by Antal Szerb
It was only when we were on the dessert that some promising mutual acquaintances finally emerged. Over coffee I ventured the remark that Lady Nichols always donned Russian costume for intimate meetings with her Russian chauffeur, to ease his homesickness … and that Edwin Ponsonby preferred boys because women reminded him of Queen Alexandra, for whom he had excessive respect … and that Mme de Martignan was so offended by certain habits of her countrymen that she put a notice on the palm trees outside her villa in St Juan les Pins saying, ‘For dogs only’ … and at last we began to make progress.
By degrees my imagination became bolder. Perhaps we might even get on more intimate terms. You never could tell with Eileen St Claire. My poet friend Cristofoli had little idea what would happen to him that memorable Fourteenth July in Fontainebleau. It augured well that my chitter-chatter frankly amused her, and no mention was made of such uncomfortable topics as the ring.
The truth is, the dark secret I associated with her would have made her even more alluring, had she not already been alluring to an infinite degree.
And then, quite abruptly, I still don’t understand why, it burst from me:
“I did give the Earl your ring.”
“I thought so. And … no doubt he wasn’t altogether pleased.”
“Indeed. He made no comment; just turned his back on me.”
“Did you tell him who gave it to you?”
“What do you think? I gave you my word.”
“Poor Maloney wrote to me about some of the dreadful things that happened. Someone took a shot at the Earl. Who do they think was responsible?”
“They didn’t tell me.”
“If they did tell you, it wouldn’t have been the truth. Some day, when I get to know you better, I’ll tell you one or two facts about the Pendragons.”
“And when will that be? I hope you’ll give me the chance more often to become better acquainted. You find I’m the best fellow in the world.”
“It’s entirely up to you whether we become friends or not. So far I’ve only asked you one thing, and that you refused.”
“But I gave him the ring!”
“The ring … oh, that was such an age ago I’d already forgotten about it. I asked you to tell me the full story of Maloney’s death.”
I repeated what I knew about his nightly training sessions, that I’d actually heard him fall, and had stood over the body.
“Tell me … just before it happened, had there been some sort of scene, between him and the Earl?”
“No. I know for certain that the Earl never spoke more than ten words to Maloney.”
Which was true, in the literal sense. The message sent via Osborne was a different matter. But I didn’t want to reveal that I knew about Maloney’s machinations. I was taking care not to drink too much and lose control over what I should or should not be saying.
She changed her tactics. Her face and posture took on a softer expression and she embarked on a longer story.
“I’ve already told you, on the way to Chester, that the Earl was once my closest friend. No one knows him as well as I do, and perhaps no one will ever love him as much. And, just lately, I know things have been happening to him, horrible, dreadful things … they want to kill him … but of course you know that. The most awful thing about it is that the Earl won’t do anything to protect himself. Only two people know who is trying to kill him: the Earl and myself. And he doesn’t do anything, I feel it’s my duty to save him. I would very much like you to help me. I gather you hold the Earl in high regard … ”
“Yes, I’d do anything to ensure his safety. Tell me more.”
But I didn’t trust her for a moment. Even if I hadn’t known so much about her accomplice Maloney I would not have believed a word she said. One reason was that she was speaking like an automaton, in a cold, remote, inhuman voice. The other was that she was so very beautiful.
Nothing brings out my pessimism and distrust more than feminine allure. Were I a dictator I’d have all such women locked up. It would make the world a far more peaceful place.
“Now listen to me, Doctor,” she went on. “You may think that what I’m about to tell you is sheer fantasy. Or you may already know about it. There must be, either in that house or its environs, someone … some being, totally mysterious and impossible to name … or some person who knows how to make himself … how to exploit all the powers of superstition … to make himself unknowable and unapproachable. Maloney wrote to me about a mad peasant who started prophesying, and about some strange old man who was seen one night. The poor lad couldn’t have imagined at the time … Doctor, I am convinced he was the one who killed Maloney.”
I pushed back my chair and stared at her in astonishment. Yes, I too had concluded that the mysterious night rider had been the one who threw Maloney from the balcony. And I had actually seen him, if only for a moment …
But I had never revealed this to anyone, apart from Cynthia. How could Eileen St Claire know of it?
For just a moment, the temptation to trust her and tell her all I knew was exceedingly strong. But I conquered it, and said nothing.
“Too late,” she remarked. “It’s no use putting that silly face on now. You’ve just shown me that you do know about it. It’s all I needed.”
“I can’t deny I also saw the old man beside the lake. But I don’t see what he’s got to do with the rest of it.”
“Because it was him. He was the one who killed Maloney, and who’s trying to kill the Earl. And I happen to know who he is, behind his disguise. If you help me, we can expose him.”
“How, exactly?”
“Your evidence is necessary to neutralise him. Give it in writing, before witnesses, that you saw someone in disguise on the balcony Maloney fell from.”
It was uncanny … How could she know I had seen him?
But I saw what she was up to. The trap had been set with consummate skill. Her request gave every impression of being made in the Earl’s best interest, and quite probably I might have been taken in had Maloney not spoken out so rashly on that last night; if he hadn’t betrayed the fact that he was one of those trying to stop the Earl getting possession of the Roscoe legacy; and if he hadn’t invited me to join them.
“I’m sorry, I can’t write anything of the sort without asking for the Earl’s consent. Since it’s his life at stake, he’s the most competent person to decide, in the last analysis.”
“Well, if you don’t want us to save his life, or if you don’t want to do it this way … ”
“I must in any case discuss it with him first.”
For a moment she was at a loss.
“But he won’t give his consent. He won’t let the police interfere in his affairs. He’s too proud for that … but yet, we have to save him.”
She stood up, and placed her hand on my shoulder. Her breasts were almost brushing against my cheek. I think the closeness of that body would have roused the passions of a mummy.
I held her round the waist and pulled her to me.
“Do believe me,” she murmured. “You do trust me, don’t you?” (stroking my hair).
At this point the mummy would most certainly have assured her of his undying trust. But inside me that quirky little devil which is stronger than all my other instincts, and which every so often makes me do the most surprising things, was beginning to stir.
“I don’t trust you one little bit,” I said, tenderly but with absolute firmness. “I know the whole story. I know that you too are interested in the Roscoe legacy.”
She immediately pushed me away.
“What do you know about all that?” she asked, with a laugh.
I got up. For a while we stared at each other in silence. Anger did wonders for her looks.
“Go home,” she said.
“I’m going,” I replied. “All the same, wouldn’t it be wiser for us to talk it over calmly?”
“I can’t think what there is to talk about. Just go. Oh … you’re so impudent. I’ve n
ever been quite so disappointed in anyone. You looked such a meek and gentle soul … Who are you, really?” she asked suddenly, her eyes wide open.
“I’m not a detective, I do assure you, and this whole business is really nothing to do with me. I only got involved because of you, and your ring.”
The fear in her voice made me master of the situation. All my timidity vanished, and I drew added strength from the fact that never in my life before had a beautiful woman been afraid of me.
The novelty of the situation made me almost cruel. I must have cut a rather comic figure, rather like Schlesinger the zoo garden hose, who discovered he was really a rattlesnake.
“It might interest you to know,” I said, in my best rattle-snake hiss, “to what extent I am an initiate into these mysteries, and just how much I could harm you if I chose.”
“Harm me?”
“If you’re interested, sit with me here on the sofa and I’ll tell you everything.”
With a gesture of resignation she sat down.
No doubt a psychologist would describe what I did next as pure sadism—the strange ecstasy I felt as I stroked this peerless woman’s body, always aware that her muscles were tense with a rage she could barely choke back, and that she longed to hurl herself at me in all her feline magnificence. But she had no choice other than to submit. She had no other way to find out what, by hook or by crook, she simply had to.
And I told her the little I knew. That Maloney was sent to Llanvygan by the Roscoe heirs, that it was he who took a shot at the Earl, who left the trapdoor open in Pendragon, and who tried to steal the documents by which the Earl could prove that William Roscoe’s fatal illness had been artificially induced … I told her I was aware that she too was part of the conspiracy, and that she had given me the ring to put me under suspicion and divert attention away from Maloney.
There was in fact very little in my story that could have done her much damage in a court of law. It was all circumstantial, without the force of real evidence. When I finished I imagined my moment was over: that she would throw me out, with redoubled anger because I had frightened and terrorised her … and I would have gone quietly, my desires unquenched, but as a man who had outwitted Eileen St Claire.
But it wasn’t like that. When my story was over and I had risen to my feet, she smiled a mocking little smile and purred:
“So, is Eileen not to be stroked any more?”
She held out her hand to me and before I knew what I was doing we were locked in a kiss that went on for eternity.
In the entire Llanvygan adventure, rich as it was in murky obscurity, this utterly contradictory kiss struck me as quite the most baffling development. Only later, when we had run out of breath and were again seated at the table—she having disengaged herself and sent for champagne—did it begin to dawn on me what it was all about. I am not vain, and I did not for a moment attribute my success to my manly sex appeal: not that she was the sort of woman who might be influenced by such ridiculous notions.
No. Idiosyncratically, but quite understandably, she had misconstrued my actions. A shocked Englishman, knowing what I did about her, would instantly have cried, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’ But I had joined her over an amicable dinner and forced her to flirt with me. It’s an old truth that the wicked think everyone wicked. She had drawn the conclusion from my behaviour that it would be possible in the end to bargain with me, I just didn’t intend to sell myself cheaply. The right moment had to be found, and the right price named. The price, or part of it, was to be herself.
But then, as we sipped the champagne and established ourselves on the very best of terms, the voice of the man who had taken all those half-yearly exams in Kantian ethics finally spoke up.
Since Eileen St Claire was not going to get what she hoped for—my testimony, or collusion, or whatever else was wanted—had I the right to accept her embraces? Wasn’t my conduct every bit as reprehensible as that of the man who refuses to pay for the embrace he has already enjoyed?
But I soon quieted my conscience. In situations like this, one’s conscience is very amenable to reassurance. I had promised her nothing. She was the one playing hazard.
“Now you really must go home,” she declared, as we downed the last of the champagne. But her eyes said, ‘Stay till morning’.
“You want me to end the meal with the hors d’oeuvre?”
“It was a very substantial hors d’oeuvre. And anyway, it’s entirely up to you … ”
“Well?”
“Just make yourself comfortable at the desk and write what you saw two nights ago at Llanvygan.”
I stood up, Kant’s ethics having surfaced again inside me.
“Eileen, to go home now would drive a man crazy … but I’d rather go. I’m not going to write anything, so don’t count on me.”
“Then go,” she said, and the next moment she was already in the room next door, in bed, smiling at me expectantly.
To this day I can’t figure out what sort of training she must have had to be able to undress at such speed. I cannot pretend my own progress was as rapid. Oh, how awkward is a man’s apparel: on these special occasions I invariably get my shoelaces in a tangled knot.
Eileen St Claire’s gift was a priceless one. I had never had such a night of love, with so rich and varied a programme. The body that writhed and rippled and trembled in my arms was mistress of a thousand strategies, and new with every new beginning—wondrous, astonishing, and mysterious as the sea.
I woke shortly before dawn, from a brief, utterly exhausted dream. The woman slept on, in her cruel, expressionless beauty, her head at rest on her right arm that curved with the sinuous grace of a Greek vase. I got up, went to the window and lit a cigarette. Below, bathed in the unearthly slate-grey tints of the hour before dawn, lay Hyde Park, with white patches of mist drifting, as if forgotten and abandoned, over the green, meadow-like lawns. Now everything seemed tainted with sin, with impropriety, with sheer wrong-doing. The bad conscience of the Piarist-educated schoolboy joined in lamentation with the neurotic’s instinctive self-distrust: “How did I get here? Why am I not down there, on the dewy turf of Hyde Park, newly-risen, with fresh thoughts and an unclouded mind?”
“Chéri?” came Eileen’s voice. The cigarette smoke had roused her. I went over and kissed her hand, absent-mindedly.
“Chéri,” she asked wearily. “Have you given it any more thought?”
“What, Chérie?”
“You know, the written statement. Chéri, you know I have to have it … ” she said, with gentle annoyance, as if I had simply had a moment’s forgetfulness and she was quite sure I would write what she wanted.
I could have murdered her. And I felt utterly ashamed.
We had breakfast, then it was time to say goodbye.
Sitting on the bed, she smiled her charming smile and said:
“You’ve been so sweet, Chéri, I’d love to have you here again. But only if you bring that statement. Until then I won’t even talk to you. But I know you’ll bring it. Tomorrow, then? Now off you go!”
I took a taxi, feeling very self-conscious in my formal evening attire and cold for lack of sleep.
I did a lot of thinking in the taxi, and decided I had seen through her tactics. I remembered Cristofoli’s little adventure and came to the conclusion that she relied entirely on the irresistibility of her erotic arts. She must have reckoned, no doubt on the basis of experience, that any man who had known her intimately would thereafter be unable to be without her, at least for any extended period. The memory of her body would haunt me like an obsession, a ruling passion, and would lead me back to her whatever the cost.
With these reflections, as I might put it, ‘a bitter-sweet smile played on my lips’, to no purpose, since no one could see it inside the taxi.
The fact was, she knew nothing of my real nature, or rather my unnaturalness. I wasn’t like Cristofoli, who left her with the smug smile of the saved on his face, and went slightly mad because he wo
uld never see her again. All that remained with me was the unpleasant feeling of not having slept enough, and a gnawing sense of guilt.
Nor am I a connoisseur of the arts of love, to be ravished by the perfection of figure and the technical virtuosity she embodied. I am not an enthusiast by nature, except in matters of history or literature. What I look for in a woman is something rather different: not the transient harmony of lines and contours, not amorous expertise, nothing so cheap … Rather, through the woman I embrace something which is not in her, but which she represents.
With every woman I savour the thing she symbolises. There was one I loved because she was Sweden; another—whose beauty was as frail and delicate as Sèvres china—reminded me of the eighteenth century; one whom I dreamed of as Joan of Arc; one whom I imagined as the many-breasted Diana of Ephesus. Kissing Cynthia felt like dallying with the entire English tradition of sonnets and blank verse. In the docile, bovine amiability of yet another I revelled in Swiss and Alpine meadows. ‘Die Weiber sind silberne Schalen, in die wir goldene Äpfel legen.’—‘Women are the silver bowls in which we place golden apples.’
Eileen St Claire I loved because she stood for Sin. But now I’d had the experience. I had known what it was to spend the night with falsehood and murder. It had been very pleasant, but my interest had waned, my sexual curiosity had been satisfied. And I felt quite sure I should never again yearn for the lips of that woman. If anyone had told me then that one day she would again become my mistress (and revealed in what circumstances) I should have thought him deranged.
I’ve no idea by what unconscious knack I manage it, but somehow every room I inhabit comes in no time at all to look hostile and abandoned. People say of rooms that you can tell immediately if a woman lives there: little knick-knacks, tablecloths, flowers, porcelain figurines appear, and personal toiletries suggest the warmth of the female body. My rooms undergo the opposite process. The knick-knacks vanish and the place becomes a cell. Piles of shabby books accumulate on every horizontal surface, their dusty monotony relieved here and there by a cheap pipe.