"I beg your pardon--would you allow me to stop a minute and shift the bags to the other arm?" Marion could no longer resist that fearful agony.
"If you go on I"ll catch you up in a second."
But just as Marion was about to rest the bags upon the marble bal.u.s.trade of a bridge, his paralysed arm gave an unaccountable jerk, and out flew one of the oranges, and rolled slowly down the stone steps of the bridge.
"I say, don"t do that! You"ll have them all in the ca.n.a.l!" cried Lady Atalanta, as Marion quickly stooped in vain pursuit of the escaped orange, the movement naturally, and as if it were being done on purpose, causing another orange to fly out in its turn; a small number of spectators, gondoliers and workmen from under the bridge, women nursing babies at neighbouring windows, and barefooted urchins from nowhere in particular, starting up to enjoy the extraordinary complicated conjuring tricks which the stout gentleman in the linen coat and Panama hat had suddenly fallen to execute.
"d.a.m.n the beastly things!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Marion, forgetful of Lady Atalanta and good breeding, and perceiving only the oranges jumping and rolling about, and feeling his face grow redder and hotter in the glare on that white stone bridge. At that moment, as he raised his eyes, he saw, pa.s.sing along, a large party of Americans from his hotel; Americans whom he had avoided like the plague, who, he felt sure, would go home and represent him as a poor creature and a sn.o.b disavowing his "people." He could hear them, in fancy, describing how at Venice he had turned flunky to one of your English aristocrats, who stood looking and making game of him while he ran after her oranges, "and merely because she"s the daughter of an Earl or Marquis or such like."
"Bless my heart, how helpless is genius when it comes to practical matters!" exclaimed Lady Atalanta. And putting her various packages down carefully on the parapet, she calmly collected the bounding oranges, wiped them with her handkerchief, and restored them to Marion, recommending him to "stick them loose in his pockets."
Marion had never been in a hospital (he had been only a boy, and in Europe with his mother, a Southern refugee, at the time of the War), the fact striking him as an omission in his novelist"s education. But he felt as if he would never wish to describe the one into which he mechanically followed Lady Tal. With its immense, immensely lofty wards, filled with greyish light, and radiating like the nave and transepts of a vast church from an altar with flickering lights and kneeling figures, it struck Marion, while he breathed that hot, thick air, sickly with carbolic and chloride of lime, as a most gruesome and quite objectionably picturesque place. He had a vague notion that the creatures in the rows and rows of greyish white beds ought to have St.
Vitus"s dance or leprosy or some similar mediaeval disease. They were nasty enough objects, he thought, as he timidly followed Lady Tal"s rapid and resounding footsteps, for anything. He had, for all the prosaic quality of his writings, the easily roused imagination of a nervous man: and it seemed to him as if they were all of them either skeletons gibbering and screeching in bed, or frightful yellow and red tumid creatures, covered with plasters and ligatures, or old ladies recently liberated from the cellar in which, as you may periodically read in certain public prints, they had been kept by barbarous nephews or grandchildren----
"Dear me, dear me, what a dreadful place!" he kept ejaculating, as he followed Lady Atalanta, carrying her bags of oranges and rolls, among the vociferating, grabbing beldames in bed, and the indifferent nuns and serving wenches toiling about noisily: Lady Tal going methodically her way, businesslike, cheerful, giving to one some snuff, to another an orange or a book, laughing, joking in her bad Italian, settling the creatures" disagreeable bed-clothes and pillows for them, as if instead of cosseting dying folk, she was going round to the counters of some huge shop. A most painful exhibition, thought Marion.
"I say, suppose you talk to her, she"s a nice little commonplace creature who wanted to be a school-mistress and is awfully fond of reading novels--tell her--I don"t know how to explain it--that you write novels. See, Teresina, this gentleman and I are writing a book together, all about a lady who married a silly husband--would you like to hear about it?"
Stroking the thin white face, with the wide forget-me-not eyes, of the pretty, thin little blonde, Lady Tal left Marion, to his extreme discomfort, seated on the edge of a straw chair by the side of the bed, a bag of oranges on his knees and absolutely no ideas in his head.
"She is so good," remarked the little girl, opening and shutting a little fan which Lady Tal had just given her, "and so beautiful. Is she your sister? She told me she had a brother whom she was very fond of, but I thought he was dead. She"s like an angel in Paradise."
"Precisely, precisely," answered Marion, thinking at the same time what an uncommonly uncomfortable place Paradise must, in that case, be. All this was not at all what he had imagined when he had occasionally written about young ladies consoling the sick; this businesslike, bouncing, cheerful shake-up-your-pillows and shake-up-your-soul mode of proceeding.
Lady Tal, he decided within himself, had emphatically no soul; all he had just witnessed, proved it.
"Why do you do it?" he suddenly asked, as they emerged from the hospital cloisters. He knew quite well: merely because she was so abominably active.
"I don"t know. I like ill folk. I"m always so disgustingly well myself; and you see with my poor brother, I"d got accustomed to ill folk, so I suppose I can"t do without. I should like to settle in England--if it weren"t for all those hateful relations of mine and of my husband"s--and go and live in the East End and look after sick creatures. At least I think I should; but I know I shouldn"t."
"Why not?" asked Marion.
"Why? Oh, well, it"s making oneself conspicuous, you know, and all that.
One hates to be thought eccentric, of course. And then, if I went to England, of course I should have to go into society, otherwise people would go and say that I was out of it and had been up to something or other. And if I went into society, that would mean doing simply nothing else, not even the little I do here. You see I"m not an independent woman; all my husband"s relations are perpetually ready to pull me to pieces on account of his money! There"s nothing they"re not prepared to invent about me. I"m too poor and too expensive to do without it, and as long as I take his money, I must see to no one being able to say anything that would have annoyed him--see?"
"I see," answered Marion.
At that moment Lady Atalanta perceived a gondola turning a corner, and in it the young millionaire whom she had chaffed about his sideboard.
"Hi, hi! Mr. Clarence!" she cried, waving her umbrella. "Will you take me to that curiosity-dealer"s this afternoon?"
Marion looked at her, standing there on the little wharf, waving her red umbrella and shouting to the gondola; her magnificent rather wooden figure more impeccably magnificent, uninteresting in her mannish flannel garments, her handsome pink and white face, as she smiled that inexpressive smile with all the pearl-like little teeth, more than ever like a big mask----
"No soul, decidedly no soul," said the novelist to himself. And he reflected that women without souls were vaguely odious.
VII.
"I have been wondering of late why I liked you?" said Lady Tal one morning at lunch, addressing the remark to Marion, and cut short in her speech by a burst of laughter from that odious tomboy of a cousin of hers (how could she endure that girl? Marion reflected) who exclaimed, with an affectation of milkmaid archness:
"Oh, Tal! how _can_ you be so rude to the _gentleman_? You oughtn"t to say to people you wonder why you like them. Ought she, Mr. Marion?"
Marion was silent. He felt a weak worm for disliking this big blond girl with the atrocious manners, who insisted on p.r.o.nouncing his name _Mary Anne_, with unfailing relish of the joke. Lady Tal did not heed the interruption, but repeated pensively, leaning her handsome cleft chin on her hand, and hacking at a peach with her knife: "I have been wondering why I like you, Mr. Marion (I usedn"t to, but made up to you for _Christina"s_ benefit), because you are not a bit like poor Gerald. But I"ve found out now and I"m pleased. There"s nothing so pleasant in this world as finding out _why_ one thinks or does things, is there? Indeed it"s the only pleasant thing, besides riding in the Campagna and drinking iced water on a hot day. The reason I like you is because you have seen a lot of the world and of people, and still take nice views of them. The people one meets always think to show their cleverness by explaining everything by nasty little motives; and you don"t. It"s nice of you, and it"s clever. It"s cleverer than your books even, you know."
In making this remark (and she made it with an aristocratic indifference to being personal) Lady Atalanta had most certainly hit the right nail on the head. That gift, a rare one, of seeing the simple, wholesome, and even comparatively n.o.ble, side of things; of being, although a pessimist, no misanthrope, was the most remarkable characteristic of Jervase Marion; it was the one which made him, for all his old bachelor ways and his shrinking from close personal contact, a man and a manly man, giving this a.n.a.lytical and nervous person a certain calmness and gentleness and strength.
But Lady Tal"s remark, although in the main singularly correct, smote him like a rod. For it so happened that for once in his life Marion had not been looking with impartial, serene, and unsuspecting eyes upon one of his fellow-sufferers in this melancholy world; and that one creature to whom he was not so good as he might be, was just Lady Tal.
He could not really have explained how it was. But there was the certainty, that while recognising in Lady Tal"s conversation, in her novel, in the little she told him of her life, a great deal which was delicate, and even n.o.ble, wherewithal to make up a somewhat unusual and perhaps not very superficially attractive, but certainly an original and desirable personality, he had got into the habit of explaining whatever in her was obscure and contradictory by unworthy reasons; and even of making allowance for the possibility of all the seeming good points proving, some day, to be a delusion and a snare. Perhaps it depended upon the constant criticisms he was hearing on all sides of Lady Atalanta"s character and conduct: the story of her mercenary marriage, the recital of the astounding want of feeling displayed upon the occasion of her brother"s death, and that perpetual, and apparently too well founded suggestion that this young lady, who possessed fifteen thousand a year and apparently spent about two, must be feathering her nest and neatly evading the intentions of her late lamented. Moreover there was something vaguely disagreeable in the extraordinary absence of human emotion displayed in such portion of her biography as might be considered public property.
Marion, heaven knows, didn"t like women who went in for _grande pa.s.sion_; in fact pa.s.sion, which he had neither experienced nor described, was distinctly repulsive to him. But, after all, Lady Tal was young, Lady Tal was beautiful, and Lady Tal had for years and years been a real and undoubted widow; and it was therefore distinctly inhuman on the part of Lady Tal to have met no temptations to part with her heart, and with her jointure. It was ugly; there was no doubt it was ugly. The world, after all, _has_ a right to demand that a young lady of good birth and average education should have a heart. It was doubtless also, he said to himself, the fault of Lady Atalanta"s physique, this suspicious att.i.tude of his; nature had bestowed upon her a face like a mask, muscles which never flinched, nerves apparently hidden many inches deeper than most folk"s: she was enigmatic, and a man has a right to pause before an enigma.
Furthermore----But Marion could not quite understand that furthermore.
He understood it a few days later. They had had the usual _seance_ over _Christina_ that morning; and now it was evening, and three or four people had dropped in at Lady Tal"s after the usual stroll at Saint Mark"s. Lady Tal had hired a small house, dignified with the t.i.tle of Palazzina, on the Zattere. It was modern, and the aesthetic colony at Venice sneered at a woman with that amount of money inhabiting anything short of a palace. They themselves being mainly Americans, declared they couldn"t feel like home in a dwelling which was not possessed of historical reminiscences. The point of Lady Tal"s little place, as she called it, was that it possessed a garden; small indeed, but round which, as she remarked, one solitary female could walk. In this garden she and Marion were at this moment walking. The ground floor windows were open, and there issued from the drawing-room a sound of cups and saucers, of guitar strumming and laughter, above which rose the loud voice, the aristocratic kitchen-maid p.r.o.nunciation of Lady Atalanta"s tomboy cousin.
"Where"s Tal? I declare if Tal hasn"t gone off with Mary Anne! Poor Mary Anne! She"s tellin" him all about _Christina_, you know; how she can"t manage that row between Christina and Christina"s mother-in-law, and the semicolons and all that. _Christina"s_ the novel, you know. You"ll be expected to ask for _Christina_ at your club, you know, when it comes out, Mr. Clarence. I"ve already written to all my cousins to get it from Mudie"s----"
Marion gave a little frown, as if his boot pinched him, as he walked on the gravel down there, among the dark bushes, the spectral little terra-cotta statues, with the rigging of the ships on the Giudecca ca.n.a.l black against the blue evening sky, with a vague, sweet, heady smell of _Olea fragrans_ all round. Confound that girl! Why couldn"t he take a stroll in a garden with a handsome woman of thirty without the company being informed that it was only on account of Lady Tal"s novel. That novel, that position of literary adviser, of a kind of male daily governess, would make him ridiculous. Of course Lady Tal was continually making use of him, merely making use of him in her barefaced and brutal manner: of course she didn"t care a hang about him except to help her with that novel: of course as soon as that novel was done with she would drop him. He knew all that, and it was natural. But he really didn"t see the joke of being made conspicuous and grotesque before all Venice----
"Shan"t we go in, Lady Tal?" he said sharply, throwing away his cigarette. "Your other guests are doubtless sighing for your presence."
"And this guest here is not. Oh dear, no; there"s Gertrude to look after them and see to their being happy; besides, I don"t care whether they are. I want to speak to you. I can"t understand your thinking that situation strained. I should have thought it the commonest thing in the world, I mean, gracious---- I can"t understand your not understanding!"
Jervase Marion was in the humour when he considered Lady Tal a legitimate subject of study, and intellectual vivisection a praiseworthy employment. Such study implies, as a rule, a good deal of duplicity on the part of the observer; duplicity doubtless sanctified, like all the rest, by the high mission of prying into one"s neighbour"s soul.
"Well," answered Marion--he positively hated that good French Alabama name of his, since hearing it turned into Mary Anne--"of course one understands a woman avoiding, for many reasons, the temptation of one individual pa.s.sion; but a woman who makes up her mind to avoid the temptation of all pa.s.sion in the abstract, and what is more, acts consistently and persistently with this object in view, particularly when she has never experienced pa.s.sion at all, when she has not even burnt the tips of her fingers once in her life----; that does seem rather far fetched, you must admit."
Lady Tal was not silent for a moment, as he expected she would be.
She did not seem to see the danger of having the secret of her life extracted out of her.
"I don"t see why you should say so, merely because the person"s a woman.
I"m sure you must have met examples enough of men who, without ever having been in love, or in danger of being in love--poor little things--have gone through life with a resolute policy of never placing themselves in danger, of never so much as taking their heart out of their waistcoat pockets to look at it, lest it might suddenly be jerked out of their possession."
It was Marion who was silent. Had it not been dark, Lady Tal might have seen him wince and redden; and he might have seen Lady Tal smile a very odd but not disagreeable smile. And they fell to discussing the technicalities of that famous novel.
Marion outstayed for a moment or two the other guests. The facetious cousin was strumming in the next room, trying over a Venetian song which the naval captain had taught her. Marion was slowly taking a third cup of tea--he wondered why he should be taking so much tea, it was very bad for his nerves,--seated among the flowering shrubs, the bits of old brocade and embroidery, the various pieces of bric-a-brac which made the drawing-room of Lady Tal look, as all distinguished modern drawing-rooms should, like a cross between a flower show and a p.a.w.nbroker"s, and as if the height of modern upholstery consisted in avoiding the use of needles and nails, and enabling the visitors to sit in a little heap of variegated rags. Lady Tal was arranging a lamp, which burned, or rather smoked, at this moment, surrounded by lace petticoats on a carved column.
"Ah," she suddenly said, "it"s extraordinary how difficult it is to get oneself understood in this world. I"m thinking about _Christina_, you know. I never _do_ expect any one to understand anything, as a matter of fact. But I thought that was probably because all my friends. .h.i.therto have been all frivolous p.o.o.ps who read only the Peerage and the sporting papers. I should have thought, now, that writing novels would have made you different. I suppose, after all, it"s all a question of physical const.i.tution and blood relationship--being able to understand other folk, I mean. If one"s molecules aren"t precisely the same and in the same place (don"t be surprised, I"ve been reading Carpenter"s "Mental Physiology"), it"s no good. It"s certain that the only person in the world who has ever understood me one bit was Gerald."
Lady Tal"s back was turned to Marion, her tall figure a mere dark ma.s.s against the light of the lamp, and the lit-up white wall behind.
"And still," suddenly remarked Marion, "you were not--not--_very_ much attached to your brother, were you?"
The words were not out of Marion"s mouth before he positively trembled at them. Good G.o.d! what had he allowed himself to say? But he had no time to think of his own words. Lady Tal had turned round, her eyes fell upon him. Her face was pale, very quiet; not angry, but disdainful. With one hand she continued to adjust the lamp.
"I see," she said coldly, "you have heard all about my extraordinary behaviour, or want of extraordinary behaviour. It appears I did surprise and shock my acquaintances very much by my proceedings after Gerald"s death. I suppose it really is the right thing for a woman to go into hysterics and take to her bed and shut herself up for three months at least, when her only brother dies. I didn"t think of that at the time; otherwise I should have conformed, of course. It"s my policy always to conform, you know. I see now that I made a mistake, showed a want of _savoir-vivre_, and all that--I stupidly consulted my own preferences, and I happened to prefer keeping myself well in hand. I didn"t seem to like people"s sympathy; now the world, you know, has a right to give one its sympathies under certain circ.u.mstances, just as a foreign man has a right to leave his card when he"s been introduced. Also, I knew that Gerald would have just hated my making myself a _motley to the view_--you mightn"t think it, but we used to read Shakespeare"s sonnets, he and I--and, you see, I cared for only one mortal thing in the world, to do what Gerald wanted. I never have cared for any other thing, really; after all, if I don"t want to be conspicuous, it"s because Gerald would have hated it--I never shall care for anything in the world besides that. All the rest"s mere unreality. One thinks one"s alive, but one isn"t."
Lady Atalanta had left off fidgeting with the lamp. Her big blue eyes had all at once brightened with tears which did not fall; but as she spoke the last words, in a voice suddenly husky, she looked down at Marion with an odd smile, tearing a paper spill with her large, well-shaped fingers as she did so.