A legacy; a novel

by Bedford, Sybille

  "He didn't have to-have them. They do it all different here."

  "I know," I whispered, "heretics."

  "Oh I wouldn't go so far. The catechism doesn't tell you everything. He had this party instead. You see?"

  It was the time we usually left for the country, but we postponed it for some weeks.

  "There will be changes," Sarah had said to Caroline.

  "I suppose so. One doesn't imagine them in this house."

  "There soon will be no house," Sarah said; "it is all folly!" She allowed herself a dramatic gesture. "You are aware of the will?"

  "One could hardly avoid it," said Caroline.

  Grandpapa Merz's will was dated at the time of Edu's bankruptcy. Except for a mounting list of codicils the instrument was straightforward enough. Legacies and annuities to the servants, legacies and annuities to Emil and to Markwald, token legacies to Edu and Sarah's children, a large legacy to Friedrich and a scarcely smaller one to Jules, and a life annuity to each; a hundred thousand marks and some emeralds to Caroline by codicil; the chief of the estate to the old man's wife for life and thereafter to their grandchild Henrietta. The jewellery, also, went to Julius's daughter. Sarah, Sarah's daughters, Caroline and Caroline's own girl, were each to choose a ring.

  "They've all got a shock coming to them. I saw it for

  years. Do you realize how they've been running things—? I'm not speaking of this house, we all know what that's been costing with the servants positively proud of the princely bills rolling in. Do you know how much they spent a year on butter?"

  "It can't be more than what we do on Francesca's cow. I'm prepared to weep, though."

  "You saw about all those charities in the obituaries? Edu and I thought it must be a hoax. Not at all. It was Gottlieb. He had a special fund, which he used at his discretion. But I'm not thinking of all that—flea bites—though it's perfectly ludicrous. Do you realize the amount of cash that went out every year in these allowances—? They're not pocket money. Friedrich is most comfortably off, Jules has a rich man's income, a relatively rich man's—"

  "He's rather cagey about his affairs," said Caroline.

  Sarah told her.

  "He took that? Every year?"

  "His last raise was when the child was born."

  "And / pay nanny. We generally seem to be short— It's supposed to cost two-and-six a week to live down there the way we do, but it doesn't."

  "Then of course there was Edu—I knew they were supplying him in one way or another for years—I'm perfectly aware that Edu has been playing sub rosa; heavily, too. Well, take a thousand one day, and two the next week, and occasional extractions of five from his father, add it all up and you'll see what it means in terms of capital."

  "Sarah, I thought they were so very rich," said Caroline.

  "What happened is what always happens when people cease to control the sources of their income. All the old man did in Merz & Merz for the last forty years was to vote himself more dividends. The works are still all right, though suffering badly from depreciation. . . . The partners let him do as he pleased, knowing he couldn't last forever. Trouble is he very nearly did; they'll get his shares dirt cheap now. The banks made the same calculation, there is a huge overdraft.

  "As for what there is, none of it comes to as much as it looks on paper. My father-in-law made some exceedingly silly investments, and then forgot about them. Moreover, he liked a flutter now and then. Friedrich advised him. Very badly. Friedrich cannot bear to sell anything once he's bought it, whichever way it goes. He hasn't got the temperament, and he always tries. If he's got too little pluck, the old man had too much, and neither of them knew the first thing about it. And they were slow; when I gave them a tip they treated it as something that would keep till after the flood."

  "Sarah—were all the Merzes gamblers?"

  "Yes. Except Markwald."

  "He lost his money too."

  "Yes."

  "What was it?"

  "Lack of suitable occupation," said Sarah.

  "What does it all mean now? what you've been telling me?"

  "That it cannot go on."

  "There is nothing left?" said Caroline.

  "We shall have to sell out the shares and some of the other stuff to meet the overdraft and pay those legacies . . . And keep the old lady and all the rest of it going for another five, ten, fifteen years . . . And find the principal for the life annuities. It cannot be done. My dear— Jeanne must not be left in want in her old age.

  "Of course I am leaving her something. But that . . . in the normal course of events. . . . And it is not the same. If it ever comes to her it must be a remembrance from a friend—not provision. I believe she has some savings; so has he—if he's kept them—but again that is not the way it should be, or she deserves. So I've got to see that Friedrich gets his inheritance. And naturally the servants; and the two old boys, but that's no problem."

  "Jules will refuse his," said Caroline.

  "Well —" said Sarah, "if he would take half? That would be a help."

  "He will take nothing."

  "That's nonsense," Sarah said. "He had a right to expect something. And he couldn't afford it."

  "I forgot to say about my own legacy," said Caroline.

  "My dear, a mere drop. And it would look so bad. The old man adored you. There is one thing that can be done: we must sell the house. The city's been wanting it for ten years; nobody can afford to live in that kind of house any more."

  "Poor old lady."

  "She need never know. Nobody will know except you and Friedrich and the lawyers. I am buying it."

  Caroline checked a gesture. Presently, she said, "So it will go on."

  Sarah said, "I never thought I would come to this one day. I remember coming here for the first time. I was engaged to Edu."

  Caroline had a flash. "When I decided about Jules that winter, it was this that was in your mind?"

  Sarah said, "I did not want to see you here."

  "How you must have hated it; always."

  "The house—yes. And you?"

  "Another waiting room," said Caroline. Then she added, "So Henrietta will not be an heiress?"

  "Well hardly that," Sarah said.

  That week nanny left for her holiday. "Where are you going, nanny?" I said.

  "Home," said nanny.

  She had asked permission to take me with her. My mother seemed to like the idea; hesitated; then said no. "I will take her myself one day." Nanny was annoyed.

  I was allowed to see her off, though. After I came back from the station I gave the slip to Marie; I was upset and tried to lose myself in a game I had, called racing. I galloped round the anteroom—one part of it was the straight, the corners had to be taken closely and it was also good to

  shut one's eyes. I crashed into something and before I knew where I was yellow china was tumbling about my ears. I had broken one of Papa's cats. I howled.

  Servants came; my mother was fetched. I was still sitting in the china when I heard her at the door, "Am I to appear now every time the child breaks something?" She came in and she changed colour. She stood quite still. "Sarah's cats," she cried. "Oh my God. It's the one thing she likes!"

  She stooped and picked up bits, trying to hold them together. Then she picked up something else. It was a newspaper, very old and thin and dirty. "What's that?" she said.

  "It fell out."

  "Where?"

  "Out of the poor cat. When it broke."

  My mother stood still again. She was turning the newspaper in her hand.

  "It was inside?" she said.

  "Inside."

  She called Gottlieb. "Can we lift the other one?" she said. "I want to see something." Gottlieb called Plon; and they carefully got the cat that was whole off the pedestal, and turned it upside down.

  "Do you remember whether they were both the same? All solid? No holes?"

  "They were identical pieces, ma'am. We took them off once a year for cleaning."
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  My mother looked furious. She still had the newspaper.

  "What is it?" I said.

  "The Staffordshire Clarion of August 16th 1879."

  "I didn't do it on purpose, Mummy," I said, but my mother had walked out of the room without seeing me.

  We left for the country soon afterwards. My Uncle Gustavus, Clara and her brother were spending Easter with us. My Croquet Party, my mother said. Easter Sunday was a fine day, though windy, and the grownups had their

  tea out-of-doors under the lime tree. I was with them. Fanny came to see us. My father and Gustavus were playing dominoes. Fanny nuzzled their coats. "She wants your note-case," my father said; "she likes to count a man's money, it's a trick she has. Give it to her." Gustavus fished out his note-case and held it out to Fanny. It was a big fat one, and the leather had a smooth polish. "I see you still have yours," my father said, "so have I. They last forever."

  Fanny stretched her muzzle and one by one pulled out the bank notes without making them wet.

  I squeaked.

  "How she enjoys showing off," my mother said; "Clara, do you think it's good for donkeys?"

  "A goose we had could do it too," said Gustavus.

  Fanny opened another flap in the note-case with her lips. "Eh—" said my uncle. Fanny clenched her muzzle and jerked the note-case out of his hand. "You mustn't take other people's note-cases," said my father. But Fanny shook her mane, cut a caper and cantered off a few paces.

  "Starved for an audience," said my mother. "Get it from her, duck."

  I got up with an air of resolution. "Fanny, please," I said, standing in front of her. Fanny looked at me with her clear large eyes. She took a corner of the case between her teeth and shook it, the way she sometimes used to shake me: money, photographs and bits of paper blew over the lawn.

  "Oh you clumsy creature," cried my uncle.

  "Catch them," cried my mother. I ran. I was quicker than the wind and retrieved handfuls before anybody else. Aunt Clara picked up something by her feet. She held it at arm's length, "That must be yours, Conrad," she said, "it is your writing." Count Bernin and my father were the only ones who had stayed sitting in their chairs. Count Bernin glanced at it, "No, it's not," he said, "it's Papa's."

  "Give it to me!"

  We all looked at Gustavus then.

  "May I not see it?" Conrad Bernin said quietly.

  "Give it to me— " my uncle said again, and I can see him. I had never seen anyone stand so still.

  My father rose.

  "Please stay, Jules," said Count Bernin.

  Then he spoke. "This is a note my father wrote to your father, Gustavus. We've all heard about it. Your father is supposed to have burnt it. Unopened. Unread. This is what you told him and my sister at the time. Would you care to explain, Gustavus?"

  Clara made a movement. Bernin turned to my mother. "Caroline, will you be good enough to read this to us? I should very much like your opinion; everybody's opinion here."

  My mother looked at Clara. Clara inclined her head. My mother looked at the piece of paper, drew a breath, then slowly in her very English voice read the German words.

  Dear Felden,

  Please give your whole attention to this.

  Your boy must not be sent back. Father Hauser tells me he might lose his reason. Hauser, as you may remember, practised medicine for some years before he entered the seminary. He has convinced me. A political issue is at stake and Montclair & Co have been deceiving you. This is most serious; I cannot come over now as I'm detained, but I hope to be at Landen this evening and deal with everything. Meanwhile let Julius keep an eye on his brother.

  In great haste, yours ever...

  When she had finished, Clara spoke first. "Our father wrote this, Conrad," she said. Her lips moved.

  "I have never heard of it," Julius said. He was trembling.

  "You were not there, Jules," Clara said. "It was after you went off that we were told about the note; it was the night Gabriel was killed. My father was supposed to have warned yours by sending him a note which he refused to look at and put on the fire in the envelope. But the old Baron told me he had seen no note that day. I always felt that both my father and Gustavus knew something about that note they would not tell. I was never sure the note had existed. In my heart I believed that Gustavus had been trying to be good to my father, and I knew that the lie would be forgiven him. Now may / be forgiven."

  Julius said, "Caroline . . . ?"

  She said, "Did Jules's father read this note?"

  "Yes, Gustavus," said Clara, "tell us what happened. We can hear it now."

  Gustavus was sitting again. He looked no longer rigid. "Oh I hardly remember," he said, "so much happened that day. Yes, I suppose Papa did read it, and got angry, yes, and then he put the envelope on the fire . . . Yes, I remember it all now."

  Count Bernin's eyes were on him.

  "He was good to his own father!" Clara said.

  Caroline said, "How did the note get to Jules's father? Who brought it? Who was the messenger?"

  "Gustavus was the messenger," Clara said.

  Julius said, "On the fire? It was July. You see, there were never any fires laid at Landen in July."

  There was long full silence.

  Then Clara said, "Tell us the truth now."

  "The truth!" said Count Bernin. "I believe my father always knew it."

  "You never delivered the note," said Clara.

  But no one looked at her. Julius had covered his face.

  Then Caroline said, "But why? For God's sake, why?"

  Clara gathered herself. She said with a great effort, "My father feared to compromise his career; he had told us that if Jean were not sent back he could not give his permission

  for Gustavus and me to marry." After a pause, she said, "He did it for me."

  Caroline cried, "Say something. Someone must speak! Gustavus— Jules—"

  Count Bernin rose to his feet. His face looked horrible. "It was you," he said, "you —/" but he could not control his voice. "You, who brought this on us. Much is clear now—the way my father treated you in his house, the way he never let you have office— Oh why did he not tell me? It was you who destroyed our work—his—mine— You ruined us. Now it is your turn."

  I had stayed, biding my time to get away unnoticed. Now I seized the chance and fled. I reached the house by way of the orchard, as I approached it another figure went streaking by. It was Gustavus.

  "Go to him, Jules," Caroline said. "Shake him, hurt him —if that's what you feel like doing to him, but say to him whatever is in your heart. Go now."

  Julius fitted the dominoes into the box. "There is nothing to say," he said.

  It happened half an hour later as my mother was about to come into the library. When she heard the shot, her hand was on the door. She went in, saw, called for help; but it was too late for help. When the doctor arrived his main use was to give a sedative to Clara. Clara had fainted when she had been told.

  Later in the evening, Count Bernin went to Caroline in her sitting room.

  "I've come to ask you something."

  Caroline gave him a chair.

  "When you found him—he was already dead?"

  "Yes. It was as the doctor said. He died at once."

  "Caroline: my sister must not know this."

  "Will not the doctor tell her?"

  "I spoke to the man. He's a Catholic."

  "You spoke to him already/* said Caroline.

  "I will protect my sister. Where I can."

  She said, "Will you not explain?"

  "Yes, I expect I have to explain to you/*

  "I never pretended to be what I am not. Beyond politeness, that is."

  "I was aware of that," he said coldly. "It is very terrible to us; that he died the way he did—without the sacraments."

  "Poor Clara. Oh, Conrad—" She looked at the old man, for he was that, and saw herself and him, two people alone in a bright room in a house in which unspeakable thi
ngs have happened.

  "There is another chance, the chance we all have; it is independent of the presence of a priest. It is contrition. If before our death we have an instant of contrition, one flash in which we realize the nature of our deeds and repent of them, not in fear, but for the love of God, if we have but that one instant, God can have mercy on us. 'Between the stirrup and the ground—' "

  "Yes," Caroline said, "I can see that. Rather wonderful. . . ."

  "But there must be time," said Count Bernin. "Consider that he died by his own hand. His chance could only have come after he had pulled the trigger."

  Caroline said, "He was dead when I came into the room. I am sorry."

  "Without that fraction of time he cannot—do you hear me?—he cannot be saved."

  "You are very certain/' said Caroline.

  "So is Clara. Assuming your point of view, which I do not, assuming we could be wrong, it would make no difference as it would not shake Clara. You know her. If she is told that her husband died at once, she will know that he did not have that time. She will know that he is damned."

  "Conrad/*

  "There's no need to be squeamish, Caroline. De mor-t u i s —there is no more foolish saying. Thousands of souls are damned every year, every day. . . It is a fact. It is presumption even to talk of being saved. All we have to believe in is the chance."

  Caroline said, "He was practically a boy when he did it— In a moment of panic— A young man terrified of not getting what he wanted— How many of us—? And he carried it with him all his life. Think of having kept the note—"

  "This is your way of looking at it," said Count Bernin.

  "Did she see him again? Before—after what happened in the garden?"

  "She did."

  "She spoke to him?"

  "Yes."

  "And it made no difference?"

  "It made the difference."

  "She reproached him?"

  "In a way. She did a very foolish thing. It is of no moment now."

  "What was it?" said Caroline.

  "There is no need to go into it again."

  "I wish you would tell me, Conrad."

  Count Bernin said reluctantly, "She threatened him with public exposure."