The Ballad and the Source (20 page)

“Yes.”

I quite saw the reasonableness of Mrs. Connor's antipathy. The thought of her neglected state distressed me.

“When you said that—about her wanting to say something to you and you knew what it was—what did you mean it was?”

“Take her away. Out of my house. Quickly.
That was what she was saying. All the time.”

“Oh
…”

“I guessed beforehand that it would be so. It did not take me many minutes of her company to be certain. Her personality was strong and fierce, though stifled. We were—fellow conspirators, you might say. I wished to make it clear to her that I
was aware
… and that she could count on me.”

“Did she understand?”

“The event,” said Mrs.
Jardine,
drawing a long breath, “proved that she did.”

“What happened?”

“Harry and I left Florence and returned to France. We had bought our
ch
âteau,
near
Fontainebleau,
not far from Paris, before our marriage; and now we had a busy time decorating, furnishing it, moving in. Naturally my first duty was to Harry, to prepare his home, to fill it with beauty, make it a place of peace, joy and comfort for him and for his friends. We both had so many friends. They flocked to us. We hoped very much to have a child. I—” She paused. “But we were disappointed. That was a grief. But all the same we were happy in our new life together. I wrote regularly now to Ianthe—sending my letters always in a covering envelope addressed to the woman, in order to be sure that they were not intercepted. I knew I could trust her to deliver them. She did. A note came from her. It said:
Your daughter is receiving your letters.
Nothing more.”

“Did Ianthe answer?”

“Never a word. I wrote nothing personal or controversial—merely friendly letters giving an external picture of the beautiful home, the interests I hoped that she would one day share.
My
circle was, of course, musical, literary, artistic, the most distinguished Paris could offer. Ah, and that was something in those days! I felt all that would appeal to
Miss.
I spoke, too, of Harry's tastes and hobbies. He was a passionate ornithologist—that is, he knew all about birds. Did not you realise that? You had not noticed the library in his study? Oh yes, Harry is one of the finest amateur ornithologists in England. Horses were his other great interest. He bred them and raced them. Harry on horseback was a glorious sight. He planned to buy her a horse of her own: it was to be ready waiting in the stables when she came for her first visit. I told her this.”

“Wasn't it kind of him!”

“Harry is the soul of generosity. Oh yes, I wrote with every intention of making our assets clear to her, of tempting her with fair prospects. She might be a prig and a pedant; but worldly enough, I could see that. I tried deliberately to enhance my value to her in terms of worldly goods.”

Mrs. Jardine consulted her watch.

“We will go in now,” she said. “I need my tea. And you, my poor child, are, of course, famished.”

She led the way through the garden door which opened on to the loggia, and we walked together down the print-hung pot-pourri-smelling passage. We went into what she called the flower-room, a kind of closet next door to the pantry, and she took the basket from me, ran water into the sink and plunged the dahlias in. “I will deal with you later,” she said to them. Then she called through the pantry hatch a message to be telephoned to my mother; and we went back to the drawing-room. The tea-table stood spread in the bay window, a bright white and silver block in the subdued glow of chintzes, Aubusson carpet, polished wood, crystal bowls of roses, dahlias, Michaelmas daisies. She busied herself with the spirit lamp and said:

“A few months later I got another note.”

“What did it say?”

“It said:
Your relative called upon me this afternoon. In the absence from home of my husband, your daughter and I received him.”

“What
did
she mean?”

“I had a great friend.” Mrs. Jardine measured out tea from the caddy, poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot, and allowed me to put out the flame with the
long silver snuffer. “A man of rich experience,” she went on. “Brilliantly talented, extravagantly handsome. He had been devoted to me for many years. He was, as a matter of fact, a second cousin on my father's side. He knew my life—my troubles. I confided in him … in a way I could not confide even in Harry. In a sense, Harry was too simple, too uncompromising a nature to take in what was involved. Honest men are no match for knaves. Indeed,” she added in a different key, “to see a typical English gentleman trying conclusions with a sinuous, subtle-witted adversary is one of the most painful, most ludicrous—”

She broke off, bade me help myself to scones and guava jelly, then continued:

“As I was saying, I laid the whole matter before this man, my friend. Whom I trusted.” She spoke these last three words with sudden brusqueness, almost with violence.

“Was he old or—not old?”

“He was—let me see, in the late thirties. In the prime of life. He found occasion to visit Florence. He thought it would be interesting—amusing is how he put it—and of service to me to … to spy out the land there.”

I had never heard her use anything in the nature of a colloquialism before. It made me suspect—I did not know what. She went on speaking in this deliberately flattened way, lapsing occasionally into what, from her, amounted to a vulgarism, and still—since now the crisis of the drama seemed at hand—still, I did not know why. But now I know. Even she could not endure a high-level presentation for the last act; what scorched her heart must be slipped lightly, spitefully off her tongue. She must belittle the tragedy, and despise—not scorn—the actors.

“Did you think,” I said, “it was a good idea?”

“An excellent idea,” she said, with a peculiar little laugh. “Oh, excellent! Why not? An unusually attractive man, one to whom no woman could be indifferent; one who in addition to everything else could offer the tie of cousinship—such an ideal one between the sexes—covering as it does so much romantic emotion without arousing detrimental comment.” She laughed again. “The initial familiarity of blood is there—the mystery is not impaired. Oh, a cousin can provide most valuable experiences.”

I thought of Alan and realised the truth of this.

“What did he—what did you want him to do?” I timidly inquired.

“Want him to do? I? Oh, my dear child, I am no cunning schemer and plotter. Do you imagine that I exploit human beings for my own ends?—set them cynically to partners—for sport, to see what will happen?”

Snubbed, I felt the hot blood flooding over me.

“No,” she said more gently. “Such sport corrupts the player. Besides, it is too dangerous. God knows what will be started up.” Her eyes gave a flick. She stared across the tea-table. “Dear me, no. Though naturally I was anxious to wean her away from the detestable and morbid influences surrounding her.
Such
a messenger, I thought, signed with such richness, such wit, such effortless prestige. … What a privilege for the girl! Not so much a messenger from
me,
you understand … though possibly I counted on his tact, his devotion to me to do me a bit of good with her. … Oh yes, that did occur to me!—but something in the nature of an appetiser… or a medicine, strong, sweet-tasting­­­­, to sicken her of her unwholesome diet. That was his function—if any function I proposed—to myself, I mean … we had too intuitive­­­­, too pervasive an understanding to—”

She sounded agitated, almost confused. In the surprise and interest of observing this, I recovered from my humiliation.

“Oh, and to teach her a few lessons—most necessary lessons!” she snapped out viciously. “I knew what he could do if he had the mind. I was reluctant to be socially embarrassed by a smug censorious little fraud. … In France, where the duties of parenthood are taken seriously, wise fathers personally select a suitable woman to educate their young sons. It is not left to casual and more often squalid opportunity. The result is that Frenchmen understand how to treat women, how to cherish them. Have you noticed how Frenchwomen put a natural value on themselves—as women?”

“Well no, not really,” I murmured, realising that she had forgotten she was talking to me, but feeling that some non-committal­­­­ fill-in was required. I considered Mademoiselle. Perhaps­­­­, I thought, that accounted for her. Perhaps I ought to view her in a more reverent light.

“What
few
Englishwomen have reason or occasion to do, poor wretches—few indeed! Englishmen dislike women: that is the blunt truth of it. I have no son. If I had,
I
should have seen to
him
all right. But why should a girl not receive a similar education? Oh, what an outrageous, what an indecent proposition! Do not you know that in England it is considered immoral to teach a girl the needs of her heart and body?
…
Dear me, dear me! Sometimes one is really led to conclude that maternal vindictiveness is at the bottom of it—imposed inferiority has bred it—as it will.
‘
Let her go through what I did. Let her be unhappy, disappointed, shocked. She will get used to it. I had to: why should
she
not? ‘That seems to be the sort of idea. What a pass to be brought to! How long, I wonder, will ignorance spell purity and knowledge shame?
…
Ah, well! Why should
I
care? I do not, any more.”

She fell silent, breathing deeply. Totally adrift in the storm, I continued to eat scones.

“But in those days,” she continued, speaking as if with indulgent self-contempt, “I was still young, fervent, hopeful: I wished to equip my daughter with what at her age I had so pitifully lacked: some sense of proportion about the other sex. Women need men, you know. They cannot live without them. But are they taught their most important lesson—
how
to live with a man?—what to go for, what to avoid? How to please, how to keep their men? Oh dear me, ho! I was determined that
my
daughter, at least, should not be flung into marriage ignorant, unprepared.”

“Oh, you wanted him to marry her! “ I said enthusiastically, light dawning at last.

“No, I did not,” she said shortly. After a pause she added: “I wanted him to knock the nonsense out of her.”

“I see.”

“Take her out of herself. Shake her up. It was time she fell in love. Quite right and proper at her age.” Her manner momentarily heightening, softening, she went on: “It is the beginning of growing up. The hearts of the young are enclosed in a crystal case. It is this that breaks when they first fall in love. Then the heart is set free to grow, to be moulded into human material. Remember that later, when you think your heart broken by your first love. The heart does not break: only this cold isolating crystal. The heart is exposed for the first time, and of course that is painful: just as a baby finds it painful to be born and cries out in distress at its first nakedness. Oh no, no, no, you do not break a heart with one stroke. …
”

We seemed together again, and I ventured to say, though diffidently: “You wanted them to—you hoped they'd get to love each other?”

She shrugged her shoulders, and said lightly:

“Love is a serious word. I should not have objected to a little romance. I was not planning a grand fireworks display. Heavens, I was not
planning
anything! The situation aroused his curiosity. So did she. Because she was my daughter. He never would believe in her,” she said, smiling in a way that made her suddenly seem like a girl, “although he heard of her often enough, God knows. He loved so to hear
all
my life. This meeting in Florence had so passionately interested him. I discussed her with him, of course.
'
She is a frostbitten kind of creature,' I told him.
‘
And a minx besides. But beautiful—possibilities of
great
beauty. Intelligent. Not without temperament, judging from her eyes.'”

“And what did
he
say?”

“He laughed.
‘
She shall be saved,' he said.”

A figure printed itself suddenly upon my sight. For an instant before it vanished, it was precise, actual as a distant figure caught in a powerful telescope. Though I could not have begun to describe him, I saw the man whose very words these must have been.

“Oh!” I said eagerly. “He was going to take her away from those awful people—bring her to you?”

What I thought an unamused smile crossed her face.

“Oh, do you think so?” she said, with apparent seriousness, as if pondering the suggestion. “I wonder. I wonder if that is what he had in mind. It seems rather
a na
ïve
conception, and there was nothing naif about Paul. In fact, innocence was what he most disliked. It exasperated him. He accused me of it—many a time.”

For a moment she seemed another person, speaking of herself dubiously, almost ruefully, as if for once permitting herself to be objectively reflected through the eyes of another person. In years to come I was now and then to hear her repeat strictures on herself, but always with a kind of surprised indignation, an immediate counter of dogmatic self-justification. This time, this once only, was different. She was recalling a memory with a taste at least as sweet as bitter.

I know now what he meant by her innocence. He must have understood her well—the elemental paradoxes of her nature. Whether she also understood, whether she accepted, from him, the soft word's double edge, I was never to know.

But I told myself even then, floored though I was again, that they must have been great friends, very fond of one another.