There was a pile of letters for Lewis in the hall; some of them looked quite important. It was most inconvenient not knowing where to send them. They could, of course, go down to the hall where he would hold his Sunday rehearsal; Florence thought that she might send, with them, a courteous note, apologising for the delay in forwarding and suggesting that he should give her an address. That would not look too much like pursuit; it was the merest commonsense. At present the ridiculous pile, which grew larger every day, advertised to everybody in the house her ignorance of his whereabouts. To Millicent, who called that afternoon, she felt compelled to offer an explanation:
‘Look! Isn’t it stupid of Lewis? He’s gone off and forgotten to leave me an address. What on earth am I to do with these? Unless he writes or comes I can’t get hold of him before the Sunday rehearsal.’
‘Gone off?’ said Millicent blankly. ‘Where?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ complained Florence, with a laugh which she hoped was convincing. ‘He went off on Saturday, while I was out. He’s the vaguest creature. I rather think he may have gone into the country. He does, sometimes, when he’s working, you know …’
‘But my husband saw him last night …’ began Millicent, and broke off, gaping excitedly.
‘Saw him? Where did he see him?’
Millicent looked her over for a second and then said:
‘Having supper at the Savoy. Doesn’t look as if he was out of town, does it?’
‘N—no. Only it’s funny he doesn’t write or telephone about his letters.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Was he alone, do you know?’
‘Oh, no. Jewish-looking people, Hope said they were. At least, the men were Jewish-looking …’
‘Oh, yes. He knows a lot of Jews,’ said Florence at once. ‘Come out and sit in the garden. It’s quite warm.’
She felt that she might conceal her unhappiness better in the garden. She had been so wretched lately that she could almost believe that anxiety and depression were stamped all over the walls of her charming house, like the damp coming through. This prying young woman would be sure to smell it out. They went into the garden and sat under the mulberry tree and she tried to re-establish the pose of the serenely confident wife.
She had come lately to feel that Lewis was not entirely to blame for his attitude towards his sister. Millicent could be very disagreeable sometimes. This afternoon she was unbearable. Nothing would interest her. She sat playing with her pearls and staring in front of her with a little smile, while Florence ploughed on through politics and the arts and even descended to social small talk in order to avoid family discussion. At last, after a prolonged silence, she said:
‘I hope you put it across Lewis for the way he behaved over that Sanger opera. You don’t mind my being frank, do you? He ought to be made to understand that he can’t behave like that. The whole of London is talking about it.’
‘Oh, are they?’ thought Florence viciously. ‘You mean that you are talking about it to the whole town.’
Aloud she said that Lewis was apt to display his opinions a little too frankly.
‘A little! You should hear the Leyburns! Of course, rudeness sometimes pays. But it should be discriminating rudeness, not to the wrong people. He’s so wholesale. He always was. When he was seven weeks old, he was sick all over his rich godfather. That’s been his line ever since.’
And Florence learnt that the Leyburns were never going to ask him to their house again; that a set was being made against the performance of the Symphony in Three Keys; that even old Sir Bartlemy said that half an hour was the utmost that he could stand of young Dodd at a time. All this was said in a tone of superficial raillery very difficult to answer; Millicent was careful not to pass the limits permissible to a plain-spoken sister. It was not until she touched upon non-professional scandals that Florence was able to protest.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘he shouldn’t go about with these awful Jews. Or with the awful ladies that the awful Jews go about with. It gives a wrong impression. Of course, one knows why he hesitates to introduce his friends to you, in fact, you simply couldn’t meet some of them, but it all gives a sort of confirmation to the ridiculous things people say. There again, I’m bound to say …’
‘Why are you bound to say?’
‘Oh, I always say what I think. But if you won’t hear the truth …’
‘I won’t hear idle gossip.’
‘Gossip! My dear! I wouldn’t dream of repeating gossip to you. I know you are so much above these things. Believe me, I don’t tell you half I hear. Not a quarter! Still, we’ll drop the subject, if you find it painful. I see in the paper, by the way, that little Mrs Birnbaum’s baby has arrived.’
‘Oh, has it? I missed that. When was it? Sunday? And I ought to have enquired. I must ring them up.’
‘Married a year now … isn’t she?’
‘Very nearly,’ calculated Florence.
‘Hm! Rather stupid of people to say that the child is none of Birnbaum’s, don’t you think? Because I think you told me that they are rather a devoted couple.’
‘Do they say that?’ cried Florence indignantly. ‘It’s the most cruel, scandalous nonsense. Wicked! She’s my cousin, you know; one of the Sanger children.’
‘I know. That’s it. People have got hold of the name. He’s such a legend nowadays. Nobody can believe that a daughter of his can be quite … The general idea is that he kept a sort of harem at that Austrian place. And you know, the rumours about that Birnbaum set … well! … they have to be heard to be believed. Not that I mean that quite, do I?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. I can’t believe there’s much amiss with Antonia. She was a wild little person before she married, but she has quite settled down.’
‘Of course! You went out there with your uncle, didn’t you? And you found no harem, I take it?’
‘N—no,’ said Florence, and then firmly: ‘Oh, no.’
‘Ridiculous what people will say, isn’t it? And you married your little cousin off at once to Birnbaum, didn’t you? Did you find him there already, or where did he spring from? And of course you met Lewis there too. I’m sure we ought to be very thankful it was you Lewis married and not the cousin. I don’t know that we’d have welcomed Sanger’s circus into the family with the empressement which we showed to you, my dear!’
Florence was too angry to answer, and Millicent presently asked if she had seen the baby.
‘I shall tell everyone that you have,’ she said, ‘and that it’s as like Birnbaum as possible. We must uphold the family reputation. By the way, have you got rid of the other girl yet? The plain one.’
‘Teresa?’
‘Yes, Teresa. What have you done with her? She hasn’t gone to Paris with the little one, has she?’
‘I don’t know what will be done with her. She’s delicate: I doubt if she ought to go to school. She has queer faints …’
‘That’s a pity. I should send her and take the risk, if I were you. What is it? Heart? They take very good care of them at these schools.’
And as Millicent pulled on her gloves, she observed thoughtfully:
‘She wouldn’t be as easy to find a husband for as the pretty little Birnbaum. Well! I must be off. So nice to have seen you, my dear!’
She got up and Florence followed her through the house, explaining how childish Teresa was for her years, how undeveloped.
‘Nearly sixteen, isn’t she?’ said Millicent, pausing on the doorstep. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if she knew a thing or two, in spite of all you say, Florence. Good-bye! Next time you lose Lewis, I should advertise. You know … the agony column … “Come back! All forgiven and forgotten!” Or you might try the Birnbaums, mightn’t you?’
And she was gone, walking lightly down the river path, while Florence, gazing after her, reflected upon the squalid complexion which Sanger affairs took on in retrospect. The Karindehütte, after London gossip had been busy with it, really s
ounded no better than a … than what Linda had called it.
She turned into the house and looked again at the letters, and decided that really she had better try the Birnbaums. Not that there was the smallest atom of truth in Millicent’s odious suggestions; but if he was dining with Jewish-looking people, it was very possible that Jacob might be able to trace him. She would go and take some flowers to Tony and sit with her a bit; that was no more than an obvious duty. And she would just mention that she had no address for forwarding letters, and Tony would tell Jacob and Jacob would tell Lewis and Lewis would write perhaps.
She set off for Lexham Gardens with a large bunch of iris; but Antonia’s room seemed to be so full of flowers already that there was hardly space for more. It was a peculiar room, eloquent of luxury and wealth, and yet dirty and untidy, with the kind of sluttish disorder in which the Sangers felt most at home. Even the monthly nurse had not succeeded in making it look like a sick room. There was a piano in it, and several decanters and a mixer stood among the medicine bottles on the chimney piece, while cigar ash was spilt about everywhere.
Antonia, looking very well and incredibly beautiful, lay in an enormous bed, her satin counterpane perfectly strewn with the books, fruit, sweets, cigarettes, and gewgaws which Jacob bought for her every time he went out of the house. She exclaimed joyfully, when she saw Florence:
‘Oh, my dear! Why didn’t you come before? Have you seen my funny baby?’
‘Dear Tony! How are you feeling …’
‘Have you seen my little boy? Oh, he’s ugly! Ho there! Rachel! Bring in the bübchen!’
‘Vait a little,’ responded a guttural voice from an inner room. ‘In tree minute I bring him.’
‘Oh, Florence, I’ve been longing to show him to you. He’s the ugliest thing you ever saw. Ike says he doesn’t think he can be mine, he’s so ugly. I think he’s uncommonly like his dad, but I’m too nice to say so. Push those horrid garments off that chair and sit down.’
‘My dear! How are you?’
‘Oh, I’m quite all right. Never felt better. But I felt very queer on Sunday. You know, I never expected it would go on so long; I began to feel very funny just after breakfast, and of course I thought the bübchen would turn up then and there. And old Rachel hadn’t come because she wasn’t fixed to come till Monday. And Ike was out. And, you know, I’m so shy of all the servants in this house, they’re so grand. I didn’t like to tell them what was the matter with me. And there was nobody I could tell but Lewis.’
‘Lewis!’
‘Yes, he was still in bed because he had a headache, because they’d been out late the night before. And I went wandering found the house in the most awful state of mind. And then I felt rather better, and I wondered if it would do me any good if I went out and took a ride on a ’bus. And then I felt funny again; really awful! And I got so desperate, thinking that my baby would be born before Ike or anybody came to help me, that I went up and woke Lewis. Oh, and he was so nice! You can’t think how kind he was! He got up at once and dressed in two seconds and sent off one of the maids running for Rachel, and another for Ike, and another for the doctor, because we didn’t know any of their numbers, because Ike threw the directory out of the window at a cat two nights before. And then he went down and made me a cup of tea, wasn’t it clever of him? And he told me funny stories about how Ike once tried hiring a Chinese cook. Oh, he can be kind, when he likes! I was a bit frightened, but I couldn’t help laughing. And then Ike and Rachel and all the servants came tearing in. And the thing didn’t finish till late in the evening; I was ever so much worse later on, only luckily I didn’t know I was going to be. And Lewis and Ike sat with me a long time to cheer me up, and sang bits out of ‘Otello’. And Rachel sang too. She’s got a nice voice, though she is a monthly nurse. She’s Jacob’s first cousin, you know. He has some very funny cousins. Her brother keeps a pawnshop in the Old Kent Road, but he’s quite rich.’
They were interrupted by the entrance of Rachel with Antonia’s baby. She was a frowsy, elderly Jewess, who looked as if she had got into a nurse’s uniform by mistake. But she was, none the less, at the top of her profession, and Jacob had known what he was about when he secured her services.
‘Look at him, Florence,’ crowed the little mother. ‘Isn’t he a horror?’
He was certainly a plain child and so ridiculously like Birnbaum that Florence wanted to laugh. She prodded him gently, with a grudging, awkward tenderness. In the abstract she did not like babies until they were old enough to crawl and prattle and be amusing. Very young ones she found a little monotonous. Of course, she wanted one herself, but that was a different matter.
‘He’s got a lot of hair,’ she said.
‘Yes. But Rachel says it will all come off,’ said Tony sadly. ‘He’ll be worse still when he’s bald.’
And she pressed him to her heart and kissed the top of his threatened head and whispered some inaudible, loving remark into his ear. Plainly she thought him the world’s wonder. Something in her face stung Florence almost unbearably; she could not watch it. She got up and wandered about the room, looking at the Gainsboroughs that Jacob’s friend had collected. Presently she asked:
‘But is Lewis staying here?’
‘Lewis?’ said Antonia. ‘Oh, yes. Didn’t you know?’
‘My dear Tony! Lewis is a most trying man. He walked out of the house last week and forgot to leave an address. I’ve been left without the slightest idea where he could be.’
‘Florence!’ Antonia opened her eyes very wide. ‘You didn’t know? But when Tessa and Sebastian came here this morning, surely …’
‘Did they come?’
‘Oh, yes. Didn’t you know? They’ve gone out now with Lewis and Ike to Stavgröd’s recital. They’ll be back any minute.’
‘I’m sorry they came. I’d no idea of it. I hope they didn’t tire you.’
‘That’s quite all right. I see stacks of people, don’t I, Rachel? I had a dinner party here last night. But how like Lewis to forget to tell you he was here! Surely Tessa and Sebastian knew, didn’t they?’
Florence could not tell her. Privately she believed that they did and that the whole Sanger family was plotting against her behind her back. But in truth they had known nothing of it. Their visit to Lexham Gardens had been pure impulse and nobody could have been more surprised to find Lewis there than was Teresa, who wished genuinely to keep out of his way.
Florence made an attempt to retreat before the return of the concert party; she felt as though she could hardly trust her temper. But she could not get away in time. A joyous hubbub was heard in the hall while she was bidding Antonia good-bye, and in they all burst in the most remarkable spirits. Jacob came first, vainglorious, swelling with pride over his lovely wife and ugly son, flinging down a fresh armful of gifts upon the already loaded bed, kissing Tony, kissing the baby, kissing his cousin Rachel, almost kissing Florence when he discovered that she was there. Behind him came Lewis, Teresa, Sebastian, Nils Stavgröd, and some odd friends with raucous voices and jocular manners. Florence was quite bewildered by all the noise and laughter, and began to be concerned about Antonia. But she need not have troubled. Tony was more than equal to it. She pulled a shawl a little way across her white breast and her baby, shook hands with everybody, and called on Jacob to furnish them with cocktails. To Lewis she said severely:
‘Why didn’t you tell your poor wife that you were coming to us? She didn’t know where you were.’
Lewis explained that he had left home to get away from his wife. He had shot one look at Florence, as he came in, a gleaming, baleful, sullen look, and now he seemed determined to ignore her. She said composedly:
‘I only wanted to forward his bills. There are a good many waiting for him. Come children! I think we’d better go. Antonia oughtn’t, I’m sure, to have such a crowd in the room.’
‘That is no matter!’ cried Jacob. ‘She adores company, do you not, my angel?’
‘I do not forbid it,’ put i
n Rachel. ‘A little barty is cheerful, nicht wahr?’
So Florence stayed because she saw that she could not get her family away. But she sat a little apart from their circle and succeeded in looking as if she did not belong to them. With an increasing disgust she listened to their conversation. Tony jested with the men, while old Rachel, with hoarse chuckles, supplied occasional anecdotes which always smacked of her calling. Even in the impudent, childish remarks thrown in by Teresa and Sebastian, there was the same complete want of decorum. There was, lavishly displayed, the serene, enthralling beauty of Antonia’s motherhood; it was the only good thing in the room. But no one seemed to have any reverence for it; their language profaned it. Florence marvelled that she should ever have found their speech naïve and amusing; nowadays it nauseated her. And there was Tony giving Stavgröd a detailed account of her confinement, apparently in explanation of her absence at his concert! They were all loud in their regret that she had not been there. Stavgröd had played the Kreutzer Sonata quite well. According to Lewis he would never play it better.
‘Oh, dear! And shall I never hear it?’
Antonia turned her enchanting wild eyes upon the fair-haired young man, who instantly became pale with admiration.
‘I shall be most happy …’ he muttered. ‘Anytime … now … if Madame is not fatigued …’
Madame rewarded him with another of her disturbing smiles and Jacob opened the piano. Lewis and Sebastian wrangled a little over which of them was to play, but Lewis prevailed because he said firmly that he knew this piece.
It was surprising music; Florence, for a time, could not help listening in spite of her troubles. But it was Lewis rather than Stavgröd who claimed her attention. He did not often play the piano and she had never heard a performance like this from him before. He certainly knew the piece. There was a peculiar passion and sadness in it which plucked at her very heart strings, as though she was herself an instrument for his cruel, clever fingers. And he gave her besides a conviction of restrained power; she felt that he had mastered all emotion and turned it to his own ends. It was outrageous that he could do it. She knew him to be hard, lustful, and unstable; he had no business to command so much effortless beauty, Playing like this required noble thoughts and unflinching aims. But then, this was his real life.
The Constant Nymph Page 26