XXXI
The Centenary at Hand
The house, in this year of its centenary, had been truly titivated for the occasion. The woodwork had been painted ivory. To paint the window frames it had been necessary to cut away some of the Virginia creeper which draped them, and it was only after profound consideration on the part of the master of Jalna that he agreed to this. But, once that it was done, and the windows and shutters looked brightly forth, no one was so delighted as he. He would stand entranced in the hot sun, on the gravel sweep, admiring the ivory paint on the window frames and pillars of the porch.
“Look, Alayne,” he once exclaimed, “the house, which had got rather dingy, has come out a glamorous blonde!”
“It has ‘that Ivory look,’” she said, with an ironic smile, and quoting from a radio soap advertisement.
Yet she took a sincere interest in the centenary, made a list of people to be invited: had rugs, walls, and curtains cleaned, and concerned herself with zest.
Renny was grateful for her interest, because always he had regarded her as one somewhat aloof from such homely things as family celebrations. One arm about her waist, he pressed her to his side. He said, “How pleased with you the old uncles would have been for your interest in this celebration. They thought the world of you.”
“And I of them,” she said fervently. “Their sort isn’t bred nowadays, and I guess it’s a good thing — as they would not have enjoyed the world we live in.”
Renny looked surprised. “I don’t see why,” he said. “It seems to me very enjoyable. And I think it’s a remarkable coincidence that another Ernest should have been born just at the right time for the centenary.”
“Little Ernest Nicholas …” she mused. “what, I wonder, will his future be? Such a tragic beginning he has had.”
“I think Maurice’s idea of taking Dennis to Ireland with him is a good one.”
“Perhaps,” she said doubtfully. “But — with Maurice what he is, and Finch what he is, and Dennis what he appears to be — I can’t think what will come of it.”
“Don’t try,” he said, kissing the little knot on her forehead. “It will turn out all right.” He was in these days almost too exuberant.
He had, with some pressure from Piers, persuaded Christian to do other portraits of the prospective bride and groom. The young artist had executed these in a panic of speed. He feared that if he hesitated to consider what he had agreed to do, he would never finish them in time for the centenary. He was, at the same time, ashamed and amused by his own work, and ended by being rather proud of it. The portraits were done with an almost primitive simplicity. The quality of the materials of evening dress and uniform was even better than the best commercial art. There was no attempt to portray the souls of the subjects, who were candidly charmed by the portraits. It had been left to Christian to choose the frames.
On this morning of warm June rain, he and Adeline and Philip were in the studio for the very last touches to the portraits, when Patience, led rather than followed by her prancing poodle, burst in on them.
“what do you suppose?” she cried.
“Hang onto your dog,” begged Christian.
“Darling,” Adeline called out to the poodle and he at once pranced to her.
“what has happened?” demanded Philip.
“I’ve just come from the Rectory,” said Patience.
“You’re always just going there, or coming from there,” said he. “It’s nothing new.”
“But this is different.” She looked solemn. “Roma and Maitland Fitzturgis are there. They’ve just arrived from New York. They’re on their way to Ireland.”
The name of Fitzturgis so stirred Adeline to emotions that were complex and painful that Christian stared at her as though he had just discovered her. He looked from her to his portrait of her, as though he had half a mind to do another very different one.
“It appears that Maitland can’t stand the strain of life in New York. Being on time at the office every morning, writing advertisements as though he believed in them — it was too much. And the crowds. He hated crowds. He was always late, and he was always cross, and he lost his appetite.”
“How does Roma take this?” asked Adeline.
“She’s wonderful. Says she doesn’t mind. They’re going to buy a small place and breed cattle, in Ireland.”
“A sow, a pig, and three hens,” said Philip.
“It’s the best thing in life,” said Patience, “to do what you are fitted for. Find out what it is and do it. Roma is developing. She says she likes public relations but, because Mait hates them, she’s willing to give them up.”
“Life in New York must be a great mental strain,” said Philip. “I can’t stand mental strain. It puts me to sleep.”
Later that day Roma and Fitzturgis appeared in the studio. Ostensibly they came to see the finished portraits, but actually they wanted all the family to know that they had left New York of their free will, of their own desire to be free. Fitzturgis, indeed, looked as though he had already drunk the air of freedom. His step was lighter. He was more ready to smile. As for Roma, always was she agreeable to change, to adventure. The thought of a sea voyage ending in a picturesque place in Ireland was attractive to her. She wanted to see Maitland settled down and fairly content because, when he was unsettled and discontented, he was not easy to live with. Roma liked people who were comfortable to live with. That was the reason she was so fond of her Auntie Meg and the Rector.
The pair stood in front of the two portraits.
“I like them,” said Roma. “I wish you’d paint portraits of Mait and me, but I don’t know who would pay you for them. I suppose you are pretty expensive. Do you think Uncle Renny would pay for a portrait of me?”
“Never, if I can help it, am I going to paint another portrait,” said Christian. “what you see is my second attempt at painting Philip and Adeline. Archer is giving me ten dollars each for the first attempts. Uncle Renny would have nothing to do with them. Said they were caricatures.”
“Has Archer paid for them?” asked Roma.
“Not yet. They’re to be a wedding present; but you’re not to mention it.”
“It’s ridiculous,” said Roma, “to have two portraits of oneself. Don’t you think it’s ridiculous, Mait?”
Christian now brought the earlier portraits from where they stood, face to wall, and displayed them.
“Myself, I rather like these,” he said.
The eyes of Fitzturgis rested rapt on the pictured face of Adeline. “Both portraits are good,” he said. “She is so various,” he said, “if you painted a dozen portraits of her they might every one be the image of her.”
Roma was a little annoyed. “Adeline looks silly in this one,” she said, “and smug in this. Philip looks dandified in both.”
The pair wandered off. They were in holiday mood, had money in their pockets, and appeared vague as to when they would go to Ireland. Renny felt tender toward Roma because she was the child of his dead brother, and she was small and appealing. He felt almost tender toward Fitzturgis, he was so thankful not to have him for a son-in-law. He remarked to Alayne, “I like Mait better all the time. He really is a charming man.” He made this remark with his left eyebrow cocked, in a way that was highly irritating to Alayne. He appeared so affected.
Humphrey Bell, who had a friend in an important position in the broadcasting company, was able to arrange for three talks on Irish country life by Fitzturgis, who had a particularly pleasant vice. He and Roma were very pleased by this and worked keenly on the talks, sitting up late in Mr. Fennel’s study at the Rectory. Though Roma knew nothing of the subject, she had a deal of sound sense and discrimination, and had listened to many radio and television talks in New York.
The first broadcast was a success. The second was even more so. For the first, the family gathered about the radio at Jalna, feeling distinctly nervous. It took place at eleven o’clock at night. As the talk proceeded they became i
ncreasingly proud of Fitzturgis. Piers expressed the opinion that the Irishman might do well to settle in Canada and take up broadcasting as a profession.
But the third talk was a disappointment. Fitzturgis was late for the broadcast and it had to be postponed. When it did take place he was suffering from a summer cold, spoke in a husky tone, was lackadaisical. So that was the end of the broadcasting. Alayne was greatly disappointed by this, for she had a sincere admiration for Fitzturgis. She would have liked to see him often and familiarly, for there were few about her with whom she could exchange her ideas, as with him. He was, she thought, two men. One of them congenial to her, friendly and very intelligent; the other aloof, hopelessly indolent; willing to bury himself in a life that would require no mental effort. This was the man who had married Roma.
Roma was not only willing but moderately eager to go to Ireland. Several times she spoke of “fresh fields and pastures new,” and seemed pleased by the prospect.
In the brief interval between the christening and the centenary celebration — which was to be a dinner, followed by a dance — two incidents which influenced several members of the family took place. One was that Wakefield went to New York to see if he could persuade Molly to return to him. She was acting in an English comedy that was drawing full houses. It was not easy to get seats for it, but by good luck he was able to secure one in the second row, though at the side. He had a clear view of Molly’s entrance, early in the first act. She was acting the part of a very young girl. The immature lines of her figure, her eager face and voice, gave a charming reality to her performance.
To Wakefield it was almost unbelievable that she could be unaware of his nearness. His eyes never left her when she was on the stage. His thoughts pursued her into her dressing room. So often had they acted together. He knew just what she would be doing. But he did not attempt to see her till after the play, for he knew it might be upsetting to her.
At last they stood face to face, as Molly was about to leave the theatre.
“Wake,” she said, in a trembling voice. “what are you doing here?”
“I came for nothing but to see you,” he said. “May I take you home?” He put the question almost ceremoniously, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. The familiar scent of her flesh made him unable for a moment to speak or even to think. Neither could she speak, but nodded her acquiescence. He could see that she was trembling.
They found a taxi and moved through the bright streets, sitting with averted faces and urgently beating hearts. Molly was living in the apartment of a friend, an actress who was on tour. The small apartment was on the sixteenth floor of a tall building. The movements of the two who now entered it were so familiar to each other that it was as though the past long winter had not separated them. The room felt close, airless. Molly went to a window and opened it, letting in the night coolness. Their faces were bathed in the coolness.
“when will your play be finished?” he asked.
“This is its last week. Then the theatre closes for the summer.”
“And you? where shall you go?”
“To Wales — and rest.”
“You don’t look tired,” he said, almost accusingly.
“It’s the heat I mind — and the crowds. I long for the hills — the bareness.” She turned to Wakefield, in sudden sweetness and solicitude. “Tell me all about yourself,” she said. “Are you quite recovered? what of your play?”
“There’s only one thing to talk about where we are concerned,” said Wakefield. “That is our relations. We must not lose each other. You understand that, don’t you?” She gave a little laugh at his dictatorial tone.
“Oh, Wake,” she exclaimed, “you do not change at all.”
“That is true,” he said, with great seriousness. “I don’t change. I’m still yours — and always shall be.”
“Don’t!” she said, in a shaking voice, as though his words brought emotions that were unbearable.
“what do you want me to do?” he demanded sternly. “Go?”
“Not yet. Not yet. Stay a little while — then you must go.… I’ll make coffee and you must have some — nourishing food.” The habit of nursing him was still strong in her. She put on the kettle, but could find only strawberries and rolls for food. “If I had known you were coming,” she said, “I should have provided plenty of cream.”
“I don’t need cream,” he said sulkily. “I hate everything milky.” And he picked up a strawberry and ate it.
They drew a small table near the open window and sat there with the night air blowing in. It was so natural to them to be isolated together that this New York apartment became another Fiddler’s Hut. Instead of the towering trees surrounding them, tall buildings rose palely against the moonlit sky.
They ate fruit and rolls, drank coffee, and she asked questions about the family at Jalna. He had written to tell her of Sylvia’s death. Now she said, “I wrote to Finch and had an answer from him — a very restrained answer. But he must be heartbroken. All his lovely plans for their future come to nothing.”
Wakefield looked at her steadily. He was searching for words to move her. In a low voice he said, “And what of my plans for our future — yours and mine?”
“We have no future together. You know that.”
“I will not believe it,” he said violently. “You and I, Molly, were made for each other. We’ve known that from the first.”
“what we did not know from the first,” she said, “was what must always separate us. Nothing can change that.”
“But you have changed!” he cried. “Before my illness you were content — you seemed content — to live with me as my wife. What happened?”
“I saw our lives clearly. I saw the theatre as the greatest influence in my life.”
“And in mine,” he said eagerly. “Next to you. I will always put your influence first, Molly.”
“I won’t,” she said. “Equally there is the influence of your family —your religion. You can’t be yourself when you are cut off from them. You belong to them more than you belong to the theatre or to me. I have thought it all out.”
He fretted up and down the small room, stared into the street below from the open window, then up into the moonlit expanse of the sky, and always, always talking.
“You talk so well,” she broke out. “Always you have talked so well.”
“Does that mean,” he demanded, bending over her, where she sat on the side of the bed, “that all my talk is useless?”
“It means I see our two ways as separate. I’m too tired tonight to change things. They must stay as they are.”
“Molly — my darling!” He sought to take her into his arms but she eluded him.
“No — ” she cried. “You must not.… Talk as much as you will but — not that.”
“Very well,” he said gently. “I will talk, because I am sure I can make you see that we are necessary — each to each. There’s no one else for me, Molly. Is there anyone else for you?”
“No — nor ever will be.”
The other incident — and this at the beginning appeared a minor one indeed — was that Maurice and Finch told Dennis of his prospective visit to Ireland. This came at the end of the week during which Dennis had been ordered by Finch to remain solitary in his own room.
He had given no trouble. He had obeyed to the letter. An outsider might have come to the house, stayed there for days, without ever guessing that a boy lived under its roof. Noiselessly he went in and out of the bathroom. He took care not to turn the taps on full. He ate lightly of the trays which the daily woman carried to him. Her heart went out in sympathy to Dennis, but she could not persuade him to talk of his punishment, except to say that he and his father agreed that he should rest for a week.
What did he do in those long hours of solitude? How did he pass the time? He was always listening. He knew exactly what were Finch’s movements throughout the day. When Finch played on the piano, Dennis consciously drank in the meaning of ever
y phrase, as he in his childish way interpreted it. He thought of himself as a skilled critic, as an unrecognized musical genius, as above all a devoted son. Yet that week seemed endless.
When it was over he appeared, neatly dressed, before Finch and Maurice, who were having a drink in the music room. He appeared so quietly that the two men were startled. Maurice thought, How small, what a child he is. What he said was, “Dennis, I’ve been thinking of you.”
Dennis gave a polite little inclination of the head toward Maurice, but his eyes were on Finch. They were asking, “Is it all right? May I come?” A slight smile hovered on his lips.
Finch returned his look soberly. “Sit down,” he invited, as though to a visitor but not a visitor he desired.
Dennis gave his sudden spontaneous laugh. “I think I shall stand,” he said. “I’ve been sitting all the week.”
Maurice looked embarrassed. There was a moment’s silence before he continued, “I’ve been thinking how much I should like to have you visit me in Ireland.”
“Visit you?” Dennis repeated, as though he could not quite take this in. “Visit you … you mean visit you — alone?” Now he looked straight at Maurice.
“Yes. Just you and me. Do you think it might be fun?”
Dennis turned his eyes inquiringly to Finch. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “You’d have to ask my father.”
Maurice thought, “why the devil doesn’t he speak to Finch straight? why this queer, slanting approach?” However painful had been the relations between himself and his own father, they had at least been direct — or so he thought.
“It’s certainly very kind of Maurice to invite you,” said Finch.
“what about school?” asked Dennis.
“I’ve had a letter from the headrd,” said Finch. “He doesn’t want you to go back.”
Dennis looked startled. “He doesn’t want me back at school?” he repeated, almost in a whisper. “I wonder why.”
“You’d better ask yourself that,” said Finch.
Dennis appeared lost in thought. “I can’t think why,” he said, and Maurice had a sudden feeling of pity for him. Somehow, standing before them he looked a lonely little figure.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 536