I was certainly impressed by the Romance for the violin by Sybrandt von den Velden; but, not so particularly as to render me oblivious to anything else. The child rendered the whole piece in a totally different way from that in which the celebrated violinist had rendered it. That small child on that by no means particularly good piano, playing and half singing to himself in a curiously violin like tone of voice, gave what I am sure was the impression the author meant to convey with the violin and full orchestra. Then I realized it was indeed a work of genius. In fact I was so absorbed in it that I did not notice Kilcoran, who suddenly rose from his seat, and said, in a voice literally agonizing, ‘Sybrandt’. The child was always called Siboo; now of course I remembered that his real name was Sybrandt; and it was from that interconnection of reminiscence that I came to think that the piece by von den Velden would be a subject of interest to the Kilcorans. But why did he suddenly call his child Sybrandt? The boy, however, paid no attention to this appellation, and went on playing. And yet, as I had already seen, he invariably obeyed the slightest inflection of his father's voice. He went on playing, absolutely absorbed, some strange variation of the same melody. Kilcoran stretched out his arms, and walked, or rather staggered, to the middle of the room just behind the piano; then fell down on the floor. It was a strange scene. In the ordinary course of things, anyone would naturally suppose he had fainted. I knew, half intuitively, half by the fact of having been the wife of a physician, that he was dead.
Then what followed was simply terrible. The utter absolute silence! All seemed to have received the same impression as I. Margaret rose from her chair, and stood rigid and erect. Alfred went to fetch a doctor. He did not say so, but I am sure he was going to do so. Only the child went on playing. Then we waited there: no one even tried to render assistance to the man who seemed, on the face of it, to have ordinarily fainted. The child played on. He seemed entirely oblivious and unconscious.
At last Alfred came in with the doctor: the doctor felt his heart, and—well, he had little need to say what we all knew already. His sentence ended with the word ‘mort’.
The child, who was still variating on the same theme, had arrived at an allegretto movement. I suppose, on hearing the doctor's last word, he struck a discord on the piano, which I remember distinctly (how one does remember these small things!). It was nevertheless beautifully harmonious; he could not strike wrongly. Then he turned round from his seat, and saw. He simply said the one word ‘Papa!’ in a voice like that of the high string of the violin, breaking after being tried overmuch.
Then, I will not say he embraced his father's body; he simply clung to it; like a snail on the wall, or a leech on a wound.
Dorothy was not there, very fortunately. Alfred took the hand of the corpse, and looked straight into its eyes, affectionately. Then he shuddered, looked at Margaret cursively, and passed out in silence. Margaret had all this time stood rigid and erect; a living statue. Indeed she appeared hardly to be living. Then calmly, as a statue might move, she went to the corpse of her husband, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and his shirt. She was dreadful then; she looked like what my conception would be of a Medusa. Her golden hair even seemed to take the form of intertwining serpents. She spoke no word. Then she stood, rigid and erect as ever, for a slight space by her husband's side. During that little time I had the opportunity to observe a large medallion hanging round his neck, by a golden chain. The medallion contained a miniature portrait of a young man of singular beauty. The eyes were violet; rather exaggeratedly so, in the picture. I seemed to have seen the face somewhere before. But I had no time for reflection; for suddenly Margaret changed from a statue to a serpent, and tore the medallion from the neck; she threw it into the corner of the room, and then went over and stamped upon it and stamped and stamped.
Then she came back, her face utterly changed, knelt beside her husband's corpse, took her handkerchief from her pocket, and wiped, as if to remove the very traces, the place where the medallion had been. Then she kissed, with a passion of which I should not have thought her capable, the intersection of the chest and throat. Then she got up and said quite calmly, ‘Good-night, Elizabeth. I am afraid we shan't be able to come to tea to-morrow,’ Then she said, ‘Siboo, it's time for you to go to bed now.’ The child was still clinging to the corpse; there was no answer. She said again, ‘Siboo, Papa is very ill; won't you come to bed?’ The child answered, abruptly and definitely, simply ‘No,’ in a tone like the lowest string of a bass viol.
I seemed to understand Margaret then; and she me. At least there was no need of interchange of words between us. I divined from her looks what she felt, in this particular case. There was certainly some telepathic communication between us; because after she had gone out of the room without speaking a word, I was not at all surprised at the appearance of the hotel-keeper, saying that he would be only too glad to convert the ‘Salon of Conversation’ into a mortuary chamber, or as he said, ‘chapelle ardente’, for the convenience of Monsieur and Madame. There was I alone with the corpse, and the speechless child. However, Margaret came back again this time accompanied by Alfred. In spite of all their persuasions and dissuasions, the child could not be torn away from his father's dead body. The only answer he gave was, ‘No, No, No, No!’ They went away. So did I; leaving the two together.
Chapter VII
Well, the ‘Salon of Conversation’ was converted into a chapelle ardente and Henry's body was laid in a handsomely draped Catafalque, flanked by six large burning candles of unbleached wax. Nothing could induce the child to leave his father's body. He would sleep flat on the floor, took very little to eat, and of what he did left exactly half, by the side of the Catafalque. Sometimes he would prattle to the corpse, and sometimes would play on the piano very softly such things as his father liked best.
One day Alfred somehow persuaded him to go out into the open air; giving him 20 francs, he returned with a wreath of the most beautiful orchids. Surely they must have cost a great deal more than 20 francs. But then who could have refused that child anything. Besides Kilcoran was well known in Ostraeke: and among the trades-people very popular. Was the child losing his reason? I thought so; when he sat by his dead father's side and talked; he spoke just as if the corpse were alive: so softly that one could not hear a word he said: when he played one of his father's favourite pieces on the piano, he would look round with a look of appeal which was more than heart rending. He did not cry; or give way to any loud demonstration of grief.
I have been boasting of my power of observation. But I certainly must admit that Margaret was more than an enigma to me. Sometimes she would sit for a long time beside the Catafalque reciting prayers from a book. She had certainly not given me the impression of being particularly religious. Her religion consisted of going with Alfred on Sundays to the Messe des Paresseux, for which, although the Church was just over the way they invariably arrived late, whereas Henry always took Siboo to Church with him at a much earlier hour every day. After that one demonstration of emotion, she remained glacially calm. But what I especially could not understand was this; from what I had recently seen, I could not doubt that she really loved her husband. Then why did she rather seek the society of Alfred? She and her husband were friendly enough towards each other in a general way. But then, what was her sentiment towards Alfred? She did not seem to, what I should call, love him; she was merely unduly familiar with him. I had frequently seen her, in disregard of all ‘convenances’, go of a morning into Alfred's room, very loosely clad in nightgown and dressing gown, which was decidedly odd in one who set so much value on appearances as she did. Never did I see her enter Kilcoran's room, where the child also slept, for the superfluous nurse was now discarded. Then again, she and Alfred often went out together at this time. They appeared to have arranged all particulars about the funeral; the solemn obsequies were to take place on the ensuing Thursday. The day before, coming into the room to look after the child, I overheard Alfred say to her, ‘So at last it is settled
; we are to meet in a year's time in Brussels; and are really to be married.’ She made the curious response; ‘Yes, I think Henry would like that.’
But I had more to hear that day.
Chapter VIII
That night Margaret came to my room. She had in her hand a letter, sealed; it was addressed, ‘To Elizabeth, in case of my death.’ Then she said: ‘Wait one instant, Elizabeth, and listen to what I have to say. This is a letter from my husband to you: but I think I can guess the nature of its contents. For God's sake, listen to my story first.’
I wondered at that: she seemed to me by nature far from confidential. She continued: ‘I must tell you the whole truth. Perhaps you will pity me. Perhaps you will execrate and despise me. More probably the latter.’
I said, ‘I don't know why: I think it more probable I shall pity you. At any rate it is as well that you should tell me.’
Then she said: ‘Before beginning, may I ask you one question?’
‘By all means,’ I said, ‘as many questions as you like.’
‘Well, the question is—you have been a married woman—did you love your husband?’
I answered: ‘No, in the sense that you mean, I did not. I certainly got to like him very much. You see, I was very young and stranded in the world and left under the care of an intolerable old aunt; and was only too glad to accept the hand of the first man that proposed to me, to be rid of my bondage. It did not turn out as badly as I might have expected. But still, about my marriage there was no element of passion at all, if that is what you wanted to know.’
‘Well!’ she said, ‘in mine there was. So you will not be able to understand how I loved Henry.’
I said: ‘It is possible to understand what one has not felt.’
Her eyes, which had always given me the effect of hard sapphires, became liquid with a colour which one sometimes sees on the Adriatic Sea, and only there, I think.
She went on: ‘The old expression “I worshipped the very ground he trod on” was literally true in my case. Everything he had touched became to me as a sacred relic. I was jealous of the dog and the cat—even of a chair.’ And here she tried to laugh; and her eyes at last filled with tears—‘But to cut a long story short,’ she went on, rather more quickly, recovering herself, ‘once Henry had to go to Belgium to see about some business of mine: and came to this very place Ostraeke. He came back accompanied by a youth, called Sybrandt von den Velden. Of course you must know him by name,’ she said very quickly. Then with an air of affected indifference she continued: ‘He was rather remarkable in the music line, and then was commencing what most probably would have turned out a very successful career.’ Here she laughed not loudly but harshly and horribly; her eyes had become quite dry again. She looked then almost hideous. But recovering her usual appearance, continued her story. ‘Henry said he was overworking himself at his musical studies; and had therefore asked him to come and stay at Kilcoran. I must say at first I rather liked him. He played very well, was clever and by no means unattractive in appearance. But then as I already told you, my jealousy for Henry was intense. If I could not bear Henry to touch the cat or the dog, you must imagine what must have been my feelings when this wretched boy seemed to absorb Henry's entire attention. I began to hate him with that hatred in whose silent moments Satan speaks. I would have my revenge.’
Then smiling slightly, but disagreeably, ‘I had it.—Did I, or did I not have it?’ she continued meditatively. ‘It is said that revenge is sweet. The consequences of my revenge were hardly sweet.’ She laughed bitterly. Then, after an excessive effort to recover herself, she continued in a hard dry voice: ‘You know what a woman may do with a very young man, of impressionable nature. And indeed at that time I myself was by no means without attractions.’—no, she certainly at this time was ‘by no means without attractions’; I can well imagine what she must have been then. Her voice became still harder and drier: ‘My object was that Henry should discover the treachery of his friend. Then perhaps he would kill him. He might then kill me too for all I cared. I desired to be caught in flagrante delicto, and that desire at least was accomplished.’
‘Henry said,’ she continued in a kind of dull monotone, ‘“Well, my dear Margaret, you are at liberty to do what you like. But Sybrandt, would you mind when you are ready, just coming in to see me in my study?” I thought then my revenge was complete: what was my surprise at finding Sybrandt seated at the dinner table as though nothing had happened. Indeed, Henry was, if anything, more affectionate towards him than before. Was that his revenge—devised by his curiously subtle mind—to inflict on me the sight of my sin? Surely he must have known that I loved him and him alone. I never knew, and do not know to this day. Anyhow, my revenge went still further. Sybrandt suffered from a heart complaint.’ Here I was surprised to see an actual blush on her face, invariably of an ivory pallor. ‘You are the wife of a doctor,’ she continued hesitatingly, ‘so you must know that certain exertions may have fatal consequences. Anyhow,’ she said with a ghastly hysterical shrieking laugh, ‘Sybrandt is dead!’ I expected she would have a fit of hysteria—and prepared, as my medical knowledge sufficed me, to render her assistance; and indeed such a thing would not have been unnatural under the circumstances. But no, she continued quite calmly with a slight laugh, ‘I suppose you don't see why I am relating to you this story. It is certainly far from a nice one. But I am morally certain that Henry's letter to you is to say that Siboo is not his child, and that you are the heir to the Kilcoran property. I don't know what he may have said about me. I feel sure he will have spared me as much as possible: but still I thought you ought to know the truth from me first. Bear with me a little, and let me just end my story. Henry and I lived together. He treated me always kindly and made no allusion to the subject whatsoever. But we lived no longer together as husband and wife. I was left entirely to myself to do whatever I chose.—Well, you see he had no objection to my having a lover like Alfred.’ She laughed again in the same horrible way: and then changing her expression entirely stretched out her arms and cried, with an exceeding bitter cry, ‘O, Henry!’
This was too much even for her stony nerves: she fell down flat on the floor in a dead faint.
Chapter IX
When I read Kilcoran's letter, it was worded thus:
‘My dear Elizabeth,
There is one thing I have to tell you, but never had the courage. I know you do not believe in the supernatural, but I have a certain premonition that I shall die soon, very soon. Only yesterday you spoke of Siboo as the little viscount. Well, that is the reason why I am writing this. I may not die; but still, in common honesty, I must tell you one thing—he is not my son at all. It is you who are the heir to all I possess. At least in charity, I beg of you to be kind to the child. But I have to say something more, as you must see being certainly observant, he is Margaret's child. This has no style at all, but what does it matter about style? I remember the other day arguing that matter was of no importance and style was everything. Here the style is of no importance and the matter is everything—to me and you.
Let me tell you at once with no further preamble. You are my friend—and in simple justice I must tell you more about this matter: lest you should blame Margaret, who herein was far less to blame than I. I must make a shameful confession, but as I have already said, you are my friend, and will not judge me hardly, at least, not very hardly. My fear is that you might lay the blame on Margaret. What am I writing? No, I cannot write it all over again. I will leave it as it is. So I will continue as I left off. Do not blame her at all. I am trying to write, but how can I?
I had better tell you a succinct story. For, as I said before, you are my friend and cousin. It was this way: I came to Belgium for business connected with my wife, and here in this place, Ostraeke, I met Sybrandt von den Velden, a name not unknown to you, as you were speaking about him only the other day. Well, now I come to the point, which no woman will ever understand; at least, when I say no woman, I mean you wi
ll not. I am making an awful hash of this letter. But take it with the motto of Pontius Pilate: “what I have written I have written”. At least (I think I have repeated these two words several times already) I will try to go on and tell you directly the whole story. Yet even now I must begin with some digression. I said no woman would ever understand, at least (I must repeat the same expression), seeing that you have heard his music—his divine music—what fascination it had upon me. But what you will not understand is the fascination his singular personal beauty had upon me. His hair was like vine tendrils, and his eyes violet, really violet—but my good God! why should I trouble you with a description of his person. I am going to write a proper letter to-morrow. These are merely notes for the letter I was going to write. But anyhow (no, I had better leave the thing as it is)—I took Sybrandt with me to Kilcoran Castle, which place you have heard of but not seen, though I hope you will.
An attachment seemed to grow up between him and my wife. And here comes the most shameful part of my story.
So far from resenting, I did my best to encourage it. I had no child and longed to have one. Sybrandt was subject to that heart complaint which might cause a man to die at any moment.
I loved Sybrandt, more than my life, or indeed his life, as I shall try to explain to you. No one on earth I loved more than Sybrandt. I was perpetually tortured by the thought that Margaret might even be jealous of him, and therefore was glad that they appeared to be attached to one another. Then a depraved notion occurred to me.
Yes, why not?
I think I said I had no child. Sybrandt might die at any moment. Why should he not beget me a child after his own image?
Of Kings and Things Page 18