talk about free will any more, for it makes one’s brain turn round like a Dancing Dervish, but continue to nurse our illusion on the subject. You could have stayed in Germany, but you chose not to. There!”

  Edith had not nearly finished telling Dodo about these concerts, in fact, she had barely begun, when the uncomfortable doctrine of free will usurped Dodo’s attention and wonder.

  “The first concert, as I think I told you, was at Leipsic,” she said. “It was really colossal. You don’t know what an artistic triumph means to an artist.”

  “No, dear; tell me,” said Dodo, still looking at her cigarettes.

  “Then you must allow me to speak. It was crammed, of course, and the air was thick with jealousy and hostility. They hated me and my music, and everything about me, because I was English. Only, they couldn’t keep away. They had to come in order to hate me keenly at close quarters. I’m beginning to think that is rather characteristic of the Germans; they are far the most intense nation there is. First I played—”

  “I thought you conducted,” said Dodo.

  “Yes; we call that playing. That is the usual term. First I played the ‘Dodo’ symphony. I composed one movement of it here, I remember—the scherzo. Well, at the end of the first movement, about three people clapped their hands once, and there was dead silence again. At the end of the second there was a roar. They couldn’t help it. Then they recollected themselves again, having forgotten for a moment how much they hated me, and the roar stopped like turning a tap off. You could have heard a pin drop.”

  “Did it?” asked Dodo.

  “No: I dropped my baton, which sounded like a clap of thunder. Then came the scherzo, and from that moment they were Balaams. They had come to curse and they were obliged to bless. What happened to their free will then?”

  “Yes, I know about Balaam,” said Dodo, “he comes in the Bible. Darling, how delicious for you. I see quite well what you mean by an artistic triumph: it’s to make people delight in you in spite of themselves. I’ve often done it.”

  Dodo had resolved the other problem of free will that concerned the cigarettes by smoking them alternately. It seemed very unlikely that Fate had thought of that. They were both finished now, and she got up to pour out tea.

  “If I could envy anybody,” she said, “which I am absolutely incapable of doing, I should envy you, Edith. You have always gone on doing all your life precisely what you meant to do. You’ve got a strong character, as strong as this tea, which has been standing. But all my remarkable feats have been those which I didn’t mean to do. They just came along and got done. I always meant to marry Jack, but I didn’t do it until I had married two other people first. Sugar? That’s how I go on, you know, doing things on the spur of the moment, and trusting that they will come right afterwards, because I haven’t really meant them at all. And yet, ’orrible to relate, by degrees, by degrees as the years go on, we paint the pictures of ourselves which are the only authentic ones, since we have painted every bit of them ourselves. Everything I do adds another touch to mine, and at the end I shall get glanders or cancer or thrush, and just the moment before I die I shall take the brush for the last time and paint on it ‘Dodo fecit.’ Oh, my dear, what will the angels think of it, and what will our aspirations and our aims and our struggles think of it? We’ve gone on aspiring and perspiring and admiring and conspiring, and then it’s all over. Strawberries! They’re the first I’ve seen this year; let us eat them up before Jack comes. Sometimes I wish I was a canary or any other silly thing that doesn’t think and try and fail. All the same, I shouldn’t really like to be a bird. Imagine having black eyes like buttons, and a horny mouth with no teeth, and scaly legs. Groundsel, too! I would sooner be a cannibal than eat groundsel. And I couldn’t possibly live in a cage; nor could I endure anybody throwing a piece of green baize over me when he thought I had talked enough. Fancy, if you could ring the bell now this moment, and say to the footman, ‘Bring me her ladyship’s baize!’ It would take away all spontaneousness from my conversation. I should be afraid of saying anything for fear of being baized, and ever
y one would think I was getting old and anæmic. I won’t be a canary after all!”

  Edith shouted with laughter.

  “A mind like yours is such a relief after living with orderly German minds for a month,” she said. “You always were a holiday. But why these morbid imaginings!”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. I think it’s the effect of seeing you again after a long interval, and hearing you mention the time when you composed that scherzo. It’s so long ago, and we were so young, and so exactly like what we are now. Does it ever strike you that we are growing up? Slowly, but surely, darling, we are growing up. I’m fifty-five: at least, I’m really only fifty-four, but I add one year to my age instead of taking off two, like most people, so that when the next birthday comes, I’m already used to being it, if you follow me, and so there’s no shock.”

  “Shock? I adore getting older,” said Edith. “It will be glorious being eighty. I wish I hadn’t got to wait so long. Every year adds to one’s perceptions and one’s wisdom.”

  Dodo considered this.

  “Yes, I daresay it is so up to a point,” she said, “though I seem to have seen women of eighty whose relations tell me that darling granny has preserved all her faculties, and is particularly bright this morning. Then the door opens and in comes darling granny in her bath-chair, with her head shaking a little with palsy, and what I should call deaf and blind and crippled. My name is shouted at her, and she grins and picks at her shawl. Oh, my dear! But I daresay she is quite happy, which is what matters most, and it isn’t that which I’m afraid of in getting old!”

  “But you’re not afraid of dying?” asked Edith incredulously.

  “Good gracious, no. I’m never afraid of certainties; I’m only afraid of contingencies like missing a train. What I am afraid of in getting old is continuing to feel hopelessly young. I look in vain for signs that I realise I’m fifty-five. I tell myself I’m fifty-five—”