Books 13-16: Return to Jalna / Renny's Daughter / Variable Winds at Jalna / Centenary at Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  She had been like the figure of a woman cut from ivory or porcelain. He always had been so sure she would outlive him by many years. And she was dead. He could not believe it. He could see her in his aunt’s house in Devon, her violin tucked under her chin, her glittering eyes fixed on him, as though he were the source of her music. And how she had sapped his vitality! But he lived and she was dead — killed suddenly, in a brutal crash. He groaned — picturing it — her blood on the pavement, her black plaits soaked in blood. He pictured her on the cliffs in Cornwall, gliding over the sheep-cropped grass with that strange gliding walk of hers. And she was dead! He pictured her as she had appeared in his bedroom in Ireland when her white arms had drawn him on to the bed with her, renewing their life together when he had thought himself free of her forever. And now he was free of her forever and could not believe it, did not want to be free of her at that price. How white her skin had been and how fine! It had never sunburned or tanned. Other women had looked weather-beaten, coarse, beside her. And now that skin was grey in death.

  She who had never liked children had been like a tigress with her own. She never would let Finch share the child with her. The child was everything. Finch had sunk to second place. And now here was that Russian — Sarah’s third husband — in possession of the child. Finch lay back in his chair, oblivious to his surroundings, thinking of Sarah, the child, the Russian.

  The telephone rang. The leader of the orchestra wished to see him. An appointment was made. The telephone rang again. The president of a women’s club invited him to be the guest of the club at lunch. Controlling the irritation in his voice he politely refused. The telephone rang again. A newspaper reporter wanted an interview. He couldn’t give an interview to anyone! He was too tired. Would he answer a few questions over the phone? He would, and answered them so wildly that, when he hung up the receiver, he was hot with anger and humiliation. The telephone rang again. It was another newspaper reporter. Finch managed to answer a few questions with moderate politeness. He got his hat and went out into the street.

  Fortunately he had only two more engagements to fill. He felt incapable of filling them with success but somehow he did. At the end he felt less tired than he had expected. It was not playing the piano that tired him — it was the people he had to meet. If the people could have been obliterated, excepting as audiences, he could have enjoyed a concert tour. But there always were the people — talking, eternally talking. If only he might have talked to the few who interested him! But inevitably they were pushed into the background by those who did not interest him.

  Now it was over. He had interviewed the lawyer in San Francisco and learned from him that all there was left of Sarah’s fortune was to be held in trust for her child. Finch was astonished by the dwindling of that fortune. The lawyer shrugged. He intimated that probably the Russian knew what had become of it. Still, it was a tidy sum for a boy to inherit. In Sarah’s will no provision was made for him till he came of age and into possession of the whole. The interest would mount up.

  As the taxi moved in a cold grey fog towards the house where Sarah had lived, Finch had a feeling of utmost unreality. He could not picture Sarah in this place. He had seen her in many places but he could not picture her here. Why he could not have said but it was impossible to him. And now there was this Russian to be interviewed. Perhaps, when he had met him, he would be able to picture her here.

  His mouth was dry when the taxi turned into the short drive that led to the Spanish-looking, stucco house, half-covered by a climbing rose. A big-boned Swedish woman opened the door in answer to his ring. He asked for Mr. Voynitsky and was shown into a living room with many windows. Many windows did not succeed in making the very modern furniture look comfortable. A smallish man with a wide smile sprang up from a very deep chair and advanced to meet Finch.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Whiteoak,” he said with a strong foreign accent. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

  They shook hands, his small compact hand gripping Finch’s firmly.

  “Won’t you please sit down,” he said, and at once offered Finch a cigarette. No? A cigar, then. No? Then, surely a drink. Finch wanted none of these.

  Voynitsky lighted a cigarette. His wide smile that discovered small square teeth, passed from his face and a look of melancholy took its place. He was oily, thought Finch, a villainous-looking little fellow, whatever he did. And Sarah had gone to bed with him! Well — in the dark he might be all right. Finch never had understood Sarah; meeting her third husband he understood her less than ever.

  “This has been a terrible calamity,” observed Voynitsky.

  “Yes. Were you — in the car, when it happened?”

  “Fortunately not. If I had been driving, never could I have forgiven myself. Sarah was herself driving. A truck came along very fast. She turned to one side. The pavement was wet. The car skidded. It struck a telegraph pole. Sarah was instantly killed.”

  The pupils of Finch’s eyes dilated in horror.

  “Was she alone?” he asked.

  “No. The child was with her.”

  “He saw that!”

  “He is too young to understand. He’s all right.”

  “He is with you here?”

  “Yes, but I am giving up this house. You will like to have your little boy with you at once, I am sure. He is a nice little boy. I am very fond of him. Yes — very fond. He is a little spoilt. Sarah could deny him nothing.” Voynitsky began to bite his nails, as though in irritation at some recollection. Finch thought, “They didn’t get on very well, not all the time.” The little man may have got most of Sarah’s money away from her but, when it came to quarrelling, Sarah could hold her own.

  “Yes,” said Finch, “I will take him with me today.”

  “That is good, because I must sell this house at once. The associations here are too painful, you understand.”

  Finch looked about the room, trying to discover something that might remind him of Sarah. Her body had rested against these very cushions but no spiritual imprint of her remained in the room. She had gone out of it — a healthy young woman — and never come back. Now Finch wanted nothing so much as to leave this house — never see it or its owner again.

  “I heard you play last night,” Voynitsky was saying. “I was in the audience. I enjoyed your playing so much.”

  Finch muttered something incoherent. He was glad he had not known that Voynitsky was present.

  “I should have liked,” Voynitsky went on, “to have made myself known, to have thanked you at the end, but I thought it might be embarrassing for both of us. Allow me to thank you now.” He showed both upper and lower teeth in his smile — like the winner of a beauty contest.

  Oh, to have him at Jalna! Oh, to treat him rough! To take him by his oily hair and obliterate his oily smile in a snowdrift! To make him plough a field under Piers’ direction — to put him on one of Renny’s horses and make him go over hurdles — to make him dig holes in the ground and then chuck him into one of them!

  “I am glad you enjoyed my playing,” said Finch, “and I agree that it would have been embarrassing for us to have met last night.”

  “Sarah,” said Voynitsky, “adored your playing. She herself played the violin well.”

  “Yes. Did she keep it up?”

  “Not as she should. Happiness made her indolent, so I told her.”

  Both men were lost in their own thoughts for a space, then the Russian said:

  “I will bring your boy to you.” He went briskly to a door at the end of the room and called to someone.

  A moment later a thickset, foreign-looking woman entered with the child by the hand. The room, the Russian, the nurse, the child: all were unreal to Finch. In this situation he scarcely could believe in himself. Here was a room in California. Here was Sarah’s third husband. Here was a stolid woman with his own child by the hand. Here was his child! Here were he and his child looking into each other’s eyes.

  The tiny boy, in white short
s and light blue jersey, his thick straight hair worn in a fringe on the forehead, was self-possessed. He looked at Finch out of narrow, greenish eyes, his delicate lips were composed in a small smile.

  Voynitsky showed every tooth at him. “Come, Dennis,” he said, “and say hello to your papa.”

  The child came forward from the nurse’s side. He held out a limp little hand, a hand that felt unbelievably small and fragile to Finch as he took it.

  “How do you do?” said Finch.

  The child did not answer but stared, as though fascinated, into Finch’s eyes.

  “Say hello to papa,” urged Voynitsky.

  “Hello to papa,” came in a small, shy voice.

  “Listen to him!” laughed Voynitsky.

  “Ain’t he cute?” exclaimed the nurse.

  Was it possible that this — his child — his own flesh — breathed and had his being in this atmosphere! Finch had a sudden, violent desire to snatch him away from it.

  “Will you come with me?” he asked.

  “Say, sure, I will, Papa,” urged Voynitsky.

  “Sure, I will, Papa,” came the little voice.

  He introduced himself between Finch’s knees and stared up into his face.

  “Ain’t he cute!” exclaimed the nurse.

  “Will it be all right if I take him now?” asked Finch.

  “Absolutely,” declared Voynitsky, with a beaming smile.

  “I’ll get him ready,” said the nurse. “His clothes is packed and he sure has plenty of them. Come, Baby.”

  He trotted off with her.

  “what does he eat?” asked Finch.

  “Anything, as far as I know. Oh, I forgot — no bananas — no chocolates. Anything else. He’s no trouble.”

  “Is he highly strung? Nervous?”

  “No, no. He can take whatever comes. Look at him — that accident — he doesn’t even remember.”

  “Doesn’t remember?”

  “No. He just says Mummy’s gone away.”

  “It was a terrible thing,” Finch said, heavily.

  “Yes, wasn’t it?”

  They sat in silence. Finch felt that Voynitsky was yearning to be rid of him and the child, but he was polite. “Do have a drink,” he urged.

  To pass the time, Finch agreed. By the time their glasses were emptied, the nurse had returned with the little boy. He now wore coat and cap. Finch thought:

  “He’s a pretty child.” A feeling of fatherly pride rose in his heart.

  The nurse was helping the taxi driver to carry out a large trunk. They were laughing together. The woman looked the stronger of the two.

  “All those clothes for a youngster?” exclaimed the driver.

  “Sure. He’s a reg’lar little dook.”

  Voynitsky bent and kissed the child. “You will remember Dmitri, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” came the composed little voice.

  He trotted at Finch’s side from the house. Finch lifted him into the taxi.

  Voynitsky had pressed Finch’s hand on parting, and said, “We both loved a remarkable woman. Never shall we see another like her. I am heartbroken, Mr. Whiteoak.”

  Finch was thankful to get away. He looked almost fearfully at the small being by his side. Already he had telegraphed Renny, telling him of Sarah’s death, and had got a telegram in reply: “Bring the child to Jalna.” It was what he had expected. Now he wondered how he could care for anything so young and fragile during the long journey. To be sure he knew something about children, but this was Sarah’s child, his brief past was an enigma. What if the child began to cry and kept on crying! It would be horrible. He might miss even Voynitsky — cry for him.

  When Finch had got him and his trunk into the hotel bedroom he led him to the window and showed him the view over the harbour. Dennis stood with his eight little fingers in a row on the still and looked out with gravity. It was an old story to him.

  “I guess you’ve seen it often,” said Finch.

  “Yes. Show me something different,” He spoke distinctly, in an extraordinarily sweet voice like Sarah’s.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing else to show you.”

  He turned and looked up critically into Finch’s face. “Mummy always had something else,” he said.

  Sarah seemed to be in the room with them. Finch was conscious of the scent of her black hair, so luxuriant, yet so fine and so ordered in its arrangement. He could not believe she was dead.

  As though conscious of his thought Dennis said:

  “But she went to sleep, right on the road, and a policeman brought me home. Dmitri cried but I didn’t.”

  “Do you like Dmitri?” asked Finch.

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “why?”

  “I can’t tell you. I simply don’t like him.”

  Dennis gave a sudden, clear little laugh.

  “Let’s kill him,” he said. “You hit him. Then I’ll hit him. Then we’ll both hit him. Then he’ll be dead.”

  “Did he ever hit you?” asked Finch.

  “He smacked my face. Then I screamed. Then Mummy screamed. Then he screamed.” Again Dennis laughed, this time more loudly.

  “Surely he didn’t scream.”

  “Well, he said he was sorry. I’m hungry.”

  Finch felt an immense relief. Here was something to do. He took Dennis to the dining room and ordered a careful meal for him. After that he persuaded him to lie on the bed for a while. He took him for a walk. He bought him picture books and read aloud to him. Then came another meal. Then it was time to go to the railway station. Dennis was not tired but Finch, five times his size, was dog-tired. He was even more tired when, after long days and nights of travel, he reached home. He might have relaxed on the train but for Dennis. Always he was watching Dennis. Once he fell asleep in his seat and, when he woke, found Dennis at the end of the railway carriage, waiting an opportunity to slip through the door. On the whole, no child could have been better behaved than he but he was always moving, kneeling up to look out of the window, lying down to stare at the lights on the ceiling, lying precariously on the edge of the seat, squatting on his little haunches. The train seemed extraordinarily dirty. The little boy’s hands often must be washed. As the melancholy looking young man herded him along the aisle to the washroom, women gave them looks of curiosity. Young women tried to make up to Finch through his child. Older women to give him sympathy through his child, till his invulnerable reserve discouraged them. Once Finch forgot that Dennis could not digest chocolate and let him eat chocolate pudding which, shortly after, Dennis brought up. Once each night Dennis woke Finch by crying, whether from indigestion or a bad dream Finch could not discover but he lay awake listening for the crying. Those were the only tears. Finch would, several times a day, take Dennis on his knee and show him the pictures in his book. It was strange, he thought, how he who never had had a parental thought, now had parenthood violently thrust upon him.

  When they alighted from the train there was Renny to meet them, looking so well, so happy, it warmed Finch’s heart to see him.

  “Come right along,” he said, “the car is waiting.” He picked up Dennis and kissed him. With him on his arm he strode to the baggage room. The luggage was retrieved. Outside the air had the feel of winter. A few snowflakes floated on the sunny air. Finch followed in Renny’s wake, a weight of responsibility seemed to drop from his shoulders. He wondered if the day would ever come when Renny would not make him feel young and inexperienced. But he liked it. He sniffed the sharp air. New life entered into him. He helped the porter stow the luggage in the car and tipped him.

  “Too much,” observed Renny. “You’re not in the States now.”

  He took the driver’s seat and placed Dennis on Finch’s knee. “Has he enough on?” he asked. “It’s cold.”

  “I think so. I don’t know.” And he asked the little boy, “Are you cold?”

  “No,” came the small, self-possessed voice, “but I want to go to t
he lavatory.”

  Renny gave an exclamation of impatience. “You are a dud father! why didn’t you attend to that before you left the train? Well, take him now and be quick about it.” He leant back and lighted a cigarette.

  When the two returned, after this expedition, Renny looked at Dennis critically and remarked, “Hair like Eden’s — eyes like Sarah’s — nose like yours … a pity about Sarah, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” mumbled Finch. “But we’d better not talk about it. He remembers.”

  “Poor little chap.” Then, after some questions about the journey, Renny asked, “How did she leave her money, Finch?”

  “Everything to Dennis. She hadn’t a large fortune left. I imagine that the Russian got most of it from her.”

  “Hm. What is he like?”

  “Like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

  “Well, I am glad you have taken your child from him.”

  “He wasn’t at all reluctant to part with him.”

  Renny smiled down at Dennis. “Now you are going to live at Jalna,” he said.

  “Look here, Renny,” Finch flushed in embarrassment. “what about Alayne? Will she mind having Dennis in the house?”

  “She’ll love having him. Alayne is very fond of you and she helped to make the match between you and Sarah. She’ll love having him. And he’ll be company for Archer. She is still in New York, you know.”

  “why — I thought she’d be home by this time.”

  “So did I, but her friends persuaded her to stay on. I’m going down at the end of the week to bring her home.”

  Finch felt he had been away a long while. He had questions to ask about every member of the family. Dennis sat quietly looking out at the December fields, the uneasy green lake where gulls flung themselves above the grey water into the grey sky and sank again to the water, as though in mournful pleasure. The sun had disappeared. Purple clouds, heavy with snow, moved closer to field and lake. The car sped along the almost deserted road.