Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 768
With his foot on the running-board of the humming automobile he said:
“That fellow Freiligrath! I knew him well... a magnificent brain... a wonderful biologist.... But a Prussian hog.... He treated your poor aunt...”
He was leaning forward in the car:
“Make it up to the little French girl!” he said.... “Yes... ah... redress the balance of the sexes.... God bless you!...” He glided away his face like a scarlet buckler set with turquoise eyes and aureoled with bright pepper and salt....
So there it was!
Henry Martin sat for an hour on the club terrace. The secretary drooled for some time beside him, but he had no idea what about. A couple of fellows in tweeds came in. The elder said to Henry Martin.
“That damn whale went round in eighty-two.... Cost me five half crowns.... Knew your father well.... Glad you’ve joined us....” He drifted away....
So there it was!
He considered that interview in September. Even then it came back to him with extraordinary vividness. He tied his tie in front of Aunt Elizabeth’s ancient and dim mahogany-framed cheval-glass but it was the silver and azure of the sea and the dark purple of the Hyères islands that he saw and he was back in that sun-baked terrace, beneath the bright awnings and old Sir Tressider with the scarlet face and turquoise eyes was tapping him on the chest and saying those extraordinary things....
And even then he had not exhausted the intricacies of the subject.... The four months had glided by and he seemed to have done little else but ponder on it and very little had added itself since then to his material. He hadn’t known where he was, then in May: now in September he knew almost as little. And still he couldn’t disentangle the chronology.
If the interview with Sir Tressider had happened on the 18th of May it could not have been till at least the 25th that he had seen Aunt Elizabeth again.... An extraordinarily bright day and Aunt Elizabeth terribly dim in her very dim bedroom.... As if she had been washed out. She lay back in a long chair holding on her lap a telegraph form that she handed to him before she had even spoken. He had taken it to the window and, in the light filtering up through the slats of the volets, had read... A string of names.... Beginning with his own!
“Henry Martin Aluin Smith, born Springfield, Ohio, 1896,” it had said. “Father, Henry Aluin Faber, born Gd. Duchy, Luxemburg 1869, adopted name Smith 1895: Grandfather Eugene Alcyone Faber, born Nieppe, French Flanders, 1846, died Luxemburg 1892; Great Grandfather Alexander Exelmanns Faber, born Ploegsturt, Belgian Flanders, 1818, died Birmingham, Gt. Britain, 1890; Great Great Grandfather Xavier Alcyone Faber, born Ploegsteert, 1789, died Nieppe i860. Bearings, Alexander Exelmanns Faber, three hammers gules on field vert: crest, an anvil natural sable: motto Sine Fabro Nihil: that translated: By Hammer and Hand all Art doth stand.”
It was as if the dim tranquillity of the room had deadened any shock that he might have felt at the sudden reading of his own name. The thin capital letters of the message had glided into his consciousness as a simple piece of information so that he was saying:
“We had the same great grandfather then!” when he gathered the astonishing piece of news that the cable had been addressed to Eudoxie — in London! By a New York heraldic agency!
It confirmed for him his suspicion that she had actually been visiting Aunt Elizabeth!
That had come to him three — or perhaps four — days before the day of the cable — or rather the day when Aunt Elizabeth had given him the cable, since the date showed that she had had it for three days before she had given it to him.
He had been talking to Mary rather despondently about Aunt Elizabeth’s health. It had appeared to him that they must be concealing from him how serious her condition must be. For, if it hadn’t been serious could they have prevented his seeing her... or now have asked him only to come to the house at given hours? Of course Aunt Elizabeth’s house had rather the air, always, of an old maid’s cottage in New Canaan, Mass. of fifty years ago. Men passed there for awkward creatures who stumbled over door-mats and caused crashes and explosions... things bad for the heart. But their precautions had really seemed excessive even in that atmosphere.... Mary had said that good gracious he hadn’t to take on like that.... He had been saying that he ought not to have taken his aunt to the library. Perhaps he ought not even to have let her play the little golf she had played. She had gone on:
“Oh, Master Hughie: you’re like a mother with a sickly child.... It’s not an hour since Miss Eudoxie was saying...”
And then, suddenly, she had clapped her hand over her mouth that had gone astonishingly round. She had let out:
“Oh, good gracious!... What am I saying....” And then: “It was Miss Greville I meant.... Miss Eudoxie, she’s a thousand miles away....”
He had let it go at that — But he had remembered thinking at the time that if Eudoxie had actually been there and they had concealed the fact from him it would have been only in keeping with the way in which all these women treated him. He really felt himself like a traveller on the Amazon wrestling with the lianas and vines of the impenetrable forest.
And the feeling had been so strong that next day he had not gone over to his aunt at all. He had contented himself with’phoning up from the town to make enquiries....
It must have been the day after that that the extraordinary little fonctionnaire had run down the narrow staircase.... That must have been the 21st... the 22d.... No, more probably the 23d of May.
The episode always presented itself to him like that.... A little man running down extremely rapidly, on very light feet. The staircase that went up from the old Provençal hall was narrow and dark and winding. Yet that fellow had come down as if he were dancing, slapping himself on the chest and with his head turned upwards, calling to someone in the upper story:
“Eh bien... tu resteras tant que tu voudras.... Il faut que je me tire les pattes, pattes, pattes, mon vieux!” It had seemed an enviable gift — to be able to precipitate oneself downwards like that without even looking where his feet placed themselves. He had stopped like a diminutive charger on parade and had explained:
“Tiens.... Monsieur Henry Martin Smeez.... Permettez que je me présente...
He had uttered a name something like Pasquin Escudier.... If it was that he must be some relative of Eudoxie’s! Naturally he would have light feet!... And be extraordinarily rapid in his movements.... For the fellow was like a humming bird.... Darting! You couldn’t fix your eyes on him. And at the same time commanding and peremptory... like the French functionary of the upper grades.... You have to go and ask them for a licence.... Some sort of paper.... When your answers to their sharp questions please you they say:” Tant mieux!”... “So much the better!”... rather cynically! And pat their breast pockets over their hearts.
He seemed to flit around Henry Martin, holding a candle on high and inspecting him from different angles... over the Persian rugs with which Aunt Elizabeth hid the tiles of the great hall.... He exclaimed:
“Tiens!... Vous avez l’air d’un solide garce!... Tant mieux!”
“You look like a strong sort of fellow!... So much the better!”... The tant mieuxs were like explosions and he slapped the cloth above his pocketbook as if to prove his own solidity!... He said: “Vous vous setitez bien?... Vous n’avez plus de vertiges?... Ni de maux de tête?...”“ You haven’t any headaches?... No giddiness?... You feel well?”... He had little, fierce moustaches of no marked colour and Eudoxie’s slate-grey eyes.... They were not as astonishing as Eudoxie’s because he was fair, rather than dark.... Her mother must have been a tall brunette.... Of course her aunt up the hill was a tall, thin, dark woman... like a Catalan!
He stood suddenly back on his heels and his face became peremptorily scrutinising:
“Dites moi,” he said, “Monsieur Smeez.... Combien avez vous d’enfants naturels?... Que vous avez reconnus, naturellement!”
“How many natural children have you?... That you acknowledge, of course....”
Henry Martin gasped:
“Mais.... Mais... And then, since he could see no reason for refusing the information and he had the automatic habit, acquired from long residence, of answering faithfully the most outrageous questions of French officials, he added...” Aucun!”... He had of course none!
A singular, metallic set of sounds came from that sharp little figure. It had been speaking English. It had said: “That won’t click with me.... Try another!”
... This then was certainly Eudoxie’s father!... It was the sort of language he would have acquired after twenty-three years’ consular service in New York.... He shrugged his shoulders right up to his ears.... Henry Martin squared his own. It was a moment at which to assume an attitude of some stiffness....
“Puisque je vous assure, monsieur....” he said....
“I guess,” M. Pasquin said, “you don’t want to tell me you’re a virgin.... How about why the first Mrs. Smeez divorced you?... But of course if there isn’t none you can’t give me the tip-off as to their medical histories.... Neither could your good aunt....”
He suddenly plunged with both his hands at Henry Martin’s right.
“Glad to have made your acquaintance.... Hope we see you in West Twenty-sixth.... I guess you’re a good egg all right.... And with the goods for a settlement.”
“Till then... Be thou chaste!...” He threw back his head and laughed brilliantly.... “Read your book,” he said.
He exclaimed:
“Mon dieu!... Mon dieu! Que je vais être en rétard au banquet!...” and seemed to skate away over the great rugs on the polished floor. He clapped his derby on, patted it on top, patted the note case over his heart and, opening the front door, exclaimed:
“Vous comprenez, mon vieux.... If you can make Madam Trig... Tant mieux! for me!”... And was gone.... Within the second he was back, his sharp face illuminated by the strong light through the open doorway.
“You understand,” he said. “I’d have been charmed to see more of you.... But having to pull out for the Great Wen... London... immediately after the sacred banquet...” He made a little gesture as if he were flicking dust off an invisible object in mid-air. Then he was gone for good.... He seemed to be an agreeable and intelligent little man — but New York, as Henry Martin had already thought, did not seem to improve the colloquial gifts of even the best of the French....
It came, however, slowly into his mind that, as far as Eudoxie’s father was concerned he was at liberty to pay his addresses to his daughter!
That had been all that he had been able to understand. It had not seemed much to help him.
He had moved into Aunt Elizabeth’s house where he still stood looking into the mirror three days — or was it four? — after that. He had again lost touch with his chronology!... And there nothing had happened!... Nothing!
He had realised that Eudoxie had actually been upstairs with Aunt Elizabeth... whilst he had been talking to her father.... Perhaps if he had stayed on in the hall she might have come down. But his emotions had made him feel the want of the open air.... So that did not help him either.... And there had been no action that he could take.... That was not an atmosphere in which you could act. Nobody took action there....
Damn it! It was like a dull nightmare in a bed of which the blankets were insupportably heavy! You could not lift a finger.
On the face of it you would say that, if a young lady’s father of his own accord gave you permission to pay your attention to her, the lady would be ready to listen to you.... But not at all. It might be usual.... But it wasn’t necessarily so. There were exceptions.... Besides the lady was still Mrs. Trig! Blanketed.... That was what he was....
He refused to call himself weak.... Or even irresolute. He was faced at every point by insuperable obstacles.... Or by one obstacle.... His aunt’s heart. He couldn’t leave her. He couldn’t make conditions with her. He could not question her. He couldn’t even appeal to her pity since the revelation of his sufferings might hasten her death.... Her heart seemed to him like a sheet of gold-leaf... a breath might destroy it.
The tyranny of the heart!... And yet it was not one of those ignoble tyrannies by which legendary American mothers kept sons or daughters from marrying. She made no claims.... She demanded no silences. No one demanded anything of him. Not the servant. Not the doctor.... It was his own heart that demanded.... The great house with its liquid shadows lay round him, silent in the unceasing, white sunlight. He could not make a sound. He could not even think violent thoughts whilst she faded away.... She was white and she faded away as a streak of soap fades into the ocean....
How could he question her? She had the inalienable right of one who is fading out of life to choose her own grounds... her own topics!... She had, too, tremendously long silences.... On the occasion of the cable, as far as he could remember, she had only said two, or at most, three things.
When he had said: “We had the same great grandfather, then!” she had moved the hand that lay in her lap and said:
“I am having all your great grandfather’s things moved into the room I want you to occupy....” and then, “I thought you would not resent my making these enquiries.... I wanted to have a mind at ease....” She had added: “The chair I am in was your great grandfather’s.”
He had exclaimed — pushed to it irresistibly:
“Oh, my dear Lady!”... And then his voice went wrong.
She said:
“Yes, yes.... I know....”
And then a long silence whilst the light filtered through the jalousies.
Her silences had a positive quality as if of something streaming past. It was not merely that she did not speak: it was as if she deprived you too of the powers of speech — and even of thought.... A long time afterwards she said:
“You will move over here tomorrow.... I cannot let you go on there with no one to attend on you....”
He said:
“Eudoxie will not be coming back?”
She answered:
“Eudoxie is a good girl. She came all the way back from London.... With that cable. Now she is at sea. Off Spain. Going to London with her father.... She deserved a rest....”
It was curious to think of Eudoxie. On the sea. Up in the clear air. He imagined her on an ancient Greek boat. All white with a prow like the curved neck of a swan. She was steering the boat with a white oar shaped like a palm fan. The boat had a scarlet sail on a curved yard.... Like the boat from whose bows he had intended to step into the translucent Mediterranean.... Nine months before.... Nine months and seven days... From the 21st of May back to the 15th of August.... He had been being Hugh Monckton for nine months and seven days....
A long time afterwards she had said:
“That money... The 28,000! In the London bank.... I wish you would take it out and invest it.... In something American.... If there’s anything American that’s good.... Perhaps Pist... Pisto-Brittle is good.... It’s the family business over there.... But of course it’s only 23,000 now... You gave 5,000 to Gloria....” He was sitting close beside her. He exclaimed:
“No: we will spend it together when you are better. I will never touch that money till you are better and we can spend it together....” She put her hand with its strongly formed bones in his.
“You’re a good boy,” she said very low. “A good boy.... A real member of the family....”
He said — as one says to humour a child:
“Oh, I guess I’m a member of the family all right.... After all your grandfather was my great grandfather....” He had sat beside her for hours after that, thinking that for nine months and six days he had been deceiving this woman.... For of course the deceit had begun on the 16th of August last when they had cabled all over the world the news that Hugh Monckton was not dead....
He sat at last at breakfast in the high-backed chair. He had the sense of Mary, invisible and inaudible behind him. But the door at her back was closed. It had prevented his saying good morning to his aunt... Because Father Beaulieu was with her....
The silver tea-kettle shone; the silver dishes bubbled. There were two pieces of toast in the silver rack.... He found them all intolerable....
He had never seen a death.... He had seen Hugh Monckton dead: lying with his face on the pine-needles of the pinède.... But he had never been in a house where a soul was slowly passing to extinction.... He had no idea what it was like.... What you did!
Apparently you sat in a high-backed chair and looked at shining and bubbling things. With the portraits of ancestors and race horses looking down on you from the walls.... The race horses did not, of course, look down on you. Race horses are always done in profile....
He had imagined that you would run about: crying aloud. Imploring gods or saints to stay the passing of that soul.... Nothing of the sort! Mary did not even sniff.... It was insupportable.... He did not know if he ought to eat.... Two kidneys, two slices of bacon... a sole, a galantine of chicken and ham... and cold toast.... But of course he must eat or Mary would have to stand there for ever.... With the pain in her poor legs... It seemed to enter his own. He would have to eat to get the pain out of her poor legs!... Was it possible that people did such things?... Or that he should be a cog in a machine that ground the hours so small?... Yes, he was a cog all right!... It was understood that he would take Mary when... He imagined himself for ever breakfasting with Jeanne Becquerel in front of him and Mary behind his back.... At the Villa Niké... Or this house... He had not been able to say “No!” to his aunt. Would she then have sufficient power over him even then... To make him stay there with Jeanne Becquerel... When his whole mind was set on being in Springfield, Ohio... With Eudoxie!... But of course he could not. There were passport difficulties... He had a passport with a squashed golden spider on it.... To live in Springfield he must have something that looked like a puce washing book.
He fingered his letters.... Three for him. All from London. None with the great sprawling letters that made his stomach turn over when he saw it.... Six for Aunt Elizabeth, of which one of ladylike lavender grey was from Hyères.... The others from England.... Circulars no doubt.... He went on stacking and re-stacking the letters for a long time....
