Anna

by Norman Collins

  The only good gynaecologist on the Riviera, he declared, lived in Nice. M. Moritz sent him a telegram that same evening: he implored him to make the villa his next visit.

  It was not until the doctor had actually called, and had pronounced his verdict, that M. Moritz allowed himself to relax. Then he became sentimental. His sentimentality assumed the most lavish proportions and he indulged it. He spoke of building an entire new wing in the villa for the nurseries.

  It was, however, the matter of Christian names that concerned him most; and it was significant that he would consider none but boy’s names. He refused even for a single moment to contemplate the possibility that he might become the father of a daughter; and he changed hourly in his enthusiasm for Ferdinand, for Théophile, for Louis, for Auguste, for Marcel.

  During the intervals of his enthusiasm he was repeatedly sending telegrams to Geneva. He kept running back from the study to say, “Or plain Henri?” or “Why not Anatole?”

  “And what do I care?” Anna asked herself. “I have surrendered. I have no separate life now.”

  But her present state was not despairing; it was placid, rather. It was the child that had calmed her: had given her a reason, not entirely selfish, for accepting all the love, the generosity, that M. Moritz was so eager to offer. Its coming existence seemed all-justifying. And it was because of the child, and not because of Father Ignatius, that she finally spoke to M. Moritz on what was on her mind.

  They were lying on long chairs in the shade of the little grotto on the cliff. M. Moritz’s eyes were closed and the only indication that he was not sleeping was that occasionally he would reach out for the little red note-book that was on the ground beside him and make an entry in it—an address; a calculation of profits in selling short in a still declining currency; the name of someone; a date.

  Anna had watched him for some time.

  “There is something I want to ask you,” she said. “You won’t be angry?”

  M. Moritz rolled over on to his back and placed his hands under his head.

  Anna paused.

  “This child of ours,” she said. “Do you mind that it will be born without a name?”

  A momentary flicker crossed M. Moritz’s face; it was as if something had passed close before his eyes.

  “Yes, I mind,” he said. “It may be awkward for him. But I shall provide for him so well that when the time comes his wife’s family will raise no objection.”

  His smile had returned while he was speaking and he now moved a little on his side and faced Anna.

  “Is that all that is worrying you?” he asked. “Is that what you feared would make me angry?”

  Anna dropped her eyes.

  “I grow afraid,” she said, “at times. I find myself envying women who are really married.”

  The flicker—it was no more than an almost instantaneous contraction of the muscles—passed across M. Moritz’s face again.

  “It is foolish,” he said, “to envy those of whom one knows nothing. You would find that they have their unhappinesses too. Marriage and happiness have no connection; they do not go together. It is love that is the only thing that counts.” He paused. “Is it money that is worrying you?” he asked.

  Anna shook her head.

  “Money has nothing to do with it,” she answered.

  The smile on M. Moritz’s face had broadened: he was bland, and unoffendable again.

  “Then you are wrong again,” he said. “Money is everything. Without it even love would be impossible. If we were together now in a garret we should probably be quarrelling.”

  He closed his eyes once more. But it was obvious that he was still pondering the problem. After a while, he spoke.

  “We know so little of each other,” he said. “Perhaps too little. On the other hand, if we knew more, perhaps we should regret it. We were content to take each other as we were. And it was probably the better way. If we had asked a lot of questions it is possible that one of us would not have told the truth. At the time,” he continuedstill with his eyes closed, “I cannot believe that it would have made you any happier to know that I had been married before—twice, in fact; that somewhere or other I have a wife more than old enough to be your mother.” He paused and pulled the cushion of the chair more comfortably into the nape of his neck. “I have never felt,” he said slowly, “that our previous lives had anything to do with our life here. That is why I have always liked the villa; it is so shut off from the world. One can start life again here.”

  Anna did not reply immediately. It seemed that this garden in the sunlight, and the dark room in the presbytery were not parts of the same world at all. Inside the gates of the villa, the inconvenient rules of the Church ceased abruptly.

  She roused herself.

  “Then you do not care whether we are married or not? You do not want to marry me?”

  When M. Moritz did not reply, Anna looked towards him. Apparently he had not been attending. A small gay butterfly, a fritillary, had alighted on his knee and M. Moritz was endeavouring to catch it. His cupped hand was hanging over it and the butterfly was sitting there, motionless. Then M. Moritz dropped his hand sharply and the butterfly was a prisoner. Anna watched him open his fingers carefully and take hold of the creature by its two wings. He raised it close to his face and examined it. Its antennæ trembled and its thin legs trampled in air.

  “Women think too much about marriage,” he said shortly. “It is a mirage that they are always chasing. I hadn’t imagined that you would care so much for it. As I told you, it means nothing. It is whether we continue to please each other that counts.”

  As M. Moritz said the words he drew his two hands sharply apart and the brown and yellow wings of the butterfly were torn from its small body. M. Moritz allowed the wings to flutter idly to the ground beside him, and brushed the small struggling carcase from his lap with a gesture of disgust.

  “It is whether we continue to please each other that counts,” he repeated.

  II

  M. Moritz had been twice more to Geneva and had returned again. He had brought back further presents, perfume, enamelled combs for the hair, fans, even presents for the child—a rattle, and an ivory ring. Anna herself was content to sit propped up with cushions and read a little, or merely stare out across the magnificence of the gardens to the blue sea beyond. The doctor from Nice came to visit her regularly; and a wet nurse from the old town, a woman who was expecting her fourth child a month before Anna’s first one, had been engaged in advance. The lady’s maid was suitably impressed by all these preparations. In comparison with pregnancy as she had known it as one of a family of eleven children, the whole process of Anna’s reproduction seemed complicated and wonderful, and she was proud to be connected with it.

  The person who was not proud was Father Ignatius. He was conscious, bitterly conscious, that he had failed.

  “She has gone away,” he reflected. “It is useless for me to search further. If God had intended that I should be the instrument of her salvation he would have brought me to her. Perhaps I am being punished for my pride in believing that I could save her. It may be that God in his infinite wisdom has led her to some other priest who is stronger, wiser and”—Father Ignatius admitted this last reluctantly—“more experienced. All that I shall ever know is that I have failed.”

  And then one day as Father Ignatius was on his daily journey to the House of the Poor Sisters, he saw her. She drove past him so close that if he had called out her name she would have heard him. For a moment, Father Ignatius stood still there, quite still staring after her. And then he realised what this chance meeting meant: it showed that God, after chastening him, had suddenly allowed him to become His instrument again. It was the opportunity for which he had prayed; the opportunity which he had feared would never come.

  But already the carriage was passing out of sight. The groom had whipped up the horses and Anna was now a score of yards away from him. A sudden panic at his own helplessness came over
him. He wanted to run after her, and grabbed hold of the broad skirt of his soutane in readiness. He saw, however, that it was useless, that no one on foot would ever catch her now.

  On the other side of the street, a fiacre was standing. Father Ignatius went over to it. He told the driver to follow the carriage in front, said that it was important. The driver jerked his horse into motion, made the awkward turn across the stream of other carriages, and the hunt began.

  On the seat behind him, Father Ignatius sat bolt upright, straining himself to see over the man’s shoulder. The carriage that they were following had turned a corner and the driver of the fiacre seemed totally unconcerned by its disappearance.

  “Faster, I tell you,” Father Ignatius called out. “Faster.”

  He could scarcely contain himself, and gripping the heavy square handle of his umbrella he half rose to his feet. But when they came to the corner, there was the carriage in front of them. And after peering anxiously at it for a moment to satisfy himself that it was the right one, that Anna was still there, he sat back again. He noticed to his surprise that he was trembling.

  The rest of the ride promised to be simple. They were on the coast road and there was no turning that either driver could take. Father Ignatius closed his eyes and let the pleasant breeze play upon his face. He was not a rich priest and travelling in fiacres was a luxury that he only rarely permitted himself.

  But when he opened his eyes again, the road in front of him was empty. There was no sign of Anna or of the carriage. For a moment Father Ignatius was stupefied. He bent forward to question the driver but, as he did so, the fiacre turned sharply and began to descend a broad gravel drive. In front of them half-hidden by the trees lay the villa with its honey-coloured walls.

  Father Ignatius stopped the cab and got down. He removed the clumsy leather purse that hung at his waist and paid the driver, counting the coins out carefully.

  “There is room for you to turn?” he asked the man.

  The driver nodded. He did not speak: the size of the tip that Father Ignatius had given him did not deserve any conversation. He simply pulled hard at the reins, swearing at the horse under his breath, and made a wide circle on the gravel.

  Father Ignatius stood there without moving. He realised now that he had been impetuous: he had not prepared himself in any way for this visit. He turned and scrutinised the house for a moment. The costliness, the lavishness of it all, shocked him when he thought of the deceit, the wickedness, that was within.

  “I will not visit her now,” he told himself. “I will come here again after I have prayed over it.”

  And turning on his heel Father Ignatius began the long walk back to the Presbytery. Against the vivid whiteness of the road, Father Ignatius looked like a large struggling black ant.

  III

  M. Moritz let the scarlet wax drip on to the last of the letters, imprinted the seal of his signet ring and took another of the sugar plums from the box that was open on his desk. Then he got up and went over to the window. His mind for the last few minutes had been full of Anna.

  “It’s curious,” he reflected, “how innocent she is. I offer her money and she ignores the offer altogether. It cannot be that that is what she wants. Yet she is suddenly so anxious that I should marry her. I wonder why. It may be that she is superstitious. Perhaps the priests have got hold of her.”

  He dismissed the thought, however. He had seen no signs of it: no rosaries suspended from the bed rail; no holy pictures, shut into the pages of sacred books; no statuettes of the Virgin.”

  “Yet it would not be unlikely,” he admitted. “It is usually women who have suffered most who are religious.”

  He paused for a moment, reflecting, and then went in search of her. It had occurred to him suddenly that perhaps in her present state she was not getting enough amusement, enough distraction. He would suggest that he should take her to the Casino to-night. He would give her all the money that she could want to play with. He would show her that even without marriage, happiness in life was still possible.

  But she was not in the garden when he went there; not in the grotto; not in the drawing-room. He rang for the maid and asked her where Madame Moritz was to be found. He heard that she was in the boudoir resting and he ran up the stairs almost like a boy: he was light-hearted and felt young again. At the door of her room he waited: and then, because it was always delightful to surprise her, he opened the door without knocking.

  She was there, seated over by the window, and as he entered, she turned sharply, almost guiltily. He saw that she had been crying. The tears had dried by now, but her cheeks were still stained and the lids of her eyes were heavy.

  He crossed the room and stood by her. A faint irritation came over him, but he consoled himself with the reflection that women in this condition are notoriously temperamental.

  “We are going out to-night,” he said. “I shall do no more work to-day. For you I am even ready to neglect my business.”

  He bent down to kiss her. But as he did so he noticed that there was something in her hand, something that she was grasping tightly.

  It was a spray of crumpled artificial flowers, and still wrapped round them was one of the printed cartes du jour of the Restaurant Duvivier.

  M. Moritz took the bunch of flowers from her fingers and asked her if it were these that had made her cry. He had the lover’s instinct to find out everything about them, a deep yearning to share whatever experience those flowers represented.

  “Did you once wear them on your dress on some happy occasion?” he asked. “Was it a party where you enjoyed yourself?”

  It was on the following day when she was in the garden reading in the shadow of a gay sun umbrella, that Father Ignatius was announced. She had been aware of a strange premonition, a vague, uneasy, foreboding as she saw the man-servant approaching from the house. It was as though she knew what he was going to say.

  And when he spoke, an immediate shiver ran through her. But she was careful in front of him to appear deliberate and unconcerned.

  “Father Ignatius?” she said absently, as though she scarcely remembered the name. “No, Henri, tell him that I cannot see him. Tell him that I am not at home.”

  She bent down to pick up her book but, finding that her hands were trembling, she set it down again and sat motionless until the man had departed.

  “What does it mean?” she began asking herself. “How can he have discovered where I am? What has he come to say to me?” She regretted anew, now that it was too late, that she had ever gone to him. “It is all different now,” she continued. “Quite different. I have made my decision. It’s too late to go back on it. If I saw him now he would only tell me how wicked I am. He would never understand.” And she began comforting herself by remembering how she had tried to speak to M. Moritz, and how he had refused to listen. “There is nothing more that I could have done with such a man,” she went on.

  She shrugged her shoulders, not because she really felt at ease or indifferent, but because she needed the sense of assurance that such a gesture alone could give.

  Her trembling had ceased now and she reached out for the book that she had earlier been afraid to hold. As she did so, she glanced idly down the cypress walk in front of her. And what she saw made her utter a little cry.

  At the end of the walk Father Ignatius was standing. He was silhouetted, pitch-black, against the skyline. His broad-brimmed hat and long skirt had the inhuman quality of garments draped upon a scarecrow. And it was a particularly sinister and menacing kind of scarecrow. As Anna watched, it began to advance towards her.

  Her first instinct was to run. But she realised that it was impossible. She could not be seen running from someone in her own garden. She would have to remain there; remain there and be calm. All that was left for her was to see him, get rid of him somehow, sending him off as silently as he had come.

  “There is the other gate, the little one that leads straight on to the road,” she remembered sudden
ly. “He can leave by that: I will take him there myself.”

  She was aware, however, of the beating of her heart as he approached; his footsteps on the stone path were heavy and inevitable.

  “But why should I be afraid of him?” she asked herself. “What power has he over me? There is nothing that he can do to harm me here.”

  And raising her head she waited for him. He was still three or four paces distant but already his eyes were fixed upon her. His face, under the wide brim, was pale.

  “Why did you not come to me?” he asked.

  She did not answer immediately, and dropped her eyes. It was at his rough boots under the black soutane that she was now looking. They were heavy and clumsily patched. The white dust of the road was thick on them.

  But he was repeating the question: in his manner there was the quiet, unquestionable persistence of someone in authority.

  “Why did you not come to me?”

  “I had no further need, Father,” she answered.

  Father Ignatius did not move. He remained there, stubborn and dominating, in front of her.

  “You were never in greater need,” he said. “Never in greater need.”

  She turned away from him, still avoiding his eyes. Her heart was racing, and she started when he spoke again.

  “Don’t turn away from me like that,” he said. “I’m your friend. I’ve come to help you.”

  His voice had become gentler, and the note of authority had gone from it. At the change she found herself for some reason wanting suddenly to cry.

  She faced him again.

  “It is no use,” she said. “You can’t help me any more. I’ve made my decision. I know what it means.”

  “Even on the very edge of the precipice there is still time to turn back …” Father Ignatius began saying; and then checked himself. He passed his hand over his eyes and sat down wearily on the seat opposite to her. It was obvious that he was very near the point of complete exhaustion. The sweat that had been forming on his forehead had now begun to trickle down his temples. He removed his hat and rubbed a handkerchief across his forehead.