Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 701
‘That’s swell, Joe... But keep it for... oh, whoopee!’ He had not for twenty years felt so near her.
They got it eventually fairly well mapped out - on the basis of two-third investment and one-third gambling.
... And, having arrived at that he put to her a proposal that he had long had in his head. It was a measure at once of justice and of prudence. This was nothing less than the conveying to her of stocks enough to represent one-third of the money. He pointed out that, in his testamentary arrangements, she already stood to have one-third of his estate as her absolute property at his death. The rest went eventually to the Post Memorial Hostel at Hertford, England... She might just as well have that one-third now. Even if - which seemed unlikely - he ever came to need capital for a new departure in business, he would not use the capital without her approval. In that case she would no doubt be ready to invest some of her own money in the venture.
She looked round at him friendlily.
‘That’s generous of you, Joe,’ she said, ‘but it’s what was to be expected of you... In that case I will take the expenses of the children off your hands...You never wanted the children. It has been unfair to you.’
He said: No! They had been such a pleasure to her. If she wanted the additional pleasure of really maintaining them herself he would not say no: but in that case she had better have a little more of the capital.
She said:
‘No! I insist upon that. You’re a good man, Joe, my dear...You ought never to have been burdened with the children. It was most unfair.’ She added after a long pause:
You ought to have had children of your own. You would have been a good father...Yes, that too has been unfair to you... I am not unconscious of it.’
It had been then that he had said:
‘Would you, perhaps, consider... Might it be a convenience to you... to divorce?...’
He had hardly expected an answer; he hardly knew why he had asked.
She looked sharply - agitatedly - round at him and exclaimed:
‘You haven’t...’ and after a long pause, when she had looked away, fixedly, at the fire, *... heard...’ She had started forward in her chair.
It had struck him as queer that both his women and his best — his only - friend should have the trick of putting their hands to their hearts. Elspeth had certainly put her hand over her heart. When she had looked round at him her face was peaked. She had not paled; she remained fresh and high-coloured. It was as if her features had diminished and become more pointed. He said: ‘You haven’t, perhaps, any money in... What is it?... United English Brickfields?’ He could not exactly remember the name of the stock whose London curb prices the radio announcer had that afternoon quoted.... But she had looked and started just now exactly as she had done then.
She exclaimed:
‘Heavens, no!... Do you think I am mad?... Do you think I would get into a battle of... giants?’
He said:
‘I don’t know... I thought you were worried... I could not know any other reason...’
She looked round at him now very deliberately keeping her eyes coolly fixed upon his face. She said:
‘You used the words “a convenience”... a convenience to me to divorce... What did you mean?’
He answered:
‘I don’t know... I was thinking... We have agreed, I believe, not to talk — Please let us drop the matter...
She said:
‘No... Please develop what was in your mind... What was it that we agreed not to talk about?... Have you, perhaps, another woman?... A woman, that is to say....’
He exclaimed:
‘No... No!’ In the sudden acuteness of this conversation that demanded all the mind that he had, Henrietta Felise was effaced from his thoughts. His denial came with all the energy of complete truthfulness. He added nevertheless:
‘I won’t deny that if I could have... a home... domesticity... Oh, tenderness... That wasn’t, however, what I was thinking of.... I was thinking of you....’
She said:
‘Oh, poor fellow... You ought to have children. We ought to have had them from the first. We ought not to have...
‘It might,’ he said, ‘have kept us together...
‘Or,’ she said, ‘we should have left each other sooner....’
‘It was that,’ he interrupted, ‘that I had in my mind... It has not, perhaps, done us much good - our remaining under the same roof... So that if it could do you any good...’ A sudden feeling that perhaps this was duplicity - that perhaps, in spite of himself, he was actually thinking of Henrietta Felise - made him halt in his stride.
He said:
‘You see... I was thinking, this afternoon... Looking at you... You’re grey... Oh, but a fine woman, still... I did not mean grey-haired... Your hair is... swell. Fine... I meant as if your life were grey... No kick: no pep....’
She said:
Whose life has? After forty?...’ But he was away, blurting out his involuntary phrases:
I mean... Years ago... Ten, fifteen... Time goes on... There was a man...You know. Please forgive me if...I never knew who it... I thought it was an artist... You’d have had more pep with an artist... They say women have... More highbrow conversation, they say... And it struck me this afternoon: “What if she’s still... Still oh, hang it, regretting.” That would be a pretty grey proposition! That’s why I said “grey”!’
She had hung down her head. He supposed her to be crying, or at least to have tears in her eyes. He could not see her eyes.
‘So that,’ he blurted out, ‘if he and you still... Or perhaps you haven’t kept in touch... It struck me like a sudden revelation... One does have sudden revelations... I have no doubt been a brute. It is disagreeable suddenly to discover that one may have been a brute...’
She said:
‘All that is too late... I don’t mean your discovery as to yourself. You haven’t been a brute, my dear... I mean: Do you suppose constancy endures for... fifteen years?’
There was a curious edge to her voice in the back of her throat. He knew that she was lying, sardonically - as if to a very dense man... But what was the lie: Was it when she said that she did not think him a brute? Or when she said it was too late?
But when she said ‘fifteen years’... Ah, that was truly horrible!
If, for fifteen years she had been enduring... And perhaps was still enduring separation... There is nothing more terrible than hopeless love. You would say it was easy enough. There you are. You sit in a chair. You walk to the sideboard and see what there is for breakfast. But always the pain is there; the dull ache; thirst. You move your hand to the right, for distraction. It does not distract you. You shake your mind free as a Newfoundland shakes its coat free of water. You say: ‘I am whole. A man. Damn it all, what is this that has got hold of me?’ And slowly it settles down again... And that for years... Time passing; the spring returning...You say: ‘Perhaps by midsummer... Perhaps by Michaelmas...’
He ought never to have held that woman.
She said, monotonously, looking at the Velasquez copy above the fireplace:
‘Twenty... Fifteen... years ago. On the coast. Well, divorce was un-American... Now, here... It’s perhaps the most American institution there is... The papers say so. But I can’t feel it... You see, we made great sacrifices... We ought, of course, to have had children. But, at first we couldn’t afford it. After that, I wasn’t going to have them... Not by you... Get me a highball... Have one yourself....’
He went round the screen... An ejaculation tore itself from his lips... There was a man standing beside the telephone... Hiding it.... A shadow... A man... In slops hitched over the shoulder. Elspeth said: ‘What is it?’
He answered: ‘Nothing. I stubbed my toe.’
It was, of course, himself... Leaning over the telephone... Himself of a date before telephones were invented. When he had first landed in Portland, Maine. Or perhaps not when first... Because he had landed in tarpaulins... In the depth of winter... That fellow had been in slops with a wide-brimmed, aggressive, flapping hat... Perhaps the telephone had been invented... He could not remember... The telephone was again visible. He himself was opening a mineral water bottle over two glasses occupied by Scotch and cracked ice, under the only lit lamp in the large, shadowy room.
The fellow had looked at him. Just looked. From rather defiant eyes, rendered dark by the shadow of the hat... But the defiant expression had been, not for him, Notterdam. It was defiant to all the world. He had been working as a stevedore then, in a tough, half-sailor crowd. Foul-mouthed... But all, unanimously and with imprecations swearing that they had never seduced virgins... ‘Some beguiling virgins with the broken seals of perjury...’ Shakespeare... Good God: he, Notterdam, was quoting Shakespeare.
He splashed out an enormously stiff highball without ice so that he could gulp it down. He gulped, the hot stuff stung his gullet... At that date he had seduced Lottie... So that he had been the sole villain amongst that foul-mouthed gang of toughs... Oé, oé, oé! They had mouthed on... Never seduced virgins even if gals followed them... He, however, had. At eighteen... Hence the defiant look in his eyes... Well, by God, he was not going to seduce Henrietta Felise... It must have been twenty minutes since he had thought of Henrietta Felise....
Elspeth said:
‘You’ve helped yourself to an extra turn... That wasn’t fair!’
He was round the screen carrying a platter with two amberly shining glasses in the light of the engraved, Hispano-Moroccan glass mosque lamp. He said:
‘I had to... I was upset!’
She said:
‘I am upset too... Give me an extra one as well...’
He had a right to be upset. He was sympathizing with her for being in love with another man. What would his fellow Americans say? They would want to deport him, perhaps... Yet, as he watched her drinking down hastily the long highball that he had fetched, he felt himself want to cry over her... It was his fault... The fellow she had had her flirtation with had been an artist. It’s not in the least unusual for the wives of publishers to go wrong with painters or writers... He could name half a dozen who were doing it now. He said:
‘Was... that fellow?... Is that fellow... a painter?’
She answered:
‘Who?... No!... Why do you ask?’
He said:
‘I couldn’t help reading... After, you know, the... the initial endearments... That... Oh, he... Could not keep his date because the plans for his Monna Vanna would not come right... I supposed his Monna Vanna was a picture....’
She said:
‘No, he isn’t a painter...’ She was shivering.
‘Then it was a poem, I suppose,’ he said. His mind ran over the verse-writing asses that they knew... But it would have to be one they had known on the coast... Who had there been? There had been a drunken, impecunious fellow. But he had committed suicide. In the Club. And she had said ‘He is’... Or rather: ‘isn’t.’ So he was alive. Then....
She went on shivering. With the amber glass in the left hand her long figure leant forward and the right threw two small logs on to the fire. He said:
If he s alive and you still... Wouldn’t a... what I was suggesting?...’
She had brought her torso back to erectness. She looked sharply round at him, over the glass from which she was avidly drinking.
You!...’ she exclaimed and then drank again feverishly.
He pursued, the whisky no doubt helping him: ‘Even if he’s married, wouldn’t his wife?... What’s the use, old girl, of carrying on like?.. She had finished her glass. She exclaimed:
‘Oh, you fool...’ Then she said: ‘No, no! Of course you could not understand. How could you? You have not the data...’ She swallowed rather painfully and set the glass down on the floor beside her chair. Then she looked at him carefully and coolly.
‘If,’ she began, ‘you want a divorce I will give it you... But on one condition. I must approve the woman. I won’t have you marry a stenographer. Or a woman like that Miss Buccarino....’
He felt his jaw drop.
‘What would it matter to you?’ he asked. And then: ‘How did you know of La Buccarino?’
‘She came here,’ Elspeth said. ‘Don’t worry. She came here while you were making your long tour in Oregon - and smashed some windows... Bill... Kratch... had her deported to Buenos Aires, where she belonged....’
He said:
‘Good God: she probably starved....’
‘No,’ she answered, ‘Bill provided for her very amply....’
He exclaimed:
‘Then I’m under an obligation to that fellow... For how much? You must have known I should have hated it!’
Isabella Buccarino from La Plata stood before him... Dark as night: what they call lithe; holding a champagne glass on high and caterwauling at the top of her voice in a scarlet shawl. She had been the only woman he had ever ‘picked up’... in an hotel - and the only one he regretted. She had smashed in Giovanni’s face; bitten through his own hand and broken a bottle over a cop’s head in a night club. He could not have gone on keeping her in his apartment any more than he could have kept an uncaged leopard.
‘You don’t have to worry over La Buccarino,’ Elspeth said. ‘She picked up with a professional dancer on the ship....’
He said:
‘You ought to have told me... It must have made a repulsive worry for you....’
‘We didn’t want you to be worried... You were worried enough at that time...’ she answered.
‘“We,”... who’s that?’ he asked. ‘It was, of course, considerate of you....’
She said:
‘Oh, Bill and myself... And my brother, Tom, too....’
He asked:
‘Why did you go to Kratch? It must have been humiliating.’
She asked:
‘Who else was there to go to?... Besides, you had not enough money to pay that harpy off with....’
He said:
‘So that Bill knew that I was hard up!’
She said:
‘Yes, why shouldn’t he?..
He exclaimed:
‘I had rather be dead....’
She said:
‘Well... You aren’t hard up now...’ She leaned farther over the arm of her chair and said:
‘Listen to me... For years I have had nothing else I could do for you, except keep worries from you... And help you to get on your feet. If you haven’t been my husband you’ve been my baby. You know you can’t look after yourself...
He said:
‘You have been wonderful... Astonishing... But I wish you had not gone to Bill....’
She said:
‘It has not been easy, looking after you... I’ve had to pinch and scrape... And do things I did not approve of doing... I mean in the way of speculating... and asking for advice... So that if you tell me now that you want to marry I’m going to satisfy myself that the person you want to marry isn’t one that will undo all my work.... I won’t give you up to a female go-getter, or a gold-digger who will suck you dry and deceive you... or to a harlot like La Buccarino. Or to a stenographer like other women you’ve had living with you....’
He began to protest that he did not want to marry anyone.
She said:
‘What you want... What you ought to have and your case demands is a nice young thing! I’d give you my blessing on that right away... It’s the highballs that’s making me so explicit. But I’ve been thinking like this for years. You can take what I’m saying for an authentic show-down as to my sentiments... Give me another highball....’
She drank and went on:
‘The pity is - excuse my frankness! - that the American young thing of to-day does not do the Auld Robin Grey stunt. Even if she has her parents to keep she can go out and do it more agreeably - or so she’d think, though I don’t say she’s right - than by uniting her fortunes to yours... Or else she has to have her romance with a great big R first and then she’d be shop-soiled, which does not suit my book for you - for as like as not she’d have a gigolo and go gold-digging out of you for his benefit... So that I don’t see myself divorcing you....’
He said:
‘But hang it: you would be free yourself for your poet.’
She drank the remains of her glass at a gulp.
‘No, sonny,’ she said, ‘you go on keeping your harem, or whatever it is, at Fifty-second Street... I’ll say this for you that you aren’t prodigal there... I’ve looked through the stubs in your cheque book... I should say that what you practised there was domestic economy.
.. But, as for me and my poet... I’ll tell you....’
The telephone bell rang from just outside the screen and she hoisted herself lazily out of the chair, shouting a little against the noise of the instrument as she continued:
‘Me and my poet have kept ourselves apart all these years in order that you might not be mortified...’ She lurched slightly against the screen. It fell back and remained leaning on a table so that the telephone was revealed. She said:
‘You’d say I was canned, but I’m not...’ and paused to add:
‘And you’d be just as mortified, let me tell you, if you’d married the sweetest young thing on Park Avenue or the foulest whore from Harlem... No! Hoboken... Even you would not hitch yourself up with café au lait.’ She laughed: ‘The whore of Hoboken,’ she said, tasting the alliteration.
He thought:
My God! She must mean Bill...’ But the thought died at once. Kratch was no poet... He thought of poets in general... Poets with whom he had rows... There were, naturally, several... She was standing by the telephone, listening.
She said:
What! What? And then roared with laughter: ‘By Heck! she said.’ It’s Hoboken calling us....’
Notterdam snatched out his watch so hastily that it swung round in his hand.... It was a quarter past two....
Elspeth said:
‘What?’ incredulously. She said with hatred in her voice: ‘He’s in bed!... I’m not going to wake him... I’m not....’
