“Oh, it was to discuss my daughter,” she said, in mock expostulation. “The sacred trust reposed in him to foster her happiness and welfare. The rarely guarded creature that she was, the casket of treasures. He had been in a special relation to her for so many years—as it were an uncle”—she stressed the word venomously—“that the break and transference had been accomplished with the minimum of pain. Natural grief there had been indeed—the tie had been as I was possibly aware of peculiar strength. He would not presume to attempt to fill the place, and so on and so forth, but he dared to say that she was happy, at peace. He relied fully upon my doing nothing to—I cut him short. I told him I understood my daughter and her needs. I dismissed him.” She paused, then gave a loud sniff. “Not before he had expressed the view that I had the eyes of a mystic.”
“And what did you say?” I asked with satisfaction, presuming this a compliment.
“‘You are mistaken, Mr. Connor,’ I said.” Her voice was dramatic, rhetorical. “‘I am in love. The visions I see are of earthly love and truth, and account for the light you are good enough to remark upon. Also,’ I said, ‘I have suffered; and will never be resigned or be defeated. That helps to keep a woman’s eyes alive.’ He shook his head wisely, sorrowfully, as if to say: ‘I know you. Could I but help you to know yourself!’ Oh, we might have got far, very far.” She looked contemptuously amused. “But I was not interested. I am not a person to be flattered by the impertinences of professional understanders of women. So we met and parted, for the first and the last time.”
“What you said—about being in love,” I interposed. “You meant—you did mean Harry?”
“Of course. Harry and I were deeply in love with one another. It was very unfortunate for Harry, the whole thing—very hard. I was preoccupied. The sense, which had been falsely—oh, falsely!—lulled to rest during our first months together, of myself pitted against a malevolent fate—this sense had become fiercely active again. I could not forgive myself for relaxing my vigilance.”
“What does that mean?”
“I mean, I had been mad enough to allow Fate this new chance to strike … by forming new ties, by allowing myself to be persuaded—momentarily persuaded—to forget; to spread my wings in heedless happy flight, far from my one true dark path. … All this made for difficulties between Harry and myself.”
“Was he there too when the man came to see you?”
“No. I preferred to be alone. Oh no. Harry would not have tolerated speeches about my eyes. He would have knocked him down. Harry was—is—impetuous, strong as a lion. He could never stand humbug. He is so true himself, he can never be taken in by what is false and meretricious.”
Her voice had its customary ring of aggression when Harry was in question. I thought, not for the last time, that she spoke of a man who has died and is remembered in the past tense. I would say now: she spoke in obituary notices.
“No, he was not present on that occasion,” she continued. “Or on the next day when a strange pair drove up to the hotel. Ianthe and her guardian’s wife. I received them in my private sitting-room.”
“Was she pleased to see you?”
“What would you expect her to have felt?”
I dragged out a deep reflective pause, fearing to expose an abyss of inadequacy.
“Excited. And shy, like he said,” I ventured at last. “A bit afraid.”
Mrs. Jardine nodded and remained silent, brooding.
“What did you wear?” I said.
I had in mind some vague conception of mother clothes as distinct from lady clothes. My own mother wore the former, and they would, I felt, have inspired confidence. Mrs. Jardine might have chosen to set off the extravagant and therefore unmaternal quality of her beauty by wearing something on the eccentric side. Ianthe might have been put off by this.
“I see what you mean!” she exclaimed approvingly; and, smiling, she laid a hand upon my hair. “I wore a white frock. I remember it so well: long, simple classical lines, narrow ruffles of lace round neck and wrists. At that time I had all my clothes especially designed for me, as all beautiful women should. And I nearly always wore white. Dear me, what a divinely pretty dress it was! I can still feel the texture of the material—like apple blossom petals. I asked myself: what will most charm this child?—and that is what I chose. I thought: if things go awkwardly we will speak together of clothes.”
“And did you?”
“No.”
Pause. “I do wonder if she liked it.”
Mrs. Jardine shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, she was far too busy with her own effects to take me in. Hmm. Most extraordinary. Perhaps I should have been prepared. We all know that girls of that age are frequently a mass of affectations and imbecilities. But being singularly straightforward myself I was not prepared.”
Her manner was the one she used for speaking of Maisie: an appearance of strict critical impartiality combined with an element of detached surprise.
“Do not misunderstand me,” she went on. “I did not expect her to greet me with eagerness or affection. No. I had expected some such feeling as interest—curiosity, let us say. To put it at its lowest. Nervous?—almost certainly. Unfriendly?—suspicious?—very possibly. Oh, but direct, genuine! Something to be acknowledged between us, and respected.”
“What was she like?”
“A boy now,” continued Mrs. Jardine, pursuing her own train of thought, “under similar circumstances. … Dumb, tortured, embarrassed to the depths of his soul. But underneath, there would have been the desire, pure, intact, to find his mother. I know this! I should have known what to say. With a feather touch, little by little, I should have lifted his burdens from him. I should have felt his relief, his dawning trust, his gratitude. Then he would have looked at me. He would have seen me as beautiful and been glad. Before he left me, I should have won a smile from him.”
“Didn’t she smile at you?” I said, shocked; for she sounded indignant at having no son to appreciate her; and I felt the comparison, so much in favour of boys, as a reflection upon myself. “I do think—I’m almost sure—some girls would. Most.”
“You asked me what she was like,” burst out Mrs. Jardine with a grand sweeping turn towards me. “Oh, most gracious!—keeping, of course, the distance suitable between us. Carrying off a social misfortune with the utmost sang-froid and condescension. The black sheep relative, the blot, the skeleton in the cupboard emerged after many years’ concealment, to everybody’s discomfiture. … Oh, I must be dealt with, of course, for convention’s sake—but firmly kept in my place. My role, that of grateful recipient of her patronage.”
“Perhaps she was shy, really,” I hazarded, despairing.
“Oh, you think so? Shyness can take many forms, I am aware. Perfection of social poise is an unusual one.” Her voice clanged harshly, a cracked bell. “She controlled the conversation admirably. We chatted about Florentine architecture and painting, if I remember rightly. She was a blue stocking, and like all the breed, wished to drive home that desolatingly boring fact.”
I had never heard her display such uncontrolled exasperation, and dared not interrupt to ask the meaning of this fantastic word.
“And her voice!—cold, high, pedantic, drawling. … To hear that heartless high-heeled voice from my own daughter; I who consider the most important part of a girl’s education is to learn to speak, to breathe—nobody knows how to breathe nowadays—to pitch the voice, to develop and make flexible its modulations, to love words, to feel them, to be—ah yes!—a person of feeling! Oh God, voices, how I have suffered from them!” She shuddered. “I know what I am talking about. I taught myself to use mine properly. I was, of course, gifted by nature with an instrument of great range and richness. But I would have seen to hers somehow, poor material as it was. She inherited it from his side—they all squeaked and whimpered and cupped their syllables. Oh yes, I sho
uld have worked on it. And possibly improved her character into the bargain.” She inhaled a prolonged sniff, and wheeling round on me again, said dramatically: “You asked me if she smiled. Yes, she was prodigal of smiles. That is, her lips stretched—she showed her pretty well-brushed teeth. Her great eyes, rolling aside, around, were empty of smiles.” She brooded; then added in a thoughtful way: “No, I said to myself, afterwards: that is a most unpleasing girl.”
I hung my head, in utter dismay and dejection.
“And all the time there sat that woman in the corner, stiff, upright on the edge of her chair, a length of lead-piping in a coat and skirt and toque, clutching her parasol—dumb, goggling at nothing, coming out in liver-coloured patches all over her face and neck. Aunt Hilda, as she called her—wretched, paralysed, unhappy creature.” Her voice vibrated with a sort of raging pity.
“Didn’t she say anything?”
“What could she say? A provincial commonplace Englishwoman, loveless, victimised, hypnotised into obedience. Gracious heaven, how distressing! Like seeing a tone-deaf woman hoisted on to a concert platform under demented instructions to give a recital in place of Madame Patti. Most painful … Yet,” she murmured, “I could have made that woman love me. I could have loved her. She was capable of truth. Unlike that polished artificer, her lord and master. I have no doubt that she suffered extreme cruelty at his hands.”
“What did he do to her, do you suppose?”
“Oh, snubbed, exploited, terrified her,” she answered rather impatiently. “Ah, what a contribution to human experience from such strangled lives, could their secrets but be laid bare!” She reflected a moment; then a look of bitter triumph lit her face. “There was just five minutes of reality. At the last. Yes, I had the last word. Precisely one hour after their arrival, the woman consulted her watch and rose: obedient to instructions, no doubt. ‘Good-bye, Mrs. Connor,’ I said. ‘I ask your forgiveness. You have been obliged against your will and through no fault of yours to witness a most unhappy occasion.’ Ianthe glanced at me sharply—the first direct glance she had vouchsafed me. The other made nervous flustered sounds and gestures. ‘Believe me,’ I said (her manner was her most superb), ‘I have been deeply conscious of your distress, its nature and extent. I respect it. I understand it. But of mine you can have no conception. I am too experienced a woman, too realistic by nature, to be easily prone to shock or disappointment at human behaviour. But I must confess to you, I part from you and my daughter with these sentiments uppermost. Three female beings have been gathered together in this room upon a human occasion of the utmost gravity. What has occurred? A drawing-room comedy, a farce I might say, without interest, without sense or sensibility—without even the bare extenuation of a first-class performance. You are blameless. You have all my sympathy. But Ianthe should not have so disgraced herself and me. You are right—let us be done with this outrage. I am bored!”
“So what did they say then?”
“They were abashed. That poor creature—she became dusky, congested. Her mouth opened. No words came.”
“What about Ianthe?”
“Terror,” said Mrs. Jardine meditatively. “Her jaw dropped. The mask fell off. It had not been in her programme, you see, that I should assume control. She had no resources. She was perfectly transfixed with terror.”
“How awful it must have been!”
I saw her icy, venomous, the serpentine Miss Sibyl of Tilly’s legend; and could not forbear to pity Ianthe and Mrs. Connor.
“It was an insult, the whole abominable business,” snapped Mrs. Jardine. “I am not so poor spirited that I can be humiliated with impunity.”
“So then did they go away?”
“‘Good-bye, Ianthe,’ I said. ‘You look charming in black. Once when you were a very little girl I made you a black velvet frock and sent it to you from America. I made it myself. Did you ever wear it?’ She shook her head. ‘What a pity!’ I said. ‘But that was, of course, a festive frock, not a mourning one. It had a slotted sash, the colour of a dark red rose, and I saw your face flowering out of it like a white rose just tinged.’ She glanced at me then—a ghost of attentiveness—not knowing what to make of that. ‘I hope,’ I said, ‘that you will soon feel a natural wish to discard this conventional uniform of grief. What can we do to love and honour the dead except to join their lives to ours, inwardly, to fructify and enrich us? It never seemed to me that the outward signatures of dyers and dressmakers were necessary to mark this poignant communion.’”
For the first time, but not the last time, it struck me that, privilege though it would be to be the child of Mrs. Jardine, this status might assume the nature of a formidable burden. So many noble conceptions, so much wisdom and originality, demanding so exhausting a standard of behaviour, presented with such implication of critical reflection upon one’s disabilities …?
“Did she look at you, then?” I said.
“No. She tossed her head aside—pouting—a sulky schoolgirl. ‘Good-bye, Ianthe,’ I said. ‘As time goes on we shall understand one another better.’ And then to the woman I said: ‘Mrs. Connor, you are afraid. I beg you not to fear me.’” Mrs. Jardine’s voice sank, deepened into a quiet fervour of earnestness. “‘We are fellow women. You cannot say something to me that you would like to say. I know what it is. Do not think me impertinent if I tell you that I understand your situation. Let me ask you to believe that you can trust me—as I am going to trust you.’ Then I shook hands with her.”
“What did she say to that?”
“Ah well, poor woman, it was not the kind of appeal that could be answered out of hand. It was too much. She could not endure it. I was cruel, I pierced her without warning. It was deliberate on my part. I knew I should not regret it.”
“So she didn’t say anything?”
“Oh, she adjusted her toque and drew on her gloves, all painful flurry and agitation, and hurried away.”
“With Ianthe.”
“Yes. Like a distracted hen, dragging a wing out over her, thrusting her along.” Mrs. Jardine smiled. “But those words drew me one last look from Ianthe—one wild brief wondering look from her great eyes.”
Her voice died away, soft and lingering as if in tender recollection. I saw that pair making off, all in disarray, hastening to escape from the eyes and tongue they could still feel stabbing between their shoulder blades. I saw Mrs. Jardine turn slowly in a swirl of white folds and walk to the window; alone again; the silence quivering still with the violence of her triumph. Strange, I thought, or half thought: so many last-moment routs to her score; yet the battle seemed always lost.
“Do you think,” I said, “Mrs. Connor was fond of Ianthe?”
Mrs. Jardine paused. Then she looked at me, and I felt in her glance, for the first time, some doubt, some scruple perhaps, about my fitness as a vessel.
“No, she was not fond of her,” she said gravely. “You see, she wished her husband to love her, and he did not.”
“Did he make more fuss of Ianthe?”
“You might put it like that.”
“She was afraid he was—was more fond of her …?”
“Yes.”
I quite saw the reasonableness of Mrs. Connor’s antipathy. The thought of her neglected state distressed me.
“When you said that—about her wanting to say something to you and you knew what it was—what did you mean it was?”
“Take her away. Out of my house. Quickly. That was what she was saying. All the time.”
“Oh …”
“I guessed beforehand that it would be so. It did not take me many minutes of her company to be certain. Her personality was strong and fierce, though stifled. We were—fellow conspirators, you might say. I wished to make it clear to her that I was aware … and that she could count on me.”
“Did she understand?”
“The event,” said Mrs. Jardine, drawin
g a long breath, “proved that she did.”
“What happened?”
“Harry and I left Florence and returned to France. We had bought our château, near Fontainebleau, not far from Paris, before our marriage; and now we had a busy time decorating, furnishing it, moving in. Naturally my first duty was to Harry, to prepare his home, to fill it with beauty, make it a place of peace, joy and comfort for him and for his friends. We both had so many friends. They flocked to us. We hoped very much to have a child. I—” She paused. “But we were disappointed. That was a grief. But all the same we were happy in our new life together. I wrote regularly now to Ianthe—sending my letters always in a covering envelope addressed to the woman, in order to be sure that they were not intercepted. I knew I could trust her to deliver them. She did. A note came from her. It said: Your daughter is receiving your letters. Nothing more.”
“Did Ianthe answer?”
“Never a word. I wrote nothing personal or controversial—merely friendly letters giving an external picture of the beautiful home, the interests I hoped that she would one day share. My circle was, of course, musical, literary, artistic, the most distinguished Paris could offer. Ah, and that was something in those days! I felt all that would appeal to Miss. I spoke, too, of Harry’s tastes and hobbies. He was a passionate ornithologist—that is, he knew all about birds. Did not you realise that? You had not noticed the library in his study? Oh yes, Harry is one of the finest amateur ornithologists in England. Horses were his other great interest. He bred them and raced them. Harry on horseback was a glorious sight. He planned to buy her a horse of her own: it was to be ready waiting in the stables when she came for her first visit. I told her this.”
“Wasn’t it kind of him!”
“Harry is the soul of generosity. Oh yes, I wrote with every intention of making our assets clear to her, of tempting her with fair prospects. She might be a prig and a pedant; but worldly enough, I could see that. I tried deliberately to enhance my value to her in terms of worldly goods.”
The Ballad and the Source Page 15