Thalia

by Frances Faviell

  ‘No,’ said Terence curtly. ‘And it’s an impertinence to discuss it.’

  ‘The King can do no wrong,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’

  ‘No,’ he said deliberately. ‘And if you’re doing this just because you want to get married you might just as well have me.’

  ‘You don’t love me,’ I said irritatedly. He was always teasing and annoying me.

  ‘Neither does Armand Tréfours.’

  I was so angry that I got up. ‘I’d like to go home.’

  He followed me out of the Club and down the rue du Casino. It was cold, with a whipping, biting wind and an exciting tang of iodine in the air. He took my arm and drew me close. ‘Rachel . . . you’re such a silly sweet. You can’t throw yourself away on this young Greek god. You’re too young. What is your father thinking of to allow it?’

  But I was too angry to answer him. Pulling myself away from him I walked as far away as I could on the pavement. It was too cold to linger and we said good night abruptly and uncomfortably.

  Christmas, in spite of the influx of young men from the universities, was not a very gay season. The colony had been shaken by the abdication of the King which had taken place on the 11th December. The French, discussing it far more avidly than the British did, considered it highly romantic, if unnecessary, to give up a throne for love of a woman. Opinion in the colony—largely voiced in the Club—was sharply divided; on the whole it was shocked and outraged.

  Thalia and I thought it wonderful that our own views about the hypocrisy of the social world should be shown up so nakedly. We admired the King for his courage and honesty—the latter in particular, and we said so. Cynthia listened to our comments in silence, then she said coldly: ‘Your opinions are of no value. Neither of you has had any experience of the world. If you had you wouldn’t talk as you do.’

  She was adamant on the subject. Duty came first—and that duty was to one’s country; love was left far behind. The large photograph of the King was removed from her writing desk, but two larger ones purchased in the town adorned both Thalia’s and my dressing-table. The King was our hero.

  I thought I detected a certain reluctant envy in Cynthia’s dismissal of the whole affair. I remembered my aunt’s words: ‘She is a woman who would never fail in her duty’, and I wondered.

  Did she love anyone except her beautiful little son? Wasn’t even that love a kind of self-love? Claude was made in her image. Thalia was not. And yet there had been sadness in her face when we were discussing the Abdication; a look which had belied her stern words. She held for me the fascination of a deep, still pool. I simply could not fathom her. Among a crowd of women she stood out not only for her flawless beauty but also for a rare, strange stillness. What went on beneath that calm inscrutability? What?

  When I asked her if she disapproved of divorce simply as divorce and didn’t she think it more honest for couples who were not suited to separate, she looked at me as if I were a fool and said: ‘If only it were as simple as that.’

  I began to see that some of her undoubted attraction for men must lie in this detached, enigmatic silence. They must wonder and wonder as I did what she was thinking, feeling, under that beautiful mask. Her young niece Deirdre came to stay with us and it was impossible not to see Cynthia’s preference for this child of her only surviving brother to her own unsatisfactory daughter. Deirdre had the same calm beauty as her aunt, the same poise and assurance even at the age of seventeen; but to me she was insipid. She lacked the remote and at the same time beckoning charm of Cynthia. But Thalia thought her wonderful and adored the cousin who had scant time for the hobbledehoy younger girl. The visit was not an unqualified success and it left Thalia discontented and jealous.

  Official sanction was more or less given to our engagement at Christmas. Philippe Tréfours announced it at the end of a family dinner party even more stiff and formal than that first lunch. There were flowers on the table—white and red—and flowers everywhere with the candles, but no real gaiety, rather a cold, deliberately put-on show. I sensed under all the champagne toasts and kisses that there was something very wrong in this family—some skeleton not too well hidden. All the relatives who had been present at that first lunch were again there with several more added—including Xavier. He was a large man with a reddish beard and round eyes like Claude’s marbles. He had a malicious wit and a glib, clever tongue and it was evident to me that Suzanne Tréfours loathed him.

  The only warmth in my welcome came from him. When I went into the salon with Armand—late because the car had broken down on the way—he had taken me in a great bear-like embrace and kissed me impulsively on both cheeks. I noticed Armand’s displeasure at this affectionate greeting, and Xavier’s malicious delight as he deliberately kept an arm round me. ‘Well chosen, Armand my boy. You resemble your uncle in your good taste. And she’s a painter, too. You couldn’t have pleased me more. D’you know I’ve acquired one of your paintings, young woman?’

  I liked him instinctively but I loved him for his warm welcome. I didn’t move from the shelter of his arm and I saw Suzanne’s displeasure with indifference.

  I said that I was flattered—terribly flattered by his having liked my painting. It was my first attempt at composition. He questioned me about my studies and my masters. He didn’t think much of the Slade. ‘You must come to Paris . . . there you can find more freedom and more stimulation. I’ll see that you go to the right masters.’

  ‘If Rachel is contemplating marriage she will have to think carefully about painting,’ came the silvery voice of Suzanne.

  ‘And why should she? No woman can paint unless she’s had sexual experience. How could she? It’s much better that she gets this marriage business over young and settles down to work.’

  There was an unpleasant silence.

  ‘Well, don’t you agree with me, Mademoiselle Rachel?’ boomed Xavier, whose voice was strong and forceful, and at the same time his arm moved lower down my back.

  ‘Freedom for a woman can never be the same as for a man—especially the freedom you practise in your world,’ said Suzanne swiftly.

  ‘I’m asking Mademoiselle Rachel—Armand’s and her generation have very pronounced views on the subject.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I want to be absolutely free—I’m sick of being tied and bound by conventions. . . .’

  Suzanne’s eyebrows went up and Armand looked anxiously at me.

  ‘You are referring to conventions in work, aren’t you, Rachel?’ It was the first time Suzanne had omitted the Mademoiselle—and I knew then that she had, anyhow on the surface, accepted me. I saw Armand’s eyes on me and I said very quietly: ‘Of course.’

  The cool appraising stare of Armand’s sister, Thérèse, disturbed me. I felt that she, like her mother, was hostile—the others merely interested or amused. For Philippe was amused—that was evident in the way he announced our engagement.

  When all the toasts had been drunk, Rosalie came in with a small white leather box in which was the ring left by Armand’s grandmother for his bride.

  As he took it from the silken nest and handed it to his son, Philippe Tréfours’ eyes rested maliciously on his wife. ‘For Armand’s English bride!’ he said and it seemed to me that there was an accent on the English. Suzanne Tréfours was impassive as she watched Armand take my hand and place the ring on my finger. It was set with three sapphires and clusters of small diamonds. I thought it pretty but I do not care for jewellery. As to its value I hadn’t the slightest idea. My aunt had a great deal of valuable jewellery and was always piqued at my indifference to it.

  We stood there at the top of the ugly, heavy old table with its trailing ferns and white and red flowers in our honour. Armand had drawn my arm through his and gave it a little squeeze. Philippe Tréfours kissed me, and then gravely and deliberately his wife added her kiss and then all the aunts and uncles, so that I felt quite sick from their mouths not all properly wiped and still smelling of the last food they had eat
en. Xavier’s lips were hard and agreeable after the wet, sloppy ones. The last to congratulate me with condescending casualness was Thérèse, blonde, heavy-lidded and as pretty as Thalia had said. She didn’t kiss me. She took my hand—the one on which Armand had placed the ring—and examined it carefully.

  ‘You must be a very difficult person if you’re not pleased with this ring—it’s beautiful,’ she said. There was envy in her tone.

  ‘But I do like it. I think it’s lovely,’ I retorted quickly. But I didn’t really like it. Was it that the family from whom it came frightened me? What was there here which chilled my natural gaiety and impetuousness? I looked at Armand and was reassured. He was laughing with Xavier but his eyes were on me, and there was in them that which flooded me with a joy so intense that my doubts vanished in a wave of love for him.

  The day of the formal announcement of my engagement coincided with Julie Caron’s last day with us. She was redeyed when I saw her saying good-bye to Cynthia.

  ‘I don’t know what the tears were for,’ remarked Cynthia dryly. ‘She isn’t fond of any of us and she’s leaving to please herself—they’re an emotional race!’

  I was so happy that I scarcely took in her departure. Thalia’s remark on the subject came back to me later and made me wonder. ‘I know why she’s leaving—it’s because of you, Rachel,’ she had said. What could my engagement possibly have to do with Julie Caron’s leaving?

  Catherine had gone to the Midi with Clodagh after Christmas and in some ways I was glad. She had been odd about Armand and me and I had been puzzled and hurt. I couldn’t think why she was so strange about it. I had met Armand in her house, I thought she would be pleased—but she wasn’t. The portrait wasn’t finished either—and somehow I knew now that it never would be. For I already saw her differently. Whether or not it was wrong to see things through my emotions I didn’t know—but I couldn’t help it. Xavier Tréfours, who had taken me to Pont Aven and shown me all the famous places where Gauguin had lived and painted, had told me that I was right.

  ‘Paint and paint only through your emotions—nothing else is painting,’ he had said, telling me his reasons for liking my picture of the orphans.

  ‘In this your strong lyrical feeling has surmounted your lack of technical skill and knowledge—and the result is a small work of art,’ he had said. ‘That’s what attracted me so strongly to it. Technically it’s bad—but the feeling conveyed in it is so moving that nothing else matters.’

  And so it was with the portrait of Catherine. I had loved her on sight—and tried with passionate vehemence to show that love on the canvas. Now that my feeling was mixed with Catherine’s own displeasure with me I knew that I could never finish it. When she returned in January I went for the last sitting. She wanted it finished.

  ‘It is for Philippe Tréfours,’ she said, looking straight at me when, already in my overall, I was squeezing paints on to my palette.

  ‘Yes. I know,’ I said, busy with the arrangement of the colours.

  ‘Rachel!’ I looked up at her insistence.

  ‘Doesn’t that convey anything to you?’

  ‘Doesn’t what convey anything?’

  ‘The fact that this picture is for Philippe Tréfours.’

  ‘No. Why shouldn’t it be?’

  She looked again at me, then she said: ‘And this house belongs to him. The car which I drive was given me by him. Clodagh’s school fees are paid by him. Now do you see?’

  The peculiar insistence in her usually laughing, gurgling voice made me look at her. And from her I looked at the picture I was painting. Naked to the waist. A half-length nude. And for another woman’s husband.

  ‘But Suzanne . . . Philippe’s wife . . .’ I faltered.

  ‘This is France,’ she said curtly. ‘And if you’re going to marry a Frenchman you’ll have to remember that.’

  A thousand hints . . . remarks . . . veiled references came flooding over me.

  ‘You’re shocked?’ she asked in a mocking, laughing way but at the same time rather anxiously.

  ‘No. Oh, no. I believe in freedom for love—we all do at the Slade.’

  ‘Well, if by that you mean promiscuity I don’t. I believe in love. And I love Philippe Tréfours—just as you believe yourself to be in love with his son, Armand.’

  And now I already found that I couldn’t paint. My hand shook a little. Not because I was shocked—although I was—but because this was an issue which must affect me through her. I was to marry Armand—and his father was Catherine’s lover. I put down the brush.

  ‘Darling . . . Tintoretta darling . . .’ She came over to me, pulling the wrap round her body. ‘Darling . . . don’t look like that. How could I guess that things would turn out this way?’

  ‘It doesn’t make any difference . . . I’m fond of you too . . .’ I said.

  But it had already made a difference, for I could not finish the portrait. She had assumed for me another aspect than that one she had shown me when I had first seen her. A more interesting and exciting one perhaps—but not the one I had first loved and tried to paint.

  It was too difficult for me to digest. I had known somehow that she and Philippe were in love—there was that certain something between them which is unmistakable. Why, then, was I so shaken now?

  ‘Darling . . .’ Catherine was saying again. ‘How much do you know about love?’

  How much did I know? Nothing . . . I knew nothing except that I was already doomed, lost, irrevocably lost in it.

  ‘Put down your paint brushes. I am going to talk to you about love. You’ll be grateful to me all your life . . . come here and sit by me. . . .’

  Her voice, low and entreating, went on and on, and through it all was the murmur of the sea. Love . . . love . . . she spoke only of love; and although I knew that ostensibly she was doing it to help me, she was inevitably trying to justify herself. But she needed no justification for me. I had never thought honestly about the moral aspects of love. I had discussed them, oh yes, bravely and openly at the Slade. But what does anything mean to one when it remains purely objective? My views had never been put to the test. I had never loved—never fallen in love—and now that I had, its aspect changed for me just as Catherine’s had for the portrait.

  When I next saw Armand I felt a constraint. Not only because he must know about Catherine and his father—hadn’t I met him there? But because of the things of which Catherine had spoken to me. He noticed it and he was awkward, too. When he became too intimate in his caresses I pushed him away. He was hurt. On the other hand he was surprised and shocked at my blunt question as to why he hadn’t told me that Catherine was his father’s mistress.

  ‘How could I? You’re a young girl. Such things are better left unsaid.’

  ‘I may be a young girl but I’m going to marry you—and your father is Catherine’s lover.’

  He was upset and angry at my openly mentioning it.

  ‘Who’s been talking?’ he asked angrily.

  ‘Catherine herself.’

  ‘Catherine! How could she? It’s too bad of her.’

  ‘I like honesty. I like truth. I hate lies and deceit of all kinds,’ I said vehemently.

  ‘And you think that as soon as I fell in love with you I should have said to you, “My father is Catherine Tracey’s lover.” Is that what you think? Or should I perhaps go round with a label on my coat, “My father has a mistress—her name is Catherine Tracey”?’

  I had never seen him so angry. His eyes were dark and the pupils small as if they would withdraw from the light.

  ‘No . . . but you knew I was painting her. You knew how fond of her I am. . . .’

  ‘Well? Is that any reason to disclose what is solely his and her affair?’

  I couldn’t understand myself why this matter had assumed such importance for me. Was it because I suddenly understood Suzanne Tréfours and her impossible position? Was it that with the prospect of being a wife myself I was unconsciously taking the wife’s part? I
t wasn’t my business, but yet it was. I remembered Father’s words about not giving my opinions. Armand looked wretched. How could I have brought up the subject at all? It must be horrible both for him and for Thérèse.

  ‘Darling . . . I’m sorry. Kiss me and don’t let’s talk of it again.’

  We were happy together and the matter blew over—but it was there—just as the Calvaire scene was.

  Cynthia had begun smoking. It was good for her nerves, she said. She had given it up in India when her heart gave trouble. Now she always had a cigarette in her mouth in a long holder. She took it out when I brought up the subject of Catherine.

  ‘So you know,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry, Rachel—but it’s amazing that you haven’t been told before. It’s common knowledge. It was the scandal of the place—but it’s dead news now—it’s an accepted fact.’

  ‘Why don’t they divorce?’

  ‘There’s no divorce for Catholics—something you’d better think about.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I said passionately. ‘Am I such a child or such a fool?’

  ‘You’re neither—but you’re wilfully blind. And very obstinate,’ she said carefully. ‘What good would it have done if I’d blurted it out when I was told? It was too late. You were already in love with the son. I did try to warn you —everyone did. Do you still want to go on with this engagement?’

  I looked at her in astonishment. ‘What has it got to do with Armand and me?’

  ‘It is bound to affect you.’

  ‘Cynthia,’ I said. ‘What do you think about it? They love each other—they really do. Catherine has told me about it. It’s something they can’t fight against, any more than I can fight this feeling I have for Armand. I love him—and that’s that.’

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong person on that point,’ she said bitterly. ‘There is duty. One is brought up to duty. One gives hostages . . . and the price is high . . . but let me tell you something, Rachel. Unless you love and really love . . . the act which marriage involves—the act of so-called love—is revolting and vile. . . .’