House of All Nations

by Christina Stead

  ‘Do you think I’m crazy?’ asked Jules, dismissing it.

  ‘There’s no harm in it, but it’s fiddling,’ said Alphendéry. ‘Every rich man has a fiddling department and if he doesn’t put cotton wool in his ears, it ruins him.’

  ‘Ptt!’ blew Jules.

  ‘Trouble with my brother,’ said William who had lounged in behind, ‘is he thinks he’s a banker but he’s still an office boy figuring winners, behind the filing cabinet.’

  ‘You two wisecrackers make me sick,’ said Jules, put on his hat and walked out.

  William frowned. ‘Once in a blue moon he goes so crackers that he does the right thing: that’s what saves him.’ He sat down in Jules’s place. ‘He looks funny, though. I wonder what he’s been doing.’

  William continued, ‘Banking isn’t dreaming, it’s having enough in the kitty every morning to pay those who won’t come back tomorrow. You don’t want imagination; you want a credit balance.’

  ‘Do you think I could get six weeks off to go and see Athens?’ asked Alphendéry.

  They compromised on a week-end trip to Rambouillet.

  * * *

  Scene Forty-two: A Stuffed Carp

  The old question came up, ‘Is it the fourth floor or the fifth?’ ‘Sometimes I think it’s the third.’

  ‘Last time I’m sure it was the fourth. They’re all like peas in a pod.’ But they got out at the fifth and walked down to the fourth, as the little gilded lift did not work in reverse. All the pale gray paneling and coconut mats were the same and with the constant walking up and down, Marianne and Aristide had begun to forget even whether it was the Bagpur Tea Company, the Mouriscot Hydraulic Company, or the Assam Carpet Company which had its quite exotic offices opposite the Hallers’ flat. But, tonight, as usual, it proved to be the Bagpur Tea Company. They rang, settling their papers and parcels, undoing their gloves, smiling confusedly at each other. There was an uneven, heavy step, a key was turned, a chain rattled. In the crack of the door now grew a pale lump face with iron-gray hair, brown eyes, and hairy warts. The pale purple mouth laid open like a stale knife incision was mute but unrebellious.

  ‘Good evening, Anna.’

  The maid opened the door wide. She ruggedly seized their coats and one hat, covered the coat-tree with them and speedily lumbered down the dark wide hall to another door, where she said something coarsely, in a foreign language—Hungarian, no doubt. A mistress voice answered. She closed the door, came back, took the long-proffered hat from Mme. Raccamond and, ignoring the gloves, pushed open the door of the anteroom, looked at them like an impatient sheep dog.

  ‘Oh, good evening, dear Mme. Raccamond. How delighted I am to see you and Mr. Raccamond! You look tired. Please excuse my husband for a moment. He is telephoning the newspapers to get the latest on the Briand crisis.’

  ‘Good evening, dear Mme. Haller. How pretty you look!’

  ‘Do I? No, you’re kind. You have such a pretty dress on, too, Mme. Raccamond. Very pretty!’ The little dark plump woman touched Marianne’s sleeve lightly, like an affectionate cat. ‘Such good taste. You look so young, too! But why’ (whispering) ‘does he look so tired?’ A nod of complicity. ‘Yes, they are very busy at the bank. Poor man …’ (Brightly) ‘You must not work so hard, Mr. Raccamond. Mme. Raccamond is quite worried about you. No business worries, now, I hope.’ An arch smile to Marianne. ‘Let us go into another room.’

  The ritual went on. Mr. Haller now appeared smiling at the intermediate door, little golden hands outstretched, little golden head thrown back in welcome, little paunch neat, tight, and muscular. ‘Well, Mr. Raccamond! How are you? And Mme. Raccamond?’ At once Haller drew Aristide apart near the Indian silk striped curtains. ‘I was just telephoning Havas. They tell me …’

  ‘Come away, Mme. Raccamond, let us go into the other room for a minute—I will show something—you know what’ (whispering). ‘Mr. Haller doesn’t like me to’ (a little gay glance). ‘We will leave the men alone for a while’ (softly). ‘Eh? Yes?’

  ‘What lovely crystal!’ Marianne cried.

  Eagerly, softly, Mme. Haller: ‘Yes: do you like them? It is real. Hand-cut. Feel.’

  ‘Oh, how heavy!’

  ‘Yes—see, see! Feel the edges. Hand-cut. Can you tell hand-cut, Mme. Raccamond? It is easy.’

  ‘Such a size. Like diamonds, like vases in pure diamond.’

  Her solid, feature-encrusted face thought, What a price! Eagerly, intently, Sophy Haller: ‘Yes: really, like a diamond. You are right. I keep these two here. Georg wants me to put them away. Don’t you think it would be a shame?’ (Whispering) ‘He wants me to put everything away. He says it isn’t nice to display them.’

  Marianne looked at her, silent with a confusion of protests and amazes.

  The men moved nearer the doorway, standing still in the bow of the large window which overlooked the Rue Madame and the Luxembourg Garden. ‘Tardieu will overreach himself,’ said Haller, invisible. ‘He’s been to the dry cleaners too often. The super Bel-Ami of every great swindle in the country.’

  ‘Yes, but look at his relations: he has all the thoroughbreds in his stable …’

  Haller’s manly, fine-woven voice, ‘Too many lawyers in the Chamber of Deputies: no one loves them.’

  Mme. Haller looked round, drew a little closer to Marianne. ‘Mme. Raccamond, do you know, I am weak. I like to look at these things. What harm is there in it? I think they’re beautiful, don’t you? Do you see any harm in it? I am so glad you agree with me.’

  ‘What are beautiful things for if not to make our lives beautiful?’

  ‘How beautifully you put it, Mme. Raccamond.’ An estimating glance, a nod. ‘Yes. Look at this powder jar from Florence. See the glaze! Do you see it, Mme. Raccamond? Do you understand glaze? See the wreath of roses! All done by hand!’

  ‘Ravishing, unique!’ Marianne had a breathless moment. Mme. Haller looked at her in gratitude. The heaven-blue little jar was a museum piece. She said deprecatingly, with upward glance, ‘It is said it was made by Benvenuto Cellini.’

  ‘Really?’ Doubt in the air.

  ‘Of course, no one can guarantee—but they assured me—’ (Oh, please say that it might have been made by Cellini.)

  Marianne conceded, ‘It is a Cellini design.’

  ‘Oh, yes? Do you know—do you know Cellini, Mme. Raccamond? Oh, I always felt you were so artistic.’ The little golden hand of Sophy Haller was laid on Marianne’s green silk sleeve. ‘Mme. Raccamond! Should you like to see some other pieces of crystal? I have many, many pieces’ (mysteriously) ‘but Mr. Haller likes to have them in the cupboard.’

  ‘Oh, I love beautiful things. Let me see them. Do.’

  Coaxingly, ‘Mme. Raccamond, I know you love beautiful things; I can see it. I knew it from the first. I said to Mr. Haller, ‘Mme. Raccamond is very artistic.’ That is a pretty dress, Mme. Raccamond. Where did you get it?’

  ‘At the Galeries Lafayette.’

  ‘Oh, do you get your things there? They are nice, aren’t they? And not dear. Now this I paid two thousand francs for.’ She exhibited with satisfaction the dowdy little creation which did not flatter her milk-drop form. ‘I know someone there,’ she whispered. She became self-conscious, blushed, and darted to the immense polished walnut cabinet which almost covered the wall at one end of the room. ‘There! Look, Mme. Raccamond—all that—’ Standing on three shelves inside were several dozen pieces of crystal, jars, vases, plates; occasional diamond gleams darted from the stuffy dark of the shelves. Excitedly, looking behind her, and whispering, she opened a drawer very softly. ‘He would be angry with me! Look, look, Madame—’

  She drew partially out of its nest a magnificent encrusted piece of linen, with drawn-thread spiderweb lace and lace insertions, a lifetime of enwoven headaches and blind eyes. Underneath, in the gloom of the deep drawer, appeared the fold of anoth
er and yet another. ‘Six of those,’ whispered Sophy. ‘A woman in China has been working for me alone all her life and now her daughter helps her.’ Her face fell, her eyes looked like two tears. ‘They have never been on the table, Mme. Raccamond. They have only been out in the light for examination, for renewing the tissue paper.’ She shook her head, a tiny shake such as would not break a drop of water. ‘Don’t you think it is a pity?’

  She became reckless, opened both doors and all the drawers, one after the other. A cascade of pleasure waited for Marianne’s view.

  There were eleven fur coats of various skins and cuts, a pelisse of fifty skunk skins, a splendid sable which had never been worn but twice made over into the fashion, a cape of twenty-four silver foxes. Marianne had to blow the hairs, feel the skin, examine the dyeing, feel the silky, silky feel. She was beyond words. Never had she imagined a fur so fine and costly. She examined Mme. Haller as a desirous coquette examines a little burrowing, busy animal, all unconsciously showing the silver of its pelt in the sun.

  Mme. Haller for the last few months, ever since she had known her, had worn to the bank a poorish bearskin, mangy under both arms, and an old felt hat. Marianne lost heart. She realized what she had missed in her striving, ambitious world, never caring for the things of the flesh, laughing at people who were annoyed by her coarseness, resolving to show them all, to make her way, competing with men on their own terms. The display went on. What for? She might become famous at fifty. But look back at the silver pelted years, the warm, odorous years, when her thighs were white and firm to bear great twilight furs, the russet years when her hair was black and sleek to show up diamonds, the milk-round years when, though she was hard-featured, the gold patine of youth shone dully when she laughed! At the bank Marianne had actually patronized Mme. Haller for her worn, mangy little ‘trotter.’ Here, she had fourteen slips, all hand-embroidered by a Hungarian girl, whom she had found in a village and sent abroad to learn the art. (‘Her eyes were now going, poor girl. But she still sends me something year after year’) The slips had never been worn or washed; hand-drawn thread, hand embroidery, handmade lace, tulle inlets, a very herb garden and rockery in Madeira work. A bedspread, never used, embossed and drawn, a tea cloth too rich and fine to use, curtains for summer use, hand-filet, to go up this week. (It shows you never can tell, thought Marianne: a little body with apologetic manners, caressing, unassuming, in old clothes and dyed hair and this veritable Open Sesame at home. Ah, ah, the simplest people have the greatest secrets.)

  Bokhara carpets, Turkestan, Daghestan rugs—silky ancient Persian carpets. ‘We use them on the floor because that is the best way to keep them. Look at the lead seals. Do you know how to tell a Persian carpet, Mme. Raccamond? Look here, you see the other side? Didn’t you know how to tell a real Persian, Mme. Raccamond? No? How surprising! Mr. Haller doesn’t want them out, but I say’ (briskly, sharply) ‘there is no sense in our storing them. They might substitute them. Of course, they are insured.’ Carpets, curtains, door drapes, piano covers, silk shawls, Chinese mandarin robes. ‘We have no room for them: they must lie in the chests. We have five chests inside’ (in awestruck tones, she made a step towards the door, recalled herself) ‘all full. Don’t you think it’s a shame? But they will always be worth something. They will never lose their value, even if gold were to lose its value. With these things the value cannot be lost because the workmanship is there, don’t you see? Do you see, Mme. Raccamond? All value is in workmanship! You use these rugs, a generation, two generations, more: the shahs housed them for centuries and they are still good. You do not have to protect them from the sun. They did not fade in the Persian sun.’

  Old silver, two whole services. ‘This is all solid silver—feel it, Mme. Raccamond!—and can never be sold at less than the price of silver. Do you think silver will be remonetized in England? I don’t think so, Mme. Raccamond. What does Mr. Raccamond think? No, no, I don’t think so. But there is the workmanship. Look.’ (Low) ‘It is very good. There was a gold service, ten pieces, but I would not buy it. It is a bad thing—a bad thing—’ she whispered and looked round. ‘My husband—and my father was just the same—says we should never exhibit our wealth: it is bad taste and it arouses envy in the working people. Look here, Mme. Raccamond! Brussels lace, do you know Brussels lace? One day, my mother drove into town to buy some embroidery frames at the big shop. My father came past and recognized our carriage waiting outside the shop. He was on foot. He crossed the street and ordered the coachman to go home. We had to hire a coach to go home. “Why did you do that, Ernst?” my mother asked in the evening. “It was most inconvenient.” “It is wrong to exhibit wealth, it engenders envy,” my father said. You see! Quick, quick, come here, Mme. Raccamond: I musn’t show it to you, but come quick. This we picked up in Rome. They say it was made in the reign of Hadrian. What do you think?’ A gold fruit dish; a plate of gilded silver, the rim designed in bas-relief with a wreath of dancing loves and ribands; an onyx sirup jar, mounted in gold filigree in which small cameos were encrusted; a ring that opened with a little shrine to the Madonna inside the jewel.

  Marianne felt faint. ‘But these things are priceless! It’s a sin to hide them away. What are they for?’

  ‘Even in case of trouble, some museum overseas would buy a thing like that,’ softly and eagerly said the little lady. ‘You see, it’s much more useful than money, really. Come.’ She shut all the doors. ‘Let us go and join the men. Look, do you think I am like my portrait, Mme. Raccamond? A friend of ours did it. He has always painted pictures for us. We are a regular customer. Your hair is pretty tonight, Madame.’

  They sat in their usual seats in the far corner of the great salon, with half the lights in the luster turned on. Haller discoursed upon alternating and direct currents. In a minute Mme. Haller would return with the usual Indian grass-linen cloth, the usual teaspoons, the usual hand-painted service, the usual pearl-handled fruit knives, the usual old silver sugar basin which they always must admire. Above Aristide the second portrait of Mme. Haller, in a ball dress and pearls, smiled its rosy mediocrity.

  Above Marianne, who sat next to Aristide, but on the settee, hung the paintbox-bright but execrably mediocre oil painting of a peasant girl, resembling Mme. Haller. She wore a red kerchief, by a blue river, in meadow grass decorated with yellow flowers. On the other side of the marble mantelpiece, decorated with great empty crystal vases, empty of flowers, hung another of the court painter’s pictures: a barnyard with a peasant girl in a red blouse, strewing corn for chickens and a cock with a red comb. Between the Turkish drapes in the great windows was a portrait of a gypsy girl, her head in a red silk shawl.

  ‘Mr. Raccamond—a glass of Cordial-Médoc is what you need. You always have it.’ He took it unresisting. Haller had gone back to his telephoning. Sophy, waiting for the servant, sat down and smiled pleasantly at them both.

  Marianne sat wedged in by a little round solid oak table, battered by feet and tea trays and time. Aristide’s large dark eyes, roundly throned in his starch-white cheeks, rolled fearfully about the room, Marianne thought; the hall empty except for one cheap hat-tree; the salon empty save for this table, settee, chair, and Mr. Haller’s desk. And not misers. Fearful of the revolution. And in the rooms beyond, doubtless, their furniture stored as were their treasures in the walnut cabinet; nothing for show. Mme. Haller had told them the first time they came that ‘all their furniture was stored abroad, including most of the carpets and a piano.’

  Mme. Haller patted Marianne on the arm. ‘You two are still such lovers, aren’t you?’ Her girlish, protected laugh. ‘I never told you that we first wanted to have you because we saw you walking arm in arm in the Rue Lafayette one lunch hour. I said to Mr. Haller, “Those two love each other,” and then we saw it was you—although we had not found out your name, then.’ She confided, with a glance towards Haller, ‘We do not want people who have troubles because it upsets us too much. We cannot help them and t
hey disturb us. You know how it is? I had a very old friend who came to see us for years! I did not see her for some months and then when she came she told us she had lost her husband!’ (Whispering) … he ran away from her.’ A shocked expression. Marianne had that uncomfortable rustling that women have on this announcement. ‘With another woman! Poor woman. My dear. At first we liked to let her come because she was so unhappy and she seemed to have no new friends, but she did not get over it. She always wanted to talk about it; she used to be here for hours crying and making me so upset. At last, Mr. Haller said, “You must send that woman away, Sophy. I know she is an old friend but she is upsetting our whole life: it is getting to the point where our whole life is devoted to her and we can’t get her husband back.” So I stopped asking her. You have to keep yourself strong so that you can face your own troubles. This is our home. So we only invite cheerful, happy people who love each other, like you and Mr. Raccamond.’ She nodded rosily at them both.

  Marianne, who had a horrible feeling of cold when she heard the first part of this speech, and who was less complimented by their choice of her than shocked by the idea that she would certainly lose their friendship if they found out that, Aristide, for example, had an old mistress and a son by her and that Marianne’s own nephew was little better than a thief and so forth, said, with perfect composure, ‘You are perfectly right, dear Madame: it is your refuge against the world!’

  Mr. Haller, coming from the telephone with a list, called like an earnest father, ‘Sophy! Sophy! They will have further news at ten-thirty.’

  Aristide, who had been brooding, doubtless on the same subject, now asked eagerly, ‘What do they say?’

  ‘There is no doubt the foreign loan market in England is dried up; they’re lending nothing abroad, either in Berlin, London, or Paris! J. Henry Schröder have urged foreign loans as an aid to world business. I have no confidence in the pound myself.’