October 7th.
At Paddington I came upon Sebastian Pasquale lounging about the arrival platform. As I had not seen or heard of him since the end of July I had concluded that he was wandering as usual over the globe. He greeted me effusively, holding out both hands in his foreign fashion.
“My dear old Ordeyne! who would have thought of meeting you here? What wind blows you to Paddington?”
“I expect Carlotta by the Plymouth Express.”
“The fair Carlotta? And how is she? And what is she doing at Plymouth?”
In the middle of my explanation he pulled out his watch.
“By Jove! I must get to the next platform and catch my train to Ealing. I was just killing time about the station. I like seeing a train come in—the gleam and smoke and rush and whirr of the evil-looking thing—and the sudden metamorphosis of its sleek sides into mouths belching forth humanity. I think of Hades. This, by the way, isn’t a bad representation of it—the up-to-date Hades. They’ve got a railway bridge now across the Styx, and Charon has a gold band around his cap, and this might be the arrival platform of the damned souls.”
“You forget,” said I, “that it is the arrival platform of Carlotta.”
He threw back his head and laughed boyishly.
“Well, consider it the Golden Gate terminus of the ‘Earth, Hades and Olympus Railway’ if you like. I’m off on a branch line to meet a beauteous duchessa at Ealing—oh, an authentic one, I assure you.”
“Why should I doubt it?” said I.
Stenson, whom I had brought to look after Carlotta’s luggage, came up and touched his hat.
“Train just signalled, sir.”
Pasquale put out his hand after another glance at his watch.
“I am sorry I cannot wait to greet the fair one. I’ll drop in soon and pay my respects. I am only just back in London, you know. A rivederci.”
He waved me farewell and hurried off. The arrival of the train, the exuberance of Carlotta, the joy of having her sidle up against me once more in the cab while she poured out her story, and the subsequent gaiety of the evening banished Pasquale from my mind. But it is odd that I should have met him at Paddington.
We parted on the landing to dress for dinner. A moment afterwards there was a beating at my door. I opened it to behold Carlotta, in a glow of wondering delight, brandishing a silver-backed brush in one hand and the hand-mirror in the other.
“Oh, my darling Seer Marcous! For me? All that for me?”
“No. It is for Antoinette,” said I.
“Oh-h!”
She laughed and pulled me by the arm into her room and shut the door.
“Oh, everything is beautiful, beautiful, and I shall die if I do not kiss you.”
“You must be kept alive at all hazards,” I laughed; and this time I did not reject her. But it was a child around whom my arms closed. An inner flash, accompanied by a spasm of pain, revealed it, and changed a passionate desire to gentleness.
“There,” said I, after she had released herself and flown to open the drawers of the new toilette table, where lay some odds and ends of jewelry I had purchased for her. “You have been saved from extinction. The next deadly peril is hunger. I give you a quarter of an hour.”
She came down to dinner in a low-necked frock, wearing the necklace and bangle; and, child that she is, in her hand she carried the silver-backed mirror. I believe she has taken it to bed with her, as a seven-year-old does its toy. She certainly kept it by her all the evening and admired herself therein unashamedly like the traditional Lady from the Sea. Once, desiring to show me the ravishing beauty of a turquoise pendant, she bent her neck forward, as I sat, so as to come within reach of my nearsighted eyes (it is a superstition of hers that I am nearly blind without my glasses), and quite naturally slid onto my knee. She has the warm russet complexion that suits her heavy bronze hair, and there is a glow beneath the satin of her neck and arms. And she is fragrant—I recognise it now—of hyacinths. The world can hold nothing more alluring to the senses of man. My fingers that held the turquoise trembled as they chanced to touch her—but she was all unconcerned. Nay, further—she gazed into the mirror—
“It makes me look so white—oh, there was a girl at Bude who had a gold locket—and it lay upon her bones—you could count them. I am glad I have no bones. I am quite soft—feel.”
She clasped my fingers and pressed their tips into the firm young flesh below her throat.
“Yes,” said I, with some huskiness in my voice, “your turquoise can sleep there very pleasantly. See, I will kiss it to bring you good luck.”
She cooed with pleasure. “I don’t think any one kissed the locket of the girl at Bude. She was too thin. And too old; she must have been thirty! Now,” she added, lifting up the locket, “you will kiss the place, too, where it is to lie.”
I looked for a moment into her eyes. Seeing me hesitate, they grew pathetic.
“Oh-h,” she said, reproachfully.
I know I am a fool. I know that Pasquale would have hurled his sarcasms at me. I know that the whole of her deliciousness was mine for the taking—mine for ever and ever. If I had loved her less passionately I would have kissed her young throat lightly with a jest. But to have kissed her thus with such longing as mine behind my lips would have been an outrage.
I lifted her to her feet, and rose and turned away, laughing unsteadily.
“No, my dear,” said I, “that would be—unsuitable.”
The bathos of the word made me laugh louder. Carlotta, aware that a joke was in the air, joined in my mirth, and her laughter rang fresh.
“What is the suitable way of kissing?”
I took her hand and saluted it in an eighteenth century manner.
“This,” said I.
“Oh-h,” said Carlotta. “That is so dull.” She caught up Polyphemus and buried her face in his fur. “That’s the way I should like to be kissed.”
“The man you love, my dear,” said I, “will doubtless do it.”
She made a little grimace.
“Oh, then, I shall have to wait such a long time.”
“You needn’t,” said I, taking her hands again and speaking very seriously. “Can’t you learn to love a man, give him your whole heart and all your best and sweetest thoughts?”
“I would marry any nice man if you gave me to him,” she answered.
“It would not matter who he was? Anyone would do?”
“Why, of course,” said Carlotta.
“And any one wanting to marry you could kiss you as you kissed Polyphemus.”
“Oh-h, he would have to be nice—not like Mustapha.”
I turned away with a sigh and lit a cigarette, while Carlotta curled herself up on the sofa and inspected her face and necklace in the silver mirror. In a moment she was talking to the cat, who had jumped on her lap and with arched back was rubbing himself against her.
Soon the touch of sadness was lost in the happy sight of her and the happy thought that my house was no longer left to me desolate. We laughed away the evening.
But now, sitting alone, I feel empty of soul; like a man stricken with fierce hunger who, expecting food in a certain place, finds nothing but a few delicate cakes that mock his craving.
October 14th.
A week has passed. I have spent it chiefly in trying to win her love.
Is she, after all, only a child, and is this love of mine but a monstrous passion?
What is to be done? Life is beginning to be a torture. If I send her away, I shall eat my heart out. If she stays, fuel is but added to the fire. Her caressing ways will drive me mad. To repulse her were brutal—she loves to be fondled; she can scarcely speak to me without touching me, leaning over me, thus filling me with the sense of her. She treats me with an affectionate child’s innocence, as if I were sexless. My happiest time with her is spent in public places, restaurants, and theatres where her unclouded pleasure is reflected in my heart.
I am letting her take music lessons with Herr Stuer, who lives close by in the Avenue Road. Perhaps music may help in her development.
October 21st.
To please her I am accustoming myself to this out-of-door life, which once I despised so cordially. Pasquale has joined us two or three times. Last night he gave a dinner in Carlotta’s honour at the Continental. The ladies of the party have asked her to go to see them. She must have some society, I suppose, and I must go with her. They belong to the half smart set, eager to conceal beneath a show of raffishness their plentiful lack of intellect and their fundamental bourgeois respectability. In spite of Pasquale’s brilliance and Carlotta’s rapturous enjoyment I sat mumchance and depressed, out of my element.
My work is at a standstill, and Carlotta is my life. I fear I am deteriorating.
On Judith, whom I have seen once or twice since Carlotta’s return, I called this afternoon. She is unhappy. Although I have not confessed to my thraldom, her woman’s wit, I feel sure, has penetrated to the heart of my mystery. There has been no deep emotion in our intercourse. Its foundation has been real friendship sweetened with pleasant sentimentality. And yet jealousy of Carlotta consumes her. Her amour propre is deeply wounded. She makes me feel as if I had played the part of a brute. But O Judith, my dear, I have only been a man. “The same thing,” I fancy I hear her answer. But no. I have never loved a woman, my dear, in all my life before, and as I made no secret of it, I am guiltless of anything like betrayal. In due season I will tell you frankly of the new love; but how can I tell you now? How could I tell any human being?
I imagine myself as Panurge, taking counsel with a Pantagruelian friend. “I am in love with Carlotta and desire to marry her.” “Then marry her,” says Pantagruel. “But she does not love me.” “Then don’t marry,” says Pantagruel. “But nay,” urges poor Panurge, “she would marry me according to any rite, civil or ecclesiastical, to-morrow.” “Mariez-vous doncques de par dieu,” replies Pantagruel. “But I should be a villain to take advantage of her innocence and submission.” “Then don’t marry.” “But I can’t live without her,” says Panurge, desperately. “I am as a man bewitched. If I don’t marry her I shall waste away with longing.” “Then marry her in God’s name!” says Pantagruel. And I am no wiser by his counsel, and I have paraded the complication of my folly before mocking eyes.
October 23d.
I perceive that the young man of the idiot metaphor was gifted with piercing acumen. Beneath the Jaquesian melancholy of my temperament he diagnosed the potentiality of canine rabidness. No rational being is afflicted with this grotesque concentration of idea, this fierce hot fury waxing in intensity day by day.
I must consult a brain specialist.
October 25th.
I went to Judith this afternoon, more to prove the loyalty of my friendship than to seek comfort from her society. Over tea we discussed the weather and books and her statistical work. It was dull, but unembarrassing. The grey twilight crept into the room and there was a pause in our talk. She broke it by asking, without looking at me:
“When are we to have an evening together again?”
“Whenever you like, my dear Judith.”
“To-morrow?”
“I am afraid not to-morrow,” said I.
“Are you doing anything so very particular?”
“I have arranged to take Carlotta to the Empire.”
“Oh,” said Judith shortly, and I was left uncomfortable for another spell of silence.
“It would be very kind, Marcus, to ask me to accompany you,” she said at last.
“Carlotta and myself?”
“Why not?”
“My question arose from the stupidity of surprise,” said I. “I thought you disliked Carlotta.”
“By no means. I should be glad to make her further acquaintance. Any one that interests you must also be interesting to me.”
“In that case,” said I, “your coming will give us both the greatest possible pleasure.”
“I haven’t had a merry evening for ever so long.”
“We will dine somewhere first and have supper afterwards. The whole gamut of merriment. Toute la lyre. And you shall have,” I added, “some of your favourite Veuve Cliquot.”
“It will be charming,” said Judith, politely.
In fact, politeness has been the dominant note of her attitude to-day, a sober restraint of manner such as she would adopt when rather tired towards an ordinary acquaintance. Has she reconciled herself to the inevitable and taken this Empire frolic as a graceful method of showing it? I should like to believe so, but the course is scarcely consistent with that motor of illogic which she is pleased to call her temperament. I am puzzled.
Her smile as we parted sent a chill through me, being the smile of a mask instead of a woman’s face; and it was not the face of Judith. I don’t anticipate much merriment tomorrow evening.
At Carlotta’s suggestion, I have sent a line to Pasquale to ask him to join us. His gay wit will lend to the entertainment a specious air of revelry which Carlotta will take as genuine.
I have often thought lately of the hopeless passion of Alfonso the Magnanimous of Naples, as set forth by Pope Pius II in his Commentaries; for I am beginning to take a morbid interest in the unhappy love affairs of other men and to institute comparisons. If they have lived through the torment, why should not I? But Alfonso sighed for Lucrezia d’Alagna, a beautiful chaste statue of ice who loved him; whereas I crave the warm-blooded thing that is mine for the taking, but no more loves me than she loves the policeman who salutes her on his beat. I cannot take her. Something stronger than my passion opposes an adamantine barrier. I love her with my soul as well as with my body, and my soul cries out for the soul that the Almighty forgot when endowing her with entity.
This evening a letter from the Editor of The Quarterly Review. It would give him great pleasure if I would contribute a Renaissance article, taking as my text a German, a Russian, and an English attempt to whitewash the Borgia family. Six months ago the compliment would have filled me with gratification. To-day what to me are the whitewashed Borgias or the solemn denizens of the Athenaeum reading-room who will slumber over my account of the blameless poisonings of this amiable family? They are vanity and vexation of a spirit already sore at ease.
As I write the door creaks. I look up. Behold Carlotta in hastily slipped on dressing-gown, open in front, her hair streaming loose to her waist, her bare feet flashing pink beneath her night-dress.
“Oh, Seer Marcous, darling, I am so frightened!”
She ran forward and caught the lappels of my coat as I rose from my chair.
“What is the matter?”
“There is a mouse in my bed.”
Polyphemus saved the situation by jumping from the sofa and rubbing his back against her feet.
“Take the cat and tell him to kill it,” said I, “and go back to bed at once.”
I must have spoken roughly, for she regarded me with her great eyes full of innocent reproach.
“There, take up the cat and go,” I repeated. “You mustn’t come down here looking like that.”
“I thought I looked very pretty,” said Carlotta, moving a step nearer.
I sat down at my writing-table and fixed my eyes on my paper.
“You are like a Houri that has been sent away from Paradise for misbehaviour,” I said.
She laughed her curious cooing laugh.
“Hou! Seer Marcous is shocked!” And she ran, away, rubbing Polyphemus’s nose against her face.
I wonder if the Devil, having grown infirm, is mixing up his centuries and mistaking me for a mediaeval saint? Paphnutius for instance, who was visited by such a seductress. What is the legend? To get rid of her he burns off his hand, whereupon she falls dead. He prays and she returns to life and becomes a nun. No, Messer Diavolo, I am not Paphnutius. I will not maim myself, nor do I want Carlotta to fall dead; and I cannot pray and effect a pietistic resurrection. I am simply a fool of a modern man tempted out of his wits, who scarce knows what it is that he speaks or writes.
I am not superstitious, but I feel myself to-night on the brink of some disaster. I walk restlessly about the room. On the mantel-piece are three photographs in silver frames: Judith, Carlotta, Pasquale. That which is of mockery in the spirit of each seems to-night to be hovering round the portraits and to be making sport of me. An autumn gale is howling among the trees outside, like a legion of lost souls. Listen. Messer Diavolo himself might be riding by with a whoop of derision.
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