Chapter 4

"I am sorry I was such an uncouth brute yesterday," I said--"It was good of you to come back--. Will you forgive me?"

She bowed again. I almost hated her at that moment, she was making me feel so much--A foolish arrogance rose in me--

"We had better get to work I suppose," I went on pettishly.

She began to read--how soft her voice is, and how perfectly cultivated.--Her family must be very refined gentlefolk--ordinary English typists have not that indescribable distinction of tone.

What voices mean to one!--The delight of that exquisite sound of refinement in the pronunciation. Miss Sharp never misplaces an inflection or slurs a word, she never uses slang, and yet there is nothing pedantic in her selection of language--it is just as if her habitual associates were all of the same class as herself, and that she never heard coarse speech.--Who can she be--?

The music of her reading calmed me--how I wish we could be friends--!

"How old is Madame Bizot's grandchild?" I asked abruptly, interrupting.

"Six months," answered Miss Sharp without looking up.

"You like children?"

"Yes--."

"Perhaps you have brothers and sisters?"

"Yes--."

I knew that I was looking at her hungrily--and that she was purposely keeping her lids lowered--.

"How many?"

"Two--."

The tone said, "I consider your questions impertinent--."

I went on--

"Brothers?"

"One brother."

"And a sister?"

"Yes."

"How old?"

"Eleven and thirteen."

"That is quite a gap between your ages then?"

She did not think it necessary to reply to this--there was the faintest impatience in the way she moved the manuscript.

I was so afraid to annoy her further in case she should give me notice to go, that I let her have her way, and returned to work.

But I was conscious of her presence--thrillingly conscious of her presence all the morning. I never once was able to take the work naturally, it was will alone which made me grind out the words.

There was no sign of nervousness in Miss Sharp's manner--I simply did not exist for her--I was a bore, a selfish useless bore of an employer, who was paying her twice as much as anyone else would, and she must in return give the most perfect service. As a man I had no meaning. As a wounded human being she had no pity for me--but I did not want her pity--what did I want?--I cannot write it--I cannot face it--. Am I to have a new torment in my life?--Desiring the unattainable?--Eating my heart out; not that woman can never really love me again, but that, well or ill, the consideration of _one_ woman is beyond my reach--.

Miss Sharp is not influenced because I am or am not a cripple--If I were as I was when I first put on my grenadier's uniform, I should still not exist for her probably--she can see the worthless creature that I am--Need I always be so?--I wish to God I knew.

* * * * *

_Night._

She worked with her usual diligence the entire day almost, not taking the least notice of me, until at five o'clock when my tea came I rang for her--Perhaps it was the irritation reacting upon my sensitive wrenched nerves, but I felt pretty rotten, my hands were damp--another beastly unattractive thing, which as a rule does not happen to me--I asked her to pour out the tea.

"If you will be so kind," I said--"I have let Burton go out"--Mercifully this was true--she came in as a person would who knew you had a right to command--you could not have said if she minded or no.

When she was near me I felt happier for some reason.

She asked me how I took my tea--and I told her--.

"Are you not going to have some with me?" I pleaded.

"Mine is already on my table in the next room--thank you"--and she rose.

In desperation I blurted out--.

"Please--do not go!--I don't know why, but I feel most awfully rotten to-day."

She sat down again and poured out her cup.

"If you are suffering shall I read to you?" she said--"It might send you to sleep--" and somehow I fancied that while her firm mouth never softened, perhaps the eyes behind the horn spectacles might not be so stony. And yet with it all something in me resented her pity, if she felt any. Physical suffering produces some weaknesses which respond to sympathy, and the spirit rages at the knowledge that one has given way. I never felt so mad in all my year of hell that I cannot be a man and fight--as I did at that moment.

A French friend of mine said--In English books people were always having tea--handing cups of tea! Tea, tea--every chapter and every scene--tea! There is a great deal of truth in it--tea seems to bring the characters together--at tea time people talk, it is the excuse to call at that hour of leisure. We are too active as a nation to meet at any other time in the day, except for sport--So tea is our link and we shall go down through the ages as tea fiends--because our novelists who portray life accurately, chronicle that most of the thrilling scenes of our lives pass among tea cups!--I ventured to say all this to Miss Sharp by way of drawing her into conversation.

"What could one describe as the French doing most often?"--I asked her--.

She thought a moment.

"They do not make excuses for anything they do, they have not to have a pretext for action as we have--They are much less hypocritical and self-conscious."

I wanted to make her talk--.

"Why are we such hypocrites?"

"Because we have set up an impossible standard for ourselves, and hate to show each other that we cannot act up to it."

"Yes, we conceal every feeling--We show indifference when we feel interest--We pretend we have come on business when we have come simply to see someone we are attracted by--."

She let the conversation drop. This provoked me, as her last remark showed how far from stupid she is.

That nervous feeling overcame me again--Confound the woman!

"Please read," I said at last in desperation, and I closed my one eye.

She picked up a book--it happened to be a volume of de Musset--and she read at random--her French is as perfect as her English--The last thing I remember was "_Mimi Pinson_"--and when I awoke it was past six o'clock and she had gone home.

I wonder how many of us, since the war, know the desolation of waking--alone and in pain--and helpless--Of course there must be hundreds. If I am a rotter and a coward about suffering, at all events it does not come out in words--and perhaps it is because I am such a mixture that I am able to write it in this journal--If I were purely English I should not be able to let myself go even here--.

Suzette came to dinner--I thought how vulgar she looked--and that if her hands were white they were podgy and the nails short. The three black hairs irritated my cheek when she kissed me--I was brutal and moved my head in irritation--.

"_Tiens?! Mon Ami!_"--she said and pouted.

"Amuse me!" I commanded--.

"So! it is not love then, Nicholas, thou desirest--Bear!"

"Not in the least--I shall never want love again probably. Divert me!--tell me--tell me of your scheming little mouse's brain, and your kind little heart--How is it '_dans le metier_'?"

Suzette settled herself on the sofa, curled up among the pillows like a plump little tabby cat. She lit a cigarette--.

"Very middling," she whiffed--"Cases of love where all my good counsel remains untaken--a madness for drugs--very foolish--A drug--yes to try--but to continue!--_Mon Dieu!_ they will no longer make fortunes '_dans le metier_'--"

"When you have made your fortune, Suzette, what will you do with it?"

"I shall buy that farm for my mother--I shall put Georgine into a convent for the nobility, and arrange a large dot for her--and for me?--I shall gamble in a controlled way at Monte Carlo--."

"You won't marry then, Suzette?"

"Marry!" she laughed a shrill laugh--"For why, Nicholas?--A tie-up to one man, _hein_?--to what good?--and yet who can say--to be an honored wife is the one experience I do not know yet!"--she laughed again--.

"And who is Georgine--you have not spoken of her before, Suzette?"

She reddened a little under her new terra cotta rouge.

"No?--Oh! Georgine is my little first mistake--but I have her beautifully brought up, Nicholas--with the Holy Mother at St. Brieux. I am then her Aunt--so to speak--the wife of a small shop keeper in Paris, you must know--She adores me--and I give all I can to _St. Georges-des-Près_--. Georgine will be a lady and marry the Mayor's son--one day--."

Something touched me infinitely. This queer little _demi-mondaine_ mother--her thoughts set on her child's purity, and the conventional marriage for her--in the future. Her plebeian, insolent little round face so kindly in repose.

I respect Suzette far more than my friends of the world--.

When she left--it was perhaps in bad taste, but I gave her a quite heavy four figure cheque.

"For the education of Georgine--Suzette."

She flung her arms round my neck and kissed me frankly on both cheeks, and tears were brimming over in her merry black eyes.

"Thou hast after all a heart, and art after all a gentleman, Nicholas--_Va!_--"--and she ran from the room.

VI

For two days after I last wrote, I tried not to see Miss Sharp--I gave short moments to my book--and she answered a number of business letters. She knows most of my affairs now,--Burton transmits all the bills and papers to her.--I can hear them talking through the thin door. The excitement of that time I was so rude seems to have used up my vitality, an utter weariness is upon me, I have hardly stirred from my chair.

The ancient guardsman, George Harcourt, came to lunch yesterday. He was as cynically whimsical as ever--He has a new love--an Italian--and until now she has refused all his offers of presents, so he is taking a tremendous interest in her--.

"In what an incredible way the minds of women work, Nicholas!" he said--"They have frequently a very definite aim underneath, but they 'grasshopper'--."

I looked puzzled I suppose--.

"To 'grasshopper' is a new verb!" he announced--"Daisy Ryven coined it.--It means just as you alight upon a subject and begin tackling it, you spring to another one--These lovely American war workers 'grasshopper' continuously.--It is impossible to keep pace with them."

I laughed.

"Yet they seem to have quite a definite aim--to get pleasure out of life."

"To 'grasshopper' does not prevent pleasure to the grasshopper.--It is only fatiguing to the listener. You can have no continued sensible conversation with any of these women--they force you to enjoy only their skins--"

"Can the Contessa talk?"

"She has the languour of the South--She does not jump from one subject to another, she is frankly only interested in love."

"Honestly, George--do you believe there is such a thing as real love?"

"We have discussed this before, Nicholas--You know my views--but I am hoping Violetta will change them. She has just begun to ask daily if I love her"--

"Why do women always do that--even one's little friends continually murmur the question?"

"It is the working of their subconscious minds----Damn good cigars these, my dear boy--pre-war eh?----Yes it is to justify their surrender--They want to be assured _in words_ that you adore them--because you see the actions of love really prove nothing of love itself. A stranger who has happened to appeal to the senses can call them forth quite as successfully as the lady of one's heart!"

"It is logical of women then to ask that eternal question?"

"Quite--I make a point of answering them always without irritation."

----I wonder--if Miss Sharp loved anyone would she?----but I am determined not to speculate further about her--.

When Colonel Harcourt had gone--I deliberately rang my bell--and when she came into the room I found I was not sure what I had rung for--It is the most exasperating fact that Miss Sharp keeps me in a continual state of nervous consciousness.

Her manner was indifferently expectant, if one can use such a paradoxical description--.

"I--I--wondered if you played the piano?--"I blurted out.

She looked surprised--if one can ever say she looks anything, with the expression of her eyes completely hidden. She answered as usual with one word--.

"Yes."

"I suppose you would not play to me?--er--it might give me an inspiration for the last chapter--"

She went and opened the lid of the instrument.

"What sort of music do you like?" she asked.

"Play whatever you think I would appreciate."

She began a Fox trot, she played it with unaccountable spirit and taste, so that the sound did not jar me--but the inference hurt a little. I said nothing, however. Then she played "Smiles," and the sweet commonplace air said all sorts of things to me--Desire to live again, and dance, and enjoy foolish pleasures--How could this little iceberg of a girl put so much devilment into the way she touched the keys? If it had not been for the interest this problem caused me, the longing the sounds aroused in me to be human again, would have driven me mad.

No one who can play dance music with that lilt can be as cold as a stone--.

From this she suddenly turned to Debussy--she played a most difficult thing of his--I can't remember its name--then she stopped.

"Do you like Debussy?" I asked.

"No, not always."

"Then why did you play it?"

"I supposed you would."

"If you had said in plain words, 'I think you are a rotter who wants first dance music, then an unrestful modern decadent, brilliantly clever set of disharmonies,' you could not have expressed your opinion of me more plainly."

She remained silent--I could have boxed her ears.

I leaned back in my chair, perhaps I gave a short harsh sigh--if a sigh can be harsh--I was conscious that I had made some explosive sound.

She turned back to the piano again and began "Waterlily" and then "1812"--and the same strange quivering came over me that I experienced when I heard the cooing of the child.--My nerves must be in an awful rotten state--Then a longing to start up and break something shook me, break the windows, smash the lamp--yell aloud--I started to my one leg--and the frightful pain of my sudden movement did me good and steadied me.

Miss Sharp had left the piano and came over to me--.

"I am afraid you did not like that," she said--"I am so sorry"--her voice was not so cold as usual.

"Yes I did--" I answered--"forgive me for being an awful ass--I--I--love music tremendously, you see--"

She stood still for a moment--I was balancing myself by the table, my crutch had fallen. Then she put out her hand.

"Can I help you to sit down again?"--she suggested.

And I let her--I wanted to feel her touch--I have never even shaken hands with her before. But when I felt her guiding me to the chair, the maddest desire to seize her came over me--to seize her in my arms to tear off those glasses, to kiss those beautiful blue eyes they hid--to hold her fragile scrap of a body tight against my breast, to tell her that I loved her--and wanted to hold her there, mine and no one else's in all the world----My God! what am I writing--I must crush this nonsense--I must be sane--. But--what an emotion! The strongest I have ever felt about a woman in my life--.

When I was settled in the chair again--things seemed to become blank for a minute and then I heard Miss Sharp's voice with a tone--could it be of anxiety? in it? saying "Drink this brandy, please." She must have gone to the dining-room and fetched the decanter and glass from the case, and poured it out while I was not noticing events.

I took it.

Again I said--"I am awfully sorry I am such an ass."

"If you are all right now--I ought to go back to my work," she remarked--.

I nodded--and she went softly from the room. When I was alone, I used every bit of my will to calm myself--I analysed the situation. Miss Sharp loathes me--I cannot hold her by any means if she decides to go--. The only way I can keep her near me is by continuing to be the cool employer--And to do this I must see her as little as possible--because the profound disturbance she is able to cause in me, reacts upon my raw nerves--and with all the desire in the world to behave like a decent, indifferent man, the physical weakness won't let me do so, and I am so bound to make a consummate fool of myself.

When I was in the trenches and the shells were coming, and it was beastly wet and verminy and uncomfortable, I never felt this feeble, horrible quivering--I know just what funk is--I felt it the day I did the thing they gave me the V.C. for. This is not exactly funk--I wish I knew what it was and could crush it out of myself--.

Oh! if I could only fight again!--that was the best sensation in life--the zest--the zest!--What is it which prompts us to do decent actions? I cannot remember that I felt any exaltation specially--it just seemed part of the day's work--but how one slept! How one enjoyed any old thing--!

Would it be better to end it all and go out quite? But where should I go?--the _me_ would not be dead.--I am beginning to believe in reincarnation. Such queer things happened among the fellows--I suppose I'd be born again as ugly of soul as I am now--I must send for some books upon the subject and read it up--perhaps that might give me serenity.

The Duchesse returned yesterday. I shall go and see her this afternoon I think,--perhaps she could suggest some definite useful work I could do--It is so abominably difficult, not being able to get about. What did she say?--She said I could pray--I remember--she had not time, she said--but the _Bon Dieu_ understood--I wonder if He understands me--? or am I too utterly rotten for Him to bother about?

* * * * *

The Duchesse was so pleased to see me--she kissed me on both cheeks--.

"Nicholas! thou art better!" she said--"As I told you--the war is going to end well--!"

"And how is the book?" she asked presently--"It should be finished--I am told that your work is intermittent--."

My mind jumped to Maurice as the connecting link--the Duchesse of course must have seen him--but I myself have seen very little of Maurice lately--how did he know my work was intermittent--?

"Maurice told you?" I said.

"Maurice?"--her once lovely eyes opened wide--she has a habit of screwing them up sometimes when she takes off her glasses.--"Do you suppose I have been on a _partie de plaisir_, my son--that I should have encountered Maurice--!"

I dared not ask who was her informant--.

"Yes, I work for several days in succession, and then I have no ideas. It is a pretty poor performance anyway--and is not likely to find a publisher."

"You are content with your Secretary?"

This was said with an air of complete indifference. There was no meaning in it of the kind Madame de Clerté would have instilled into the tone.

"Yes--she is wonderfully diligent--it is impossible to dislodge her for a moment from her work. She thinks me a poor creature I expect."

The Duchesse's eyes, half closed now, were watching me keenly--.

"Why should she think that, Nicholas--you can't after all fight."

"No----but--."

"Get well, my boy--and these silly introspective fancies will leave you--Self analysis all the time for those who sit still--they imagine that they matter to the _Bon Dieu_ as much as a _Corps d'Armée_--!"

"You are right, Duchesse, that is why I said Miss Sharp--my typist--probably thinks me a poor creature--she gets at my thoughts when I dictate."

"You must master your thoughts----"

And then with a total change of subject she remarked.

"Thou art not in love, Nicholas?"

I felt a hot flush rise to my face--What an idiotic thing to do--more silly than a girl--Again how I resent physical weakness reacting on my nerves.

"In love!"--I laughed a little angrily--"With whom could I possibly be in love, _chère amie_?! You would not suggest that Odette or Coralie or Alice could cause such an emotion!"

"Oh! for them perhaps no--they are for the senses of men--they are the exotic flowers of this forcing time--they have their uses--although I myself abhor them as types--but--is there no one else?"

"Solonge de Clerté?--Daisy Ryven?--both with husbands--."

"Not as if that prevented things" the Duchesse announced reflectively--"Well, well--Some of my _blessés_ show just your symptoms, Nicholas, and I discover almost immediately it is because they are in love--with the brain--with the imagination you must understand--that is the only dangerous kind--. When it is with a pretty face alone--a good dose and a new book helps greatly."

"There would be no use in my being in love, Duchesse--"

"It would depend upon the woman--you want sympathy and a guiding hand--_Va!_--"

Sympathy and a guiding hand!

"I liked ruling and leading when I was a man--"

"----We all have our ups and downs--I like my own bed--but last night an extra batch of _blessés_ came in--and I had to give it up to one whose back was a mass of festers--he would have lain on the floor else--. What will you--_hein?_--We have to learn to accommodate ourselves to conditions, my son."

Suddenly the picture of this noble woman's courage came to me vividly, her unvarying resourcefulness--her common sense--her sympathy with humanity--her cheerfulness--I never heard her complain or repine, even when fate took her only son at Verdun--Such as these are the glory of France--and Coralie and Odette and Alice seemed to melt into nothingness--.

"The war will be finished this autumn--" she told me presently--"and then our difficult time will begin--. Quarrels for all the world--Not good fighting--But you will live to see a Renaissance, Nicholas--and so prepare for it."

"What can I do, dear friend--If you knew how much I want to do something!"

"Your first duty is to get well.--Have yourself patched together--finished so to speak, and then marry and found a family to take the place of all who have perished. It was good taste when I was young not to have too many--but now!--France wants children--and England too. There is a duty for you, Nicholas!"

I kissed her hand--.

"If I could find a woman like you!" I cried--"indeed then I would worship her--."

"So--so--! There are hundreds such as I--when I was young I lived as youth lives--You must not be too critical, Nicholas."

She was called away then, back to one of the wards, and I hobbled down the beautiful staircases by myself--the lift was not working. The descent was painful and I felt hot and tired when I reached the ground floor, it was quite dusk then, and the one light had not yet been lit. A slight wisp of a figure passed along the end of the corridor. I could not see plainly, but I could have sworn it was Miss Sharp--I called her name--but no one answered me so I went on out,--the servant, aged ninety, now joining me, he assisted me into my one horse Victoria beyond the concierge's lodge.

Miss Sharp and the Duchesse!--? Why if this is so have I never been told about it?--The very moment Maurice returns I must get him to investigate all about the girl--In the meantime I think I shall go to Versailles--. I cannot stand Paris any longer--and the _masseur_ can come out there, it is not an impossible distance away.

VII

RESERVOIRES, VERSAILLES. September 10th.