Man and Maid
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Elinor Glyn >> Man and Maid
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These thoughts tormented me so all yesterday that I was quite feverish
by the evening--and Burton wore an air of thorough disapproval. A rain
shower came on too, and I could not go up on the terrace for the sunset.
I would like to have taken asperines and gone to sleep, when night
came--but I resisted the temptation, telling myself that to-morrow she
would come again.
I am dawdling over this last chapter on purpose--and I have re-read the
former ones and decided to rewrite one or two, but at best I cannot
spread this out over more than six weeks, I fear, and then what excuse
can I have for keeping her? I feel that she would not stay just to
answer a few letters a day, and do the accounts and pay the bills with
Burton. I feel more desperately miserable than I have felt since last
year--And I suppose that according to her theory, I have to learn a
lesson. It seems if I search, as she said one must do without vanity,
that the lesson is to conquer emotion, and be serene when everything
which I desire is out of reach.
* * * * *
_Saturday Night:_
To-day has been one of utter disaster and it began fairly well. Miss
Sharp turned up at eleven as I shut my journal. I had sent to the
station to meet her this time--She brought all the work she had taken
away with her on Thursday, quite in order--and her face wore the usual
mask. I wonder if I had not ever seen her without her glasses if I
should have realized now that she is very pretty--I can see her
prettiness even with them on--her nose is so exquisitely fine, and the
mouth a Cupid's bow really--if one can imagine a Cupid's bow very firm.
I am sure if she were dressed as Odette, or Alice, or Coralie, she would
be lovely. This morning when she first came I began thinking of this and
of how I should like to give her better things than any of the fluffies
have ever had--how I would like her to have some sapphire bangles for
those little wrists and a great string of pearls round that little
throat--my mother's pearls--and perhaps big pearls in those shell
ears--And how I would like to take her hair down and brush it out, and
let it curl as it wanted to--and then bury my face in it--those stiff
twists must take heaps of hair to make.--But why am I writing all this
when the reality is further off than ever, and indeed has become an
impossibility I fear.
We worked in the sitting-room--it was a cloudy day--and presently, after
I had been dreaming on in this way, I asked her to read over the
earlier chapters of the book.--She did--.
"Now what do you think of the thing as a whole?" I asked her.
She was silent for a moment as though trying not to have to answer
directly, then that weird constitutional honesty seemed to force out the
words.
"It perhaps tells what that furniture is."
"You feel it is awful rot?"
"No--."
"What then?"
"It depends if you mean to publish it?"
I leaned back and laughed--bitterly! the realization that she understood
so completely that it was only a "_soulagement_"--an "asperine" for me,
so to speak as the Duchesse said--cut in like a knife. I had the
exasperated feeling that I was just being pandered to, humored by
everyone, because I was wounded. I was an object of pity, and even my
paid typist--but I can't write about it.
Miss Sharp started from her chair, her fine nostrils were quivering, and
her mouth had an expression I could not place.
"Indeed, it is not bad," she said--"You misunderstand me--."
I knew now that she was angry with herself for having hurt me--and that
I could have made capital out of this, but something in me would not let
me do that.
"Oh--it is all right--" I replied, but perhaps my voice may have been
flat and discouraged--for she went on so kindly.
"You know a great deal about the subject of course--but I feel the
chapters want condensing--May I tell you just where?"
I felt that the thing did not interest me any more, one way or another,
it was just a ridiculous non-essential--. I saw it all in a new
perspective--but I was glad she seemed kindly--though for a moment even
that appeared of less importance. Something seemed to have numbed me.
What, what could be the good of anything?--the meaning of anything?--I
unconsciously put my head back against the cushion of my chair in
weariness--I felt the soft silk and shut my eye for a moment.
When Miss Sharp spoke again, her voice was full of sympathy--and was it
remorse--?
"I would like to help you to take interest in it--again--won't you let
me?" she pleaded.
I was grateful that she did not say she was sorry she had hurt me--that
I could not have stood--.
I opened my eye now and looked at her, she was bending nearer to me, but
I felt nothing particular, only a desire to go to sleep and have done
with it all. It was as if the fabric of my make-believe had been rent
asunder.
"It is very good of you," I answered politely--"Yes--say what you
think."
Her tact is immense--she plunged straight into the subject without
further imputation of sympathy,--her voice, full of inflections of
interest and friendliness, her constrained self-control laid aside for
the time. She spoke so intelligently, showing trained critical
faculties--and at last my numbness began gradually to melt, and I could
not help some return of sensation. There may have been soothing syrup in
the fact that she must have been interested in the work, or she could
not have dissected it chapter by chapter, point by point, as she was
doing.
She grew animated as we discussed things, and once unconsciously took
off her glasses--It was like the sun coming out after days of storm
clouds--her beautiful, beautiful blue eyes!--My "heart gave a bound"--(I
believe that is the way to express what I mean!)--I felt a strange
emotion of excitement and pleasure--I had not time to control my
admiration, I expect,--for she took fright and instantly replaced them,
a bright flush in her cheeks--and went on talking in a more reserved
way--Alas!--
Of course then I realized that she does not wear the glasses for any
reason of softening light or of defective sight, but simply to hide
those blue stars and make herself unattractive--.
How mysterious it all is!--
I wish I had been able to conceal the fact that I had noticed that the
glasses were off--Another day I would certainly have taken advantage of
this moment and would have tried to make her confess the reason of her
wearing them; but some odd quality in me prevented me from reaping any
advantage from this situation, so I let the chance pass.--Perhaps she
was grateful to me, for she warmed up a little again.
I began to feel that I might write the fool of a book right over from
the beginning--and suggested to her that we should take it in detail.
She acquiesced--.
Then it suddenly struck me that she had not only spoken of style in
writing, of method in book making--but had shown an actual knowledge of
the subject of the furniture itself.--How could little Miss Sharp, a
poverty stricken typist, be familiar with William and Mary furniture?
She has obviously not "seen better days," and only taken up a
stenographic business lately, because such proficiency as she shows, not
only in this work but in account keeping and all the duties of a
secretary, must have required a steady professional training.
Could she have studied in Museums?
But the war has been on for four years and I had gathered that she has
been in Paris all that time--Even if she had left England in 1914, she
could only have been eighteen or nineteen then, and girls of that age do
not generally take an interest in furniture. This thought kept bothering
me--and I was silent for some moments. I was weighing things up.
Her voice interrupted my thoughts.
"The Braxted chair has the first of the knotted fringes known"--it was
saying.
I had spoken of the Braxted chair--but had not recorded this fact--.
How the devil could she have known about it?
"Where did you find that?"
"I knew someone who had seen it--" she answered in the same voice, but
her cheeks grew pinker--.
"You have never seen it yourself?"
"No--I have never been in England--."
"----Never been in England?"
I was stupefied.
She went on hurriedly--I was going to write feverishly,--so quickly did
she rush into questions of method in arranging the chapters, her armour
was on again--she had become cautious, and was probably annoyed with
herself for ever having allowed herself to slip off her guard.
I knew that I could disconcert her, and probably obtain some interesting
admissions from her--and have a thrilling fencing match, but some
instinct warned me not to do so--I might win out for the time being, but
if she has a secret which she does not wish me to discover, she will
take care not again to put herself in a situation where this can happen.
I have the apprehension always hanging, like Damocles' sword, over my
head, of her relinquishing her post. Besides, why should I trouble her
for my own satisfaction?--However, I registered a vow then that I would
find out all I could from Maurice.
The inference of everything she says, does and unconsciously infers, is
that she is a cultivated lady, accustomed to talking with people of our
world--people who know England and its great houses well enough to have
made her familiar with the knowledge of where certain pieces of famous
furniture are.--The very phrasing of her sentences is the phrasing of
our Shibboleth, and not the phrasing of the professional classes.
And yet--she is meanly dressed--does housework--and for years must have
been trained in professional business methods. It is profoundly
interesting.
I have never even questioned Maurice as to how he heard of her.
Well, I write all this down calmly, the record of the morning, to let
myself look back on it, and to where the new intimacy might have led us,
but for the sickening end to the day.
Burton did not question her lunching with me this time--he had given the
order as a matter of course--He is very fine in his distinctions, and
understood that to make any change after she once had eaten with me
would be invidious.
By the time the waiters came in to lay the table, that sense of hurt,
and then of numbness, had worn off--I was quite interested again in the
work, and intensely intrigued about the possible history of the Sharp
family!
I was using cunning, too, and displaying casual indifference, so
watchfulness was allowed to rest a little with the strange girl.
"I believe if you will give me your help I shall be able to make quite
a decent book of it after all,--but does it not seem absurd to trouble
about such thing's as furniture with the world in ruins and Empires
tottering!"--I remarked while the ark-relic handed the omelette--.
"All that is only temporary--presently people will be glad to take up
civilized interests again."
"You never had any doubt as to how the war would end?"
"Never."
"Why?"
"Because I believe in the gallantry of France, and the tenacity of
England, and the--youth of America."
"And what of Germany?"
"The vulgarity."
This was quite a new reason for Germany's certain downfall--! It
delighted me--.
"But vulgarity does not mean weakness!"
"Yes it does--Vulgar people have imperfect sensibilities, and cannot
judge of the psychology of others, they appraise everything by their own
standard--and so cannot calculate correctly possible contingencies--that
shows weakness."
"How wise you are--and how you think!"
She was silent.
"All the fighting nations will be filled with vulgarians even when we do
win, though with most of the decent people killed--" I ventured to
say--.
"Oh! no--Lots of their souls are not vulgar, only their environment has
caused their outward self-expression to seem so. Once you get below the
pompous _bourgeoisie_ in France, for instance, the more delightful you
find the spirit, and I expect it is the same in England. It is the
pretentious aspiring would-bes who are vulgar--and Germany seems filled
with them,"
"You know it well?"
"Yes, pretty well."
"If it is not a frightfully impertinent question--how old are you
really, Miss Sharp--?" I felt that she could not be only twenty-three
after this conversation.
She smiled--the second smile I have seen--.
"On the twentieth of October I shall be twenty-four."
"Where on earth did you learn all your philosophy of life in the time!"
"It is life which teaches us everything--if we are not half
asleep--especially if it is difficult--."
"And the stupid people are like me--not liking to learn any lessons and
kicking against the pricks--.",
"Yes--."
"I would try to learn anything you would teach me though, Miss Sharp."
"Why?"
"Because I have confidence in you"--I did not add--because I loved her
voice and respected her character and----.
"Thank you"--she said.
"Will you teach me?"
"What?"
"How not to be a rotter--."
"A man knows that himself--."
"How to learn serenity then?"
"That would be difficult."
"Am I so impossible?"
"I cannot say--but."
"But--what?"
"One would have to begin from the beginning--."
"Well?"
"And I have not time--."
I looked at her as she said this--there was in the tone a faint echo of
regret, so I wanted to see the expression of her mouth--It told me
nothing.
I could not get anything further out of her, because the waiters came in
and out after this rather frequently, changing the courses--and so I did
not have any success.
After lunch I suggested as it had cleared up that we should go at least
as far as the parterre, and sit under the shadow of the terrace--the
flower beds are full of beans now--their ancient glories departed. Miss
Sharp followed my bath chair,--and with extreme diligence kept me to the
re-arranging of the first chapter. For an hour I watched her darling
small face whenever I could. A sense of peace was upon me. We were
certainly on the first rung of the ladder of friendship--and
presently--presently--If only I could keep from annoying her in any way!
When we had finished our task she rose--.
"If you don't mind, as it is Saturday I have promised Burton"--and she
looked at him, seated on a chair beyond earshot enjoying the sun--"to do
up the accounts and prepare the cheques for you to sign--. So I will go
in now and begin."
I wanted to say "Damn the accounts"--but I let her go--I must play the
tortoise in this game, not the hare. She smiled faintly--the third
smile--as she made me a little bow, and walked off.
After a few paces she came back again.
"May I ask Burton for the bread ticket I lent you on Thursday," she
said--"No one can afford to be generous with them now, can they!"
I was delighted at this. I would have been delighted at anything which
kept her with me an extra minute.
I watched her as she disappeared down towards the Reservoirs with
longing eyes, then I must have dozed for a while, because it was a
quarter to five when I got back to my sitting-room.
And when I was safely in my chair there was a knock on the door, and in
she came--with a cheque-book in her hand. Before I opened it or even
took it up I knew something had happened which had changed her again.
Her manner had its old icy respect as of a person employed, all the
friendliness which had been growing in the last two or three days had
completely departed. I could not imagine why--.
She put the cheque-book open, and handed me a pen to sign with, and then
I signed the dozen that she had filled in, and tore them off as I did
so. She was silent, and when I had finished she took them, saying
casually that she would bring the corrected chapter typed again on
Tuesday, and was now going to catch her train--and before I could reply,
she had gone into the other room--.
A frightful sense of depression fell upon me--What could it possibly
be--?
Idly I picked up the cheque-book--and absently fingered the leaves--then
my eye caught a counterfoil where I had chanced to open it. It was not
in Miss Sharp's handwriting, although this was the house cheque-book
which Burton usually keeps, but in my own and there was written, just
casually as I scribble in my private account.--"For Suzette 5000 francs"
and the date of last Saturday--and on turning the page there was the
further one of "For Suzette 3000 francs" and the date of Monday!!
The irony of fate!--I had picked this cheque-book up inadvertently I
suppose on these two days instead of my own.
X
It is quite useless for me to comment upon the utterly annoying
circumstance of that mixup of cheque-books--Such things are fate--and
fate I am beginning to believe is nothing but a reflex of our own
actions. If Suzette had not been my little friend, I should not have
given her eight thousand francs--but as she has been--and I did--I must
stand by the consequences.
After all--a man?--Well--what is the use of writing about it. I am so
utterly mad and resentful that I have no words.
It is Sunday morning, and this afternoon I shall hire the one motor
which can be obtained here, at a fabulous price, and go into Paris.
There are some books I want to get out of my bookcase--and somehow I
have lost interest here. But this morning I shall go and sit in the
parish church and hear Mass.--I feel so completely wretched, the music
may comfort me and give me courage to forget all about Miss Sharp. And
in any case there is a soothing atmosphere in a Roman Catholic church,
which is agreeable. I love the French people! They are a continual
tonic, if one takes them rightly. So filled with common sense, simply
using sentiment as an ornament, and a relaxation; and never allowing it
to interfere with the practical necessities of life. Ignorant people say
they are hysterical, and over passionate--They are nothing of the
kind--They believe in material things, and in the "_beau geste_." Where
they require a religion, they accept a comforting one; and meanwhile
they enjoy whatever comes in their way and get through disagreeables
philosophically. _Vive la France!_
* * * * *
I am waiting for the motor now--and trying to be resigned.--Mass did me
good--I sat in a corner and kept my crutch by me. The Church itself told
me stories, I tried to see it in Louis XV's time--I dare say it looked
much the same, only dirtier--And life was made up with etiquette and
forms and ceremonies, more exasperating than anything now. But they were
ahead of us in manners, and a sense of beauty.
A little child came and sat beside me for about ten minutes, and looked
at me and my crutch sympathetically.
"_Blesse de la guerre_," I heard her whisper to her mother--"_Comme
Jean_."
The organ was not bad--and before I came out I felt calmer.
After all it is absurd of Miss Sharp to be disgusted about Suzette--She
must know, at nearly twenty-four, and living in France, that there are
Suzettes--and I am sure she is not narrow-minded in any way--What can
have made her so censorious? If she took a personal interest in me it
would be different, but entirely indifferent as she is, how can it
matter to her?--As I write this, that hot sense of anger and rebellion
arises in me--I'll have to keep saying to myself that I am in the
trenches again and must not complain.
I'll make Burton find out if Coralie is really staying here, and get her
to dine with me to-night--Coralie always pretended to have a _beguin_
for me--even when most engaged elsewhere.
* * * * *
_Monday:_
Sunday was a memorable day--.
I went through the _Bois de Marne_ on that bad road because the trees
were so lovely--and then through the _parc de St. Cloud_. Even in war
time this wonderful people can enjoy the open air life!--
I think of Henriette d' Angleterre looking from the terrace of her
Chateau over the tree tops--The poor Chateau! not a stone of which is
standing to-day--Did she feel sentimental with her friend the Comte de
Guiche--as I would like to feel now?--If I had someone to be sentimental
with. Alas! There was an ominous hot stillness in the air, and the sky
beyond the Eiffel tower had a heavy, lurid tone in it.
When we got across the river into the _Bois de Boulogne_ it seemed as if
all Paris was enjoying a holiday. I told the chauffeur to go down a side
_allee_ and to go slowly, and presently I made him draw up at the side
of the road. It was so hot, and I wanted to rest for a little, the
motion was jarring my leg.
I think I must have been half asleep, when my attention was caught by
three figures coming up another by-path obliquely--the tallest of them
was undoubtedly Miss Sharp--but Miss Sharp as I had never seen her
before!--
And a boy of thirteen, and a girl of eleven were at either side of her,
the boy clinging on to her arm, he was lame and seemed to be a
dreadfully delicate, rickety person. The little girl was very small and
sickly looking too--but Miss Sharp--my secretary!--appeared blooming and
young and lovely in her inexpensive foulard frock--No glasses hid her
blue eyes. Her hair was not torn back and screwed into a knot, but might
have been dressed by Alice's maid--and her hat, the simplest thing
possible, was most becoming, with the proper modish "look."--
Refinement and perfect taste proclaimed themselves from every inch of
her, even if everything had only cost a small sum.
So that dowdy get-up is for my benefit, and is not habitual to her!--Or
is it, that she has only one costume and keeps it for Sundays and days
of _fete_?--
In spite of my determination to put all thought of her from me--a wild
emotion arose--a passionate longing to spring from the car and join
her--to talk to her, and tell her how lovely I thought she was looking.
They came nearer and nearer--I could see that her face was rippling with
smiles at something the little brother had said--Its expression was
gentle and sympathetic and it was obvious that fond affection held all
three.
The children might have been drawn by Du Maurier in Punch long ago, to
express a family who were overbred. Race run to seed expressed itself in
every line of them. The boy wore an Eton jacket and collar and a tall
hat--and it looked quite strange in this place.
As they got close to me I could hear him cough in the hollow way which
tells its own story--.
I cowered down behind the hood of the motor, and they passed without
seeing me--or perhaps Miss Sharp did see me but was determined not to
look--. I felt utterly alone and deserted by all the world--and the same
nervous trembling came over me which once before made me suffer so, and
again I was conscious that my cheek was wet with a tear.
The humiliation of it! the disgrace of such feebleness!--
When they had gone by, I started forward again to watch them--I could
hear the little girl cry, "Oh! look Alathea!" as she pointed to the sky,
and then all three began to quicken their pace down another _allee_, in
the direction of Auteuil, and were soon out of sight.
Then, still quivering with emotion, I too glanced heavenward--Ye Gods!
what a storm was coming on--!
Where were they going? there into the deep wood?--it was a good mile or
two from the Auteuil gate--They would be soaked to the skin when the
rain did commence to fall--and there was a thunder storm beginning
also--were they quite safe?
All these thoughts tormented me, and I gave the chauffeur orders to take
a road I thought might cut across the path they had followed, and when
we reached the spot, I made him wait.
The livid lightning rent the sky and the thunder roared like guns, and
the few people in sight rushed, panic-stricken, in a hopeless search for
shelter--far greater fear on their faces than they show at German bombs.
My chauffeur complained audibly, as he got down to shut the car--Did
Monsieur wish to be struck by lightning? he demanded, very enraged.
Still I waited--but no Sharp family appeared--and at last I knew I had
missed them somehow--a very easy thing in that path-bisected wood. So I
told him he could drive like hell to my _appartement_ in the _Place des
Etats Unis_--and off we rushed in the now torrential rain--It was one of
the worst thunder storms I have ever seen in my life.
I was horribly worried as to what could have happened to that little
party, for that _allee_ where I had seen them, was in the very middle of
the _Bois_, and far from any gate or shelter. They must have got soaking
wet if nothing worse had happened to them. And how could I hear anything
about them?--What should I do? Was the Duchesse in Paris?--Could I find
the address possibly from her? But would she be likely to know it? just
because Miss Sharp--"Alathea"--(what a lovely Greek name!) brought
bandages to the hospital?
However, this was worth trying, and I could hardly wait to get out of
the motor, and get to the telephone. The _concierge_ came out with an
umbrella in great concern and took me up in the lift herself--and there
was Burton waiting for me, he had come in by train to take me back
safely later on.
How I cursed my folly in not having asked Miss Sharp herself for her
address! Could Burton possibly know it?--How silly of me not to have
thought of that before!
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