‘I am shivering, Blaise; it’s terribly cold. I am utterly wretched here. I must go home.’
‘Yes, you had better go home. But now you had better go to bed. Everyone wants to sleep.’
He said goodnight to Lilia and Robert in an affable way with the same odd twinkle and a sharp stern sidelong glance which had been an expression of his ever since the night of the dinner.
‘I have a most disagreeable impression, most,’ said Mr Wilkins, in a low tone.
Mrs Trollope was in bed crying,
‘And all because we did not invite them to lunch. They are greedy. I could not show so much greed,’ said Lilia in a voice which she intended Madame Blaise to hear. Madame Blaise knocked on the wall, and called:
‘Let people sleep.’
Lilia wept.
The result of all this was that Madame Blaise went off with Dr Blaise in his car the next morning to live in the home which she had quit seven months before and which she had sworn never to set foot in again. When she left Madame Blaise kissed Lilia, took her by both hands, begged her pardon. ‘I was tired and nervous and cold and frightened, the doctor had been roaming round his room all night and I thought he meant me harm.’
She told Mrs Trollope that when she returned after a few months she was going to stay at a charming hotel up the street, The Old English, recommended to her by some Russian ladies, White Russian, of course. It was very warm, pretty, and not much dearer than the Hotel Swiss-Touring; and she wanted Lilia to go there too.
‘Perhaps, Liliali, I shall come back in a week and we shall all move there and sing Happy days are here again. We will show the Bonnards that we are not such fools as they take us for. Then, dear Liliali, for people in our position, it is not quite right to live in the most rundown hotel in town. Now promise me, if I do not come back in a week, you must come to live with me. We will be sisters. You will look after me and be a witness if the doctor tries to poison me.’
She said this with the doctor looking on and smiling his odd smile; she kissed Lilia affectionately. They went out to the car. Madame Blaise said:
‘Liliali, I shall write to you every day. Now mind you write to me. Forgive me, darling. You are my best friend. Remember, it is your duty. I impose it on you. You must live for me, when I am away, for I shall be so lonely without you. And remember, do not go to Paris or anywhere till I come back. Do not move till I come back, then we will all go to the Old English. If you are not there, there will be no charm for me there. Remember you are my only confidante; you know everything. You know all about him—’ she pointed to her husband; ‘I adore you, Liliali, you owe it to me to wait for me here. And if I do not write, remember, you must come over to Basel and find out why. It will mean I am in danger.’
So they parted. Mrs Trollope did not like this parting. She told Mr Wilkins that she thought it overbearing, not to say impertinent of ‘the old lady’ to imagine that she would wait for her there, ‘tied hand and foot’.
But Mr Wilkins said: ‘Oof! I am glad she is gone; that is something to be thankful for. If I had only known before. Now I know how to manage her—deprive her of a meal.’
‘Don’t speak that way of a poor woman who goes in fear of her husband.’
Mr Wilkins laughed.
‘If I only knew what you were thinking, Robert. At times you seem to me a complete stranger. I am living with a stranger.’
‘We all are,’ said Mr Wilkins and laughed.
He went up the hill to reserve two rooms in the Old English Hotel for his sister and her old friend Miss Price. When he came back, he said:
‘Well, you had better keep out of the way, Lilia. I shall do my level best to keep them from here. I decided I could not stay with them, after all, I shall eat with them, take them on trips, take them to the Casino and they will be satisfied. I shall not allow them to come prying round here. Of course, Lilia, if you should see me out with them, you had better make believe you do not know me.’
Lilia went up to see the Princess. She meant to tell her everything. But when she got there the Princess was packing; very flustered and irate. She had to go to Paris at once; there had been a mistake, she was to go into the clinic at once. She said to Lilia, as soon as she saw her, that she must take Angel; and she gave her the address of the lawyer she had been seeing on Lilia’s case.
‘And I have had such stupid letters from Ramon, my fiancé. He thinks he can do anything with me. He is so lazy. Why do I have to meet such a lazy man, when I am full of energy? He does not want to open a restaurant; he wants to have a good time. And what else do you think he wants? Where is it? Mi salud y la de mi madre—no, he thinks I am worrying about his health! Seria un ladron. Yes, I must send him some more money; he was with someone who must have been a thief. Yes, yes, here it is, such impudence! He wants me generously and nobly to pay for the fare of a cousin of his, una señorita de veinte y dos años, a young lady of twenty-two. I know those cousins!’
She stopped and said to Lilia: ‘I beg your pardon, Lilia. But I am in such a fit of temper, my head is on fire. And yet he is so sweet to me. “I miss you, you are only a child,” he says to me; “you are so much older, I respect you for all you are, and yet with me you are a child and I feel all the tenderness I would feel for a child. In life you are a child.” ’
The Princess hastily wiped her eyes.
‘And so, Lilia, you must take Angel, take him to the Blaises. I myself, to tell the truth, telephoned the clinic and they called me back; for it is urgent. You see he is becoming interested in women younger than himself. ’
‘And now I am going to be quite alone,’ said Lilia, sitting down.
‘Will you take Angel?’
‘Oh, yes, I promised, didn’t I? But what on earth will Robert say?’
‘You had better take him straight to Basel.’
‘I should take him to England, if they would let him in; but there is that quarantine.’
‘Oh, no, Angel must never be in quarantine; he would die of loneliness.’
Mrs Trollope took the lawyer’s address, though she knew she would never use it. She went back to the hotel leading Angel. Mr Wilkins was resting and asked her to go in and see what ‘that poltergeist’ wanted. Mrs Trollope tied Angel to the bedpost in her room and went in.
Miss Chillard’s flesh had sunk back onto her skeleton.
‘I am afraid you are not well, Miss Chillard. Shall I send for the doctor?’
‘They have taken my money for the hotel. I cannot pay the doctor.’
‘Shall I make you some tea?’
‘I cannot take anything. I have not eaten for three days, for these carrion-crows are only waiting for me to eat, to take the last of my money. They will put me out and you can see I cannot move. I do not know what is to become of me. I am dying. I don’t want to die on the train home, in a dusty third-class carriage. If only I could see Zermatt once more, where I was happy, I would not mind dying. I want to die there. I don’t want to die here, Mrs Collop, Mrs Collop! What am I to do?’
‘My God, my God,’ said Mrs Trollope to herself. She said to the invalid: ‘I will bring you some food and then I will go and pray for you.’ This is what she did; but the woman did not take the soup Mrs Trollope had begged in the kitchen. She glanced at it indifferently and said: ‘The smell of it makes me sick; throw it down the sink, please.’
Mrs Trollope took Angel in to Mr Wilkins and went to the church, where she prayed for a long time for guidance and help for Miss Chillard. As she knelt there she heard money chinking somewhere and she thought of the money she had in her bag, the thousands of francs from the safe.
‘I will do one good deed and perhaps I will be forgiven for leaving Robert.’
She went back to the hotel, and although she heard Robert calling her and Angel barking she went in to Miss Chillard, and said to her: ‘Miss Chillard, I have had a message from my saint and I am going to give you the money to go to Zermatt. If you get there can you manage?’
‘They can put
me out dying at the station. I do not care once I am there. For me it is heaven and earth; that is where heaven opens for me. I was happy there, I never knew what happiness was till then.’
Her large sunken eyes burned. She put out a weak hand to thank Mrs Trollope or perhaps to take the money. Her voice was weak, hardly audible, and her touch was weaker than a leaf.
Mrs Trollope went down to Mrs Bonnard to ask if there was a way of getting Miss Chillard to the station. The hotel-keeper was very glad to get rid of her, very anxious about her; for she looked as if she would die there; so she arranged what she could.
Miss Chillard, supported by Charlie and Mrs Bonnard and Mrs Trollope, was just able to walk out of the hotel and to the station.
‘I am afraid she will die in the train,’ said Mrs Trollope to Mrs Bonnard.
When the train came in, they found her an unoccupied compartment and put in some of her bundles; for she could not take all of her luggage. She said:
‘I wanted this so much! I never thought it would happen. That place was my heaven.’
‘Goodbye, goodbye!’ She did not answer.
Chapter 8
‘AND NOW, DEAR Madame Bonnard, I must tell you that I am leaving you too,’ said Mrs Trollope when we returned to the hotel; and said that she was leaving the next morning for Basel. She had sent a telegram from the station. ‘If Miss Chillard is going to heaven, I am sure I am going to hell, for that’s where it seems to me the Doctor and Gliesli live; but I am going there; I am not waiting on Robert’s pleasure here. I am sorry, Madame Bonnard, you have been so good, a sister. But my position is more than false. I can never bring him to his senses. I haven’t the sense myself, I suppose.’
‘Are you really leaving him?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I think he wants me to. He doesn’t know it himself. But it is his old age that is coming on; and he always was a bachelor. You see how he is rushing off to play cards with his old sister?’
Mrs Trollope was crying; but she wiped her eyes.
‘I am crying and I will be crying, I know. But it is no use. I am grateful for what I had. I had a true love. I can never be angry with him. I must leave you. I am sorry. It is beautiful here. And I am sorry to leave my loved ones, Luisa and dear Charlie and you dear Madame and dear little Olivier. Bless you all.’
Chapter 9
MR WILKINS SAT ALONE at his table. He no longer read the newspapers and magazines which had annoyed Mrs Trollope. He no longer went for his constitutional along the promenade; nor went up to his room after lunch to nap with his handkerchief over his face. He wanted to keep Mrs Trollope’s room, but she was not there to pay for it herself, and he would not pay for it; so it was easy for me to explain to him that the spring season was beginning and that I intended to put two beds into the room; the room would cost double. I said that his own room too might one day be wanted as a two-bed room, but added:
‘Since you and your wife are such good old clients, I will leave your room as it is for a while, until the busy season.’
‘My cousin and I,’ said he.
It was out of courtesy that I called Mrs Trollope his wife; for she was, indeed. Why was he so afraid of the word? Other unmarried couples in the hotel were very pleased to be called husband and wife.
The Princess said: ‘Oh, I know him; it is because he is afraid of common-law marriage.’
‘But we don’t have that here,’ I said.
‘It’s something of the sort.’
‘But why is he afraid to acknowledge his cousin, as he calls her? He is not married.’
‘Oh, he is not married. Depend upon it, it is something to do with money. He is very greedy. Perhaps the old hag can cut him out of the estate if she wants.’
‘What old hag?’
‘Why his mother of course. His father was rich, a leader of the community; he must have left it all to the mother and she tied a noose round all their necks.’
‘Is that true?’
‘I know nothing about such wretched people,’ said the Princess.
Before she went, she gave Robert several curtain lectures; but he had little time for her and avoided her. It was easy for him. All his time was spent with his sister Flo and Miss Price, who were staying at the Old English.
The old ladies had got Mr Wilkins into an almost perpetual card game at this hotel. For a short time the White Russian who ran the card club, a Monsieur Nemazashto, had operated his little club in our hotel. It became so popular that he needed more space. He could be seen very often along the promenade or the principal lakeside street, very busy, with a large tram-conductor’s cashbag on a canvas strap slung over his shoulder. Mr Wilkins seemed pleased by the new company, though he assured his friends that the old ladies were overstaying their time and their resources, and though it was intended as a raid on his cash he was not going to let them damage his assets. He came home each evening the first week radiant with his success at cards; he must have been a very good player. He won from his sister and Miss Price. He could not wait to rush out again after dinner to the Old English Hotel, to join them again. When did any of them see the lake?
When I asked him friendlily about the game, he said:
‘Oh, I am enjoying myself, Madame. I am thankful that my cousin is not here. She would be very lonely and I could not take her with me of course. It would create a fearful scandal; and how thankful I am that interfering woman has left.’ He meant the Princess. He continued:
‘It is really a new life for me. My cousin does not care for cards. Now it happens that I have always been very handy with the cards and, touch wood, I have good luck usually; and if not, I can turn a bad card into a fairly good one.’
When the Princess left she cautioned him about his new life:
‘You are retreating from life more and more, Robert. You will not face any issue. Lilia is an issue: she is human. But you prefer a dream-world.’
He said: ‘But I rather think that if Lilia had played cards I should not have got into these lazy habits.’
The Princess said: ‘Lilia is not a great gambler. I am. But not with cards. Life can only be played for big stakes. Lilia for you is a big stake; and you will lose her.’
He said: ‘Oh, Lilia will never leave me; she does not know life. I have always managed for her. Life would terrify Lilia, without me. As you say, she is not a gambler.’
The Princess left for Paris. Mr Wilkins had a few letters from Mrs Trollope; and when I asked after her he said:
‘I am afraid she has made a mistake: they are not people one can live with.’
Madame Blaise sent for all her luggage. This relieved my mind. I had not known what to do about their rooms. I had written to Dr Blaise and Madame, but had never had a reply. I wrote another letter to Mrs Trollope asking about their plans. She sent me a letter at once, saying:
My dear Selda,
I wish I could talk to you, you have seen so much, though you are so young, and you understand people without criticizing them. This is no place to stay, I am very unhappy. But I am a temporizer. I know when I leave here I must face a new, empty life. I know I will find some trifles to fill it with and I have my religion and my dear children, who say they will take me back as soon as I make a clean break with Mr Wilkins. I think I have made a break, and I have suffered a little, dear Selda; but Mr Wilkins will not believe me. I have been so weak in the past, I do not blame him. As for coming back—I am not coming back. I am glad you have rearranged my room. About the house here, I am so troubled. One cannot be sure. Some days, Dr Blaise and his wife seem so friendly and I can imagine them going back to you for some summer weeks. At other times, dreadful things are said. I am a guest here and must not be a spy and informer, though they are very open, and do not seem to care. I am, alas, a ‘witness’ as Madame Blaise said I should be. I am quite afraid and much embarrassed. But when I say I am going, Madame Blaise begs me to stay; ‘you are my only defender and my only witness,’ she says. I think she is a neurotic, perhaps; but she is unhappy. Peopl
e suffer and we call them names; but all the time they are suffering. I know I am not clever: it is partly because I cannot believe that life is meant to be ugly. I cannot understand the position of the housekeeper here, Selda. If you were here you would understand at once. One cannot imagine that she attracts Dr Blaise; and she seems to be close, even too close, to Madame Blaise. She helps her, does things for her, lets her have things that the doctor forbids her to have. But there is a bad feeling. Madame Blaise says it is because of that woman that she left home, that is Ermyntrud; and then she says she could never leave Ermyntrud again, that she is her safeguard. How can I be her only defender and her witness? Against whom and about what? I like to do what I am asked if it is in my power; I feel it is a message, that my saints are talking to me and that they will look after me. But, for one thing, Ermyntrud, the housekeeper, is very unpleasant to me; she was from the beginning. I was very sorry for her, because she is a servant and very often they both, when they are getting on well, treat her like a dog from the street; and then—but I don’t understand people, Selda. I will say no more. I do not really think you are to blame if you let their rooms. They did not answer you. But of course, I cannot ask them if they are going back to the hotel. I can only tell you about myself. I was warned by someone long ago, that if I did not make a life for myself, but remained so dependent on Mr Wilkins, I should be very sorry later on, ‘when it is too late ’. I am not sorry; though I know it is very late; but with the help of those I always can depend on, I am going to strike out for myself now. How strange we must seem to you, Selda, in your hardworking busy life! I wish I had a life as busy. I will write to you from England. Do not tell Mr Wilkins yet that I am going there. I don’t know what day yet; but it will be soon. And then if he wants to, he can follow me. I feel sure he will not. I hoped for it at first. As the days pass, I feel sure he will not; and I am beginning at last to hope that he will not. Love to Olivier and my regards to your dear husband.
The Little Hotel Page 17