When all was over they went abroad as she had also known they would. Beyond that point she had not looked, and she became alarmed at once by the sudden and utter flatness that encompassed her. Edu moping at the villa was offensive; when he was gone, she cast about for a way of keeping herself running sensibly, and decided to pro-
vide the necessary astringents for her life. Two facts came to her aid—her recent dealings had left her with a taste for the workings of finance; it was now the 1900s, and the prices of the Impressionists were going up. Sarah was still a very rich woman; a share of Kastell Aniline profits came to her annually; her sources of information were excellent; she trusted her own skill. She left the South for Paris with no expectations and two resolutions, to make a certain sum that winter in the stock market and to buy a Monet, a large garden scene, already negotiated for by the Musee du Luxembourg.
Late love has this in common with first love, it is again involuntary. In the event, Sarah did make a large sum of money by playing the French Rente; she did not get the Monet, but she bought another, and she also bought a Seurat, yet these achievements hardly weighed with her at all: if she had chosen them to keep herself employed, diverted and absorbed; employed, diverted and absorbed she was that winter—rapt in discovery, borne on laughter, freshly, involuntarily, magically absorbed. She was also something else, she was happy.
"Do you know anyone who can help one to get a telephone?"
"Telephone?"
"T-e-1-e-p-h-o-n-e."
"A most disagreeable instrument, I hear," said Julius.
"Obviously you're no help."
"A friend of mine has one. Somebody put it in for her as a surprise. It is used for ordering oysters when it's too late for sending a petit bleu, But the petit bleu is quicker."
"Extraordinary housekeeping. Your friend could hardly be willing to wrench it off her wall and give it to me? We must get our benighted Embassy to do something. You must speak to them."
"I?"
"The brother-in-law of the Foreign Minister."
"Oh, poor Conrad; I don't think of him in that way."
"It's the way that best bears thinking about. They say it takes three weeks normally. I want it now."
"The telephone?"
"Yes, Jules."
"Whatever for?"
"To talk. To talk to one's friends in the morning."
"Sarah?" said Julius. "You are not expecting me to talk to you on the telephone?"
"No," Sarah said. "Not you."
A few days later on she said, "I've got it. By my bed. It's heaven. Though when they cut you off, it's not. I don't know what I ever did without it."
"That invention—?"
"Among other things."
"I've come to say good-bye," said Julius.
"Where are you off to?"
"Berlin of course."
"Haven't you just been?"
"Not since the New Year."
"I've hardly seen you."
"No," said Julius.
"When will you be back?"
"In February. I hope."
"Oh yes," said Sarah.
"You see, I didn't go the last time Henrietta had a cold. And now there's Edu's being away too."
"Edu is doing very well on Corfu," she said quickly.
"Yes," said Julius.
"I may ask you to do one or two things for me up there."
"You are not going?"
"You know I've shut the house, Jules."
"You could stay at Voss Strasse. I do."
"I have no intention of going away," said Sarah.
Most of the men stood. Talk hung fire. Sarah's dinners usually went at a certain clip, but this one was not under way. Of course there were no cocktails. Julius pulled his watch. "Sarah," he said taking an intimate's privilege, "who are we waiting for?"
"Someone you don't know. She is often late."
"A fault," said Julius.
Sarah smiled absently.
Presently the butler came in and spoke to her. "Not at all," she said, "it doesn't matter in the least."
A rustle went through her guests, most of whom were French.
Julius pulled his watch again.
"Well what time is it?" said Sarah.
There was a flurry by the door, the swish of thrown-off furs, and there came forward into this overlighted room a young woman in her early beauty. Her dress was the colour of night-deep violets, her face was a clear oval, veiled and alight with an expression of untouchable serenity, and there was snow in her hair.
"Caroline—" said Sarah, and rose.
"Darling—monstrous." Her look, like her voice, was quick, warm, yet it was withdrawn; the regard was unseeing. "How can you ever forgive me? That endless Brahms—you know the way that never stops. And then of course no cabs, there's a blizzard—" She faced the company with easy, absent animation.
They closed on her in a general converging twitter. "And what did you make of the Debussy?" "Do you suppose we'll all soon be used to it?" "I must confess it hurts my ears." "Ne preferiez-vous done pas une vraie melodie?" "Cependant le Naturalisme —" "Une salle de concert n'est pourtant pas un bord de merl" "Peut-etre Madame est Wagnerienne?" "Have you seen the Ballet?" "Which night are you at the Opera?" "Do you skate?"
Dinner was announced two times.
Julius quickly went up to her. "I believe I am taking
you in," he said. "My table," Sarah tried to say but Julius had already borne her off.
From her end, through the conversation of her neighbours, Sarah again and again looked at where they sat in a closed circle. She saw the neck and shoulders glow like fruit and marble; the shining auburn hair a little damp now though still light as feathers above the narrow band of sapphires; the still, transported face. Julius was chattering without stopping and ate nothing. She sat hugging silence, sometimes bubbling to the surface in a splash of talk. Once she picked up a truffle peel from Julius's plate and ate it.
"Dinner parties," Julius told her, "so unnecessary. Large ones. So many people eating together. The after-dinner faces—it is so unbecoming to the women."
"How like Lord Byron."
"The poet?" said Julius with the recklessness of someone trying a very long shot.
She smiled at him, all on the surface now. "Lord Byron, the poet."
When the voice behind them said, Mouton '64, she gathered herself like someone who hears the Anthem struck for an instant of respectfulness.
"You really like claret?" said Julius.
"I love it."
"It is unusual."
"For my underprivileged sex? I daresay. My father taught me. He was very fond of it, poor dear. I was an only child you see, and I suppose Papa had rather have me drink up his claret than let it go to his cousin."
"Why to the cousin?"
"Because our place would go to him."
"Was it mortgaged?" said Julius.
"Entailed."
"So you drink claret with your father. It is a good way."
"Not any longer. I am now—do forgive the Hans Ander-
sen word, one can hardly use it at table; one can hardly use it at all; but what else does one call it?—I'm an orphan."
"You have no father and mother? and no brothers and sisters?"
"That sounds quite different. Much better. Also much worse. It's not usual to be without them at my time of life; no, I'm afraid at my age, the word is orphan."
"An orphan?" said Julius. "That must be rather a nice thing to be? Is it?"
"Not nice for those who died. In India, of one of these unbelievably quick things, four years ago. No, they were not governing it; my part of our family is rather past that stage. They were travelling."
"So the cousin has the claret now?" said Julius.
"The cousin has the claret."
Presently she said, "You know you're so like Sarah describes you. I've heard so much about you. We talk of you a great deal."
"Have you? does she? She's never told me about you."
> "Well, she's only known me for such a very short time."
Later on, when they had a moment, she said to Sarah, "Your Jules is rather a pet. And so funny. And of course outrageously decorative; I'm so glad you produced him at last. He's going to take me riding. Francis never rides now. Oh Sarah . . ."
"My dear."
"And I wanted to say, I don't see how you can forgive me for tonight. It was unpardonable. But you know—"
"My dear—it was not Brahms this afternoon, it was Schumann. I know: because I was there."
"No? What a lark." She smiled at Sarah with her eyes. "Darling, then you're able to say that you saw me."
"Please, please, my dear, be careful. Oh I beg you."
"I might. A little. To please you —to throw something to the gods."
"And were you supposed to have changed into this dress in the cab?"
Her look turned inward again as if to meet a memory.
"Should you even talk so much about going alone in cabs?"
"Not alone."
"I am frightened."
"I am happy." The face became drawn; then her eyes met Sarah's fully, she very lightly touched her hand with her hand. "Sarah—I am so happy. The world—"
"It does not make you invisible. Nor invulnerable."
"But it does," said Caroline, "it does, it does."
Julius drew Sarah aside almost forcibly. "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, do you know? She knew Robert."
"Who?"
"In Hamburg. She was waiting for a boat. His name was on the grille. She bought him a tangerine but he wanted her to give him her ring. So unlike him; he must have liked her. Who is she?"
"A Miss Trafford," Sarah said repressively.
"Miss?" said Julius.
"Yes, yes."
"A great mistake. Unless she really is in a Circus? She doesn't give that impression at all."
"Oh Jules. She's English."
"Oh, authentic Miss."
"Yes."
"Miss for unmarried? Unmarried?'*
"Yes."
"She does not give that impression either. Did you say she is not married?"
"Not married. But my poor Jules, not for you. Not for you."
"I shall ask her tomorrow," said Julius.
Part Four
A FREE AGENT
1
Why?" I said. "Why, Mummy? Why?"
"Is it an idle question?" said my mother, keeping a hand on her book; "is it wise? Don't you know that you may have to stay for an answer. And I may bore you. I don't like boring people."
We are said to reinvent our memories; we often rearrange them. Did we hear this then? Do we remember saying that? or do we remember being told we said it? Did this happen at one time, or is this clear-cut scene, that amber moment, a collation, a palimpsest, a stereographic recording of many others? I see the lime tree, see my mother in the long dress, at her tea table, alone, the parasol beside her—or is it the lady by the bushes and the ribboned hat in the picture upstairs?—I see the gramophone with the funnel horn set for striking up Vesti la Giubba by the master's orders, the horseshoe outline of the park beyond the lawns; hear the tone of her voice, bear in me the mood of the afternoon, always long, always hot; smell the lilac—
"Why—everything?"
"Now you have stopped me. Before I'd begun. And I did want to talk. What are you after? An outline of the Aristotelian method? the Copernican system? Not Genesis, I take it; I know you only talk theology with the natives. A thirst for knowledge is very well—it wears off so early—but you must be more selective in your inquiries, duck. There is nothing so fatal as a good vast subject. You know, the man you try to talk to about crop rotation and who says Atlantis is more exciting. Well, it isn't. I want your mind—if you turn out to have one—to be concrete and fastidious."
"Yes, Mummy."
"You have already formed this wish yourself? You have grounds of hope for its fulfilment? Or do you merely concur?"
"Concur."
"I must be boring you already. Go away and play."
I did not want to play. I had been playing all afternoon, batting the tennis ball against the coach-house wall. "I like to stay with you."
"How like the young men one used to know. It's not in the least flattering unless you also make yourself agreeable. Girls of course are never sure of their welcome at all, or that was what one heard. I should try to forget it. Do I alarm you?"
"Sometimes."
"Not now?"
"Not now."
"Explain."
"I like it when you talk like this. Not to me."
My mother did turn her attention on me. "Hm . . ." she said.
"I like listening to you."
"Your papa used to say that. But do you understand what I say?"
"I like the words."
"That's what's known as the argument in a circle, duck; petitio principii. Talking is words. La poesie s'ecrit avec des mots"
I squealed.
"There you go roaring with laughter. It may be an approach to education."
"Not for funny. For nice."
My mother gave me a sweet look.
"Are these strawberries?"
"You ought to do better even at your age," my mother said; "how old are you? (no, don't tell me, the last thing I want to be reminded of is years). Do you see why?"
"Because we know they are strawberries?"
"How would you feel if you had friends to tea and what they'd say was, 'Is this bread-and-butter? Is this your mug? Is this a chair?' "
I pondered this. "I think I should like it. Nanny says things like that. Papa, too."
"Does he?"
"Not questions. Papa says, 'This fruit is not entirely bad. This is not an uncomfortable chair.' "
"Go on," said my mother.
But I veered. "Nanny says in the park one makes acquaintances by passing the time of day."
"The park?" my mother said sharply.
"Not ours. Nanny's last charge's. It's full of children and other nannies. Do you know it?"
"Oh yes—full of grownups, too."
"Nannies are a kind of grownups. I should like to have children to tea with me saying those things. It would be a way to get to know them, it is conversation."
"If that's the kind of hostess you intend to become, I mustn't interfere. I only hope I shall find an excuse for not having to dine with you. Oh well, I'll most likely be dead by then, or living in the East."
"Not dead," said I.
"Darling, such a conventional reaction. It comes from thinking of one's own death. That's why people so rarely dare wish it on each other; I'm sure even here nobody positively wishes mine."
"No," I said.
"What?" said my mother, "do I catch a note of doubt? Oh do tell me."
I stood silent and her look was drawn; I knew to my horror that she now shared my sense of being on thin ice.
I feigned ease, but to make matters worse my hand went to my forehead and touched the scar above my eyebrow. I still do this at times; though the scar is hardly visible any longer as a scar and no one knows now the meaning of the gesture. I saw her seeing, and turned scarlet.
I am certain that my mother never experienced an instant's embarrassment in her life; what moved her then must have been dismay, concern. . . . She cleared a space in front of her on the table, then faced me. "Now darling," she said, "you know what that was. It was temper. You know that no one wished your death, no one wanted to kill us. ... A number of people thought they had cause to feel very angry about us and they lost their tempers— perhaps they were right, perhaps they got it all a bit muddled, we shan't go into that now, one day you will hear about it and then you can decide for yourself. Now it is frightening when people are angry, whether we know them or not. These people were not particularly thinking of you. . . . You've lost your temper, you've chased a chicken—"
"Never," said I. "Throw a stone at a bird?" "I'm glad to hear it," said my mother with the sudden note of exasperation in her voice that I
feared. It was the voice I sometimes heard coming through the house. "Very meritorious. Only that was not the point. I used the chicken—bird—to make you realize something about the nature of anger, and the things one does in anger, and you, like a parrot, side track by pleading the specific—/ never chase birds." She sat up straighter, and she seemed to address the trees, "There's no surer way of fobbing off reality than this sleight of mind, this pulling of the small, true, irrelevant, literal fact, no surer way of shutting yourself out. Lie, if you must, lie —as long as you remember you are lying; it's more honest, less stupid, than this niggling shuffle with the general and the particular." Now she swooped on me. "And for goodness' sake don't let's make too much of that absurd episode—it was no flight to Varennes. My grandfather, your great-grandfather that is, faced the Luddites. If you'll ever get to doing lessons you'll hear about that." Then with sudden reversion, "Oh my poor little parrot, fowl or bird, you have much to learn. „ . . And now I have alarmed you."
I had been grateful—I still am—for the trouble of her careful first words; yet they did not touch the core of the unease. I would have liked to reassure her, tell her that she had got it wrong, that what disquieted her for me did not disquiet me, I knew it wasn't anything—an anecdotal outing, the cobble smashing through the glass in the closed carriage—nothing to what Red Indians were up against any day. And I had not been frightened. Excited: interested in the amount of blood I was able to shed. How many stitches, nanny? I never thought of it, or not in the way I felt my mother to mean; but to tell her, the grasp, the technique, the freedom, the whole concept of telling her, were outside my powers as some distant magic. To tell her that it was not that, that it was—what? Something about the arranged words? the talks that stopped, the servants' looks? Papa. Nanny's exaggerated lightness; her general disapproval, her pity? The almost extrasensory perception of a grownups' disturbance, the whole cloud of uncommunicable knowing of something wrong. . . ?
"Duck," said my mother, "come and sit by me. We'll talk of something else. You were asking me something. What was it? You were asking me about everything." (You never knew with her, the housemaids said. "Never notices a thing for weeks on end and then all of a heap it's, 'Lina, that's the fifth of that set you've smashed this month, do you aspire to the full dozen?' ") "What is your everything, duck? What did you want to know?"
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