by Hugh Walpole
Arkwright caught these words, and knew that the lady standing there must be Lady Adela Beaminster, the Duchess’s only daughter. He had never seen Lady Adela before, but it amused him now that she should resemble so exactly the figure that he had imagined — it showed, after all, that one could take the world’s verdict about these things.
The world’s verdict about Lady Adela was that she was dull, but important, bearing her tall dried body as a kind of flag for the right people to range themselves behind her — and range themselves they did. Standing now, with Felix Brun in front of her demanding a display of graciousness, she extended her patronage. Thin, with her sharp nose and tight mouth, she was like an exclamation mark that had left off exclaiming, and it was only her ability to be gracious, and the sense that she conveyed of having any number of rights and possessions to stand for, that gave her claim to attention.
Her black hat was harsh, her hair iron-grey, her eyes cold with lack of intelligence. Arkwright thought her unpleasant.
Standing a little behind her was a tall thin girl who was obviously determined to be as ungracious as a protest against her companion’s amiability should require. The girl’s thinness was accentuated by her rather tightly clinging white dress, and beneath her long black gloves her hands moved a little awkwardly, as though she were not quite sure what she should do with them. A large black hat overshadowed her face, but Arkwright could see that her eyes, large and dark, were more beautiful than anything else about her. Her nose was too thin, her mouth too large, her face too white and pinched.
Her body as she stood there was graceful, but not yet disciplined, so that she made movements and then checked them, giving the impression that she wished to do a number of things, but was uncertain of the correctness of any of them.
She was of foreign blood Arkwright decided — much too black and white for England. But it was her expression that demanded his attention. As she watched Felix Brun talking to Lady Adela, she seemed to be longing to express the contempt that she felt for both of them, and yet to have behind that desire a pathetic hesitation as to whether she had a right to be contemptuous of anyone.
It was the pathos, Arkwright decided, that one ultimately felt concerning her. She looked lonely, she looked frightened, and she looked “in the devil of a temper.” Her black eyes would be beautiful, whether they were filled with tears or with anger, and it seemed that they must very often be filled with both. “I wouldn’t like to have the handling of her,” thought Arkwright, and then instantly after, “I’d like to take away some of that loneliness.”
“She’ll have a fine old time,” he thought, “if she isn’t too sensitive.”
Lady Adela had now moved forward with Brun to look at the picture, but the girl did not move with them. She did not look at the portrait nor did she appear to take any interest in the other pictures. She stood there, making, every now and again, little nervous movements with her black gloves.
Arkwright moved about the gallery by himself a little, and he was conscious that the girl’s large black eyes followed him. He fancied, as, for an instant he glanced back, that the Duchess from her high wall leaned forward on her cane just a little further, so that she might force the girl to give her attention. “That girl’s got plenty of spirit,” thought Arkwright, “I’d like to see a battle between her and the old lady. It would be tooth and nail.”
Then once again the door opened — there was again an addition to the company. Arkwright was, at that moment, facing the girl, and as he heard the sharp closing of the door he saw in her eyes the welcome that the new-comer had received.
She was transformed. The pallor of her face was now flooded with colour, and she seemed almost beautiful as the hostility left her, and her mouth curved in a smile of so immense a relief that it emphasized indeed her earlier burden. Her whole body expressed the intensity of her pleasure; her awkwardness had departed; she was suddenly in possession of herself. Arkwright’s gaze went past her to the door. The man who stood there was greeting the girl with a smile that had in it both surprise and intimacy, as though they were the two oldest friends in the world, and yet he was astonished to see her there. The man was large, roughly built, with big limbs and a face that, without being good-looking, beamed kindness and good-nature. His eyes and mouth were sensitive and less ragged than the rest of him, his nose the plainest thing about him, was square and too large for his mouth. His hair was white, although he looked between forty and fifty years of age. His dress was correct, but he obviously did not give his clothes more consideration than the feelings of his friends required of him. Ruddy of face, with his white hair and large limbs and smiling good-humour, he was pleasant to look upon, and Arkwright did not wonder at the girl’s welcome; he would be, precisely, the kind of friend that she would need — benevolent, understanding, strong.
They greeted one another, and then they moved forward and spoke to Lady Adela and Brun.
Arkwright watched them. There they all were, gathered together under the sharp eyes of the Duchess, and she seemed, so Arkwright fancied, to hold them with her gaze. Little Brun was neater than ever, and Lady Adela drier than ever by the side of the stranger. They talked; they were discussing the picture — their eyes travelled up to it, and for an instant there was silence as though they were all charging it with their challenge or surrender, as the case might be. The girl’s eyes moved up to it with a sudden sharpened, thinning of the face that brought back the gleam of hostility that it had worn before. Then her eyes fell, and, with a smile, they sought her friend.
Arkwright did not know any reason for his interest, but he watched them breathlessly, and the sense that he had had, on first entering the room, of being on the verge of some new experience, deepened with him.
Brun was apparently suddenly conscious that he had left his friend alone long enough, for he detached himself from the group, shook hands with Lady Adela and the girl, bowed stiffly to the man and joined Arkwright.
“Seen enough?” he said.
“Yes,” said Arkwright.
They went out together.
IV
Felix Brun and Arkwright were not intimate friends. No one was intimate with Brun, and the little man came and disappeared, was there and was not there, was absent for a year, and then back again as though he had been away a week, was, indeed, simply a succession of explanatory footnotes to the social history of Europe.
It was for the social history of Europe that he lived, for the eager penetrating gaze into this capital and that, something suddenly noted, some case examined and dismissed. Life is discovered most accurately by those who learn to watch for its accidents rather than its intentions, and it was always the things that occurred by change that gave Brun his discoveries. He was a cosmopolitan of a multitude of acquaintances, no friends, no occupation, an enthusiasm only for cynical and pessimistic observation, invaluable as a commentator, useless as a human being.
When, as was now the case, some chance meeting had assisted his theories his neat little body shone like a celluloid ball. If, having made his discovery, he might also have his audience to whom he might declare it, then his very fingers quivered with the excitement of it. His hands, white and thin and tapering, waved now. His eyes were on fire. As they walked up Bond Street one might have imagined air-bladders at his armpits, Mercury’s wings at his heels. The quiet evening air was charged with him.
“Well,” said Arkwright, smiling and looking down at his companion. “Who are they all?”
“Lady Adela Beaminster, Rachel Beaminster, Christopher — —”
“Christopher?”
“Dr. Christopher, the Harley Street man. He’s the Duchess’ doctor, has been for years. The girl was the Duchess’ granddaughter — Lady Adela’s niece.”
“Well?”
“The girl’s coming out in three days’ time. They’re giving a ball in Portland Place for her. Nobody knows much about her. She’s been educated abroad, and always kept very close when she’s here. I shouldn’t th
ink the old Duchess loves her much. She loved the girl’s father, but he married a Russian actress, bolted to Russia with her, and the old lady never forgave him. He and the actress were both killed in a Petersburg fire, and the child was sent home — only tiny then — —”
“Ah! that explains the foreign air she had. She didn’t look as though she loved her aunt very much either.”
“No — don’t suppose she does. But that’s not it — that’s not it.”
They had arrived now at the top of Bond Street, and they paused for a moment to allow the Oxford Street traffic to sweep past them.
It was an hour of stir and clatter — hansoms, carts, lumbering omnibuses, bicycles, all were hurled along as though by some impatient hand, and the evening light crept higher and higher along the walls of the street, leaving grey-purple shadows beneath it.
They crossed over, and were instantly in a dim, golden, voiceless square. It was as though a door had been closed.
Brun still held Arkwright’s arm. “Now we can talk — no noise. Francis Breton has come back.”
To Arkwright this name, unfortunately, conveyed nothing.
“You don’t know?” Brun was disappointed.
“Never heard of him.”
“Fancy that. World of wonders; what have you been doing with your time? He is the Duchess’s grandson, son of the beautiful, the wonderful Iris Beaminster, who eloped with Kit Breton thirty years ago. I believe the old Duchess pursued her relentlessly until the end. They were married only a few years and then Iris Breton committed suicide. Kit Breton beat her and was always drunk; an absolute rascal. There was one boy, and he wandered about Europe with his father until he was twenty or so. Then Kit Breton died, and the boy came home. Revenge on his grandmother was his one idea. He was taken up by her enemies, of whom she always had a goodly store, and they might have made something out of him, if he hadn’t developed his father’s habits and finally been mixed up in some gambling scandal, and forced to leave the country.
“You can imagine what all this was to the Beaminsters — the great immaculate Beaminsters — you can picture the Duchess.... He went and saw her once ... but that’s another story. Well, abroad he went, and abroad he stayed — just now, coming out of the Gallery, I saw him — —”
“You are sure?”
“Positive. There could be no mistake. He’s just the same, a trifle tireder, a trifle lower down — but the same, oh yes.”
It was when Brun was most excited that he was unmistakably the foreigner. Now little exclamations that escaped him revealed him. As a rule in England he was more English than the English.
They had left the square and were passing up Harley Street. The houses wore their accustomed air of profitable secrecy. The doors, the windows, the brass knockers, the white and chastened steps were so discreet that Sunday morning was the only time in the week when they were really comfortable and at home. In every muffled hall there was lying in wait a muffled man-servant, beyond every muffled man-servant there was a muffled waiting-room with muffled illustrated papers: only the tinkling, at long intervals, of some sharp little bell from some inner secrecy would pierce that horrible discretion. Upon both men that shining succession of little brass plates produced its solemnity.
Arkwright was nevertheless interested by Brun’s discoveries. He was accompanied, as they talked, by that picture of the thin, dark girl moving restlessly her long, gloved hands. He could see now that look that she had flung at the picture.... Oh! she was interesting!
“But tell me, Brun,” he said, “you go on so fast. As I understand you there are these two, Breton and the girl, both of them the result of tragedies.... Do they know one another, do you suppose?”
“No. The girl was only a small child when Breton was in England, and you can be sure that she was carefully kept out of his way. But now that he’s back ... now that he’s back!”
“It’s the girl that interests me!” said Arkwright.
“Oh! the girl!” Brun was almost contemptuous. “There you go — English sentiment — missing all the time the great thing, the splendid thing.”
“Explain,” Arkwright said, laughing; “I know you won’t be happy until you have.”
“Why — it’s the Duchess, the Duchess, the Duchess all the time. She’s the centre of the picture; she is the picture. She’s the subject.”
Arkwright said nothing. Brun tossed his hands in the air.
“Oh — you English! No wonder you’re centuries behind everything — you miss the very things under your nose. There’s the Duchess, sitting there — a great figure as she has been these sixty years, but a figure hidden, veiled. There she has been for the last thirty years, shut up in that great house, wrapped about and concealed. Nobody knows what the matter was — I don’t know. I should think Christopher’s the only man who can tell. At any rate, thirty years ago she retired altogether from the world, and sees only the fewest of people. But all the ceremony goes on, dressing up, receiving, and the influence she has! She was powerful enough before she disappeared, but since! Why, there’s no pie she hasn’t her finger in: politics, society, revolution, life, death; nothing goes on without her knowledge, her approval, her disapproval — —”
“Her family, poor dears!”
“Oh; they love it — at any rate, the ones who are left do. The rebels are the younger generation. Society in England, my dear Arkwright, is dissolved into three divisions — the Autocrats, the Aristocrats, and the Democrats. I take my hat off to the Aristocrats — the Chichesters, the Medleys, the Darrants, the Weddons. All those quiet, decorous people, poor as mice many of them, standing aside altogether from any movements or war-cries of the day, living in their quiet little houses, or their empty big ones, clever some of them, charitable all of them, but never asserting their position or estimating it. They never look about them and see where they are. They’ve no need to. They’re just there.
“The Democrats are quite a new development — not much of them at present — the Ruddards, the Denisons, the Oaks — but we shall hear a lot of them in the future, I’m sure. They’ll sacrifice anything for cleverness; they must be amused; life must be entertaining. They embrace everybody: actors, Americans, writers; they’re quite clever, mind you, and it’s all perfectly genuine. They’re not snobs — they say, ‘Here are our lands and our titles. You’re common and vulgar, but you’ve got brains — you’re amusing and we’re well born — let’s make an exchange. Life must be fun for us, so we’ll have anyone with money or talent.”
“Then, last of all, the Autocrats — the Beaminsters, the Gutterils, the Ministers. I’m using Autocrat in its broadest sense, but that’s just what they are. You must have your quarterings, and you must look down on those who haven’t. But, more than that, everything must be preserved, and continual ceremonies, dignities, chastities, restraints, pomps, and circumstances. Above all, no one must be admitted within the company who is not of the noblest, the stupidest, the narrowest.
“The Beaminsters are the bodyguard of this little army, and the Duchess is their general. There, behind her shut doors, she keeps it all going; an American like Mrs. Bronson, a democrat like George Lent, she spoils their games here, there, everywhere. So far all has been well. But at last there are enemies within her gates — that girl, Breton. Now, at last, for the first time in her life, she must look out.”
He paused. They had reached Portland Place. To right and left of them the broad road was golden in the sun — dark trees guarded one end of it, bronzed roofs the other.
Two carriages stood like sentinels at the upper end.
Brun raised his hand as though he would invoke the spirit of it. “There, Arkwright, there’s your subject. The Duchess, tiny, indomitable, brooding over this place. This square of London round the Circus, your prostituted street, this splendour, Harley Street, Morris Square with its respectability, Ferris Street with its boarding-houses, over them all the Duchess is ruling. There’s not one of them, I dare fancy, that is not conscious of her
existence, not one of them that will not see life differently when she is gone. Meanwhile, she’ll fight for her Autocrats to the last breath, and she’s got a battle in front of her that will take her all her time. And when she goes the Autocrats will go with her, the Beaminsters as Beaminsters will be done for; life here round the Circus will never be the same again. There’s a new city rising, Arkwright, and the new citizens may forget, the Aristocrats may compromise with the Democrats, but they’ll turn out the Autocrats. A lot of good things will go with them — good old things — but a lot of fine new things will come in.”
As they passed out of Portland Place the wooden-legged crossing-sweeper touched his hat to them.
“Will he come in?” said Arkwright, laughing.
“Perhaps,” said Brun gravely.
Arkwright shook his head. “You can talk, Brun, you can say a lot. But it’s artificial the whole of it. Your subject, as you call it, is in the air. We’re realists nowadays, you know.”
Brun’s flat stared at them with its hideous red brick and ugly shapelessness. No romance for Dent Street; the glittering expanse of Portland Place was gone.
“You can’t be a realist only, if you’re to do the Duchess properly,” said Brun. “There’s more than that wanted.”
CHAPTER II
RACHEL
“My dear thing, it all comes back, as everything always does, simply to personal pluck. It’s only a question, no matter when or where, of having enough.” — Henry James.
I
No. 104 Portland Place was the house where the Duchess of Wrexe had lived now for sixty years. On the left as you go towards the park it had an air that no other house in the Place had ever been able to catch. There were certain buildings, Nos. 31, 26, 42, for instance, that were obviously doing their little best to present a successful imitation, but they were left a long, a very long way behind. The interesting thing would be to know whether No. 104 had had that wonderful “note” sixty years ago, when the Duchess came to it. Probably not; it was, beyond question, her presence that had thus given it its distinction. Its grim facade, without her, would not so strangely have hinted at beauties and wonders and glories within, nor would the windows have gleamed so finely, nor the great hall-door have symbolized such rich dark depths.