Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (523 page)

“Then it doesn’t seem to me,” Augusta said, “that there’s any single thing that one can talk about.”

“You know, Augusta,” Mr. Blood said, “you can be extraordinarily intelligent at times — for a German living in the birthplace of Christianity.”

Augusta did not take the trouble to understand this gibe; she answered instead:

“That’s all very well; but supposing you were to quarrel with Mr. Fleight?”

“I!” Mr. Blood exclaimed. “Quarrel with Mr. Fleight! Good heavens!”

“I suppose,” Augusta answered, “you mean that Mr. Fleight and I and the greater part of the world are so inestimably below you that it would be utterly impossible for you to quarrel with us?”

“I should try to phrase it more tactfully,” Mr. Blood answered, “but that’s something like what it comes to. You startled it out of me. It was such an extraordinarily new idea. Of course I couldn’t quarrel with poor Fleight.”

“It’s satisfactory to know that,” Augusta said; “but it’s odious and detestable the way you behave.”

“But, my dear,” Mr. Blood said amiably, “it’s the way one keeps oneself alive. If I didn’t think myself superior to Mr. Fleight I should take to drink, just as you, if you didn’t think you had better hair and a finer figure than Wilhelmina, would be so humiliated that you wouldn’t ever be any good in the world. Great heavens! if the crossing sweeper at the bottom of the road with the medals of three campaigns on his breast, didn’t think himself superior to the ragged tramp he sees picking up a cigarette end, he’d die, too. This life isn’t good enough for us to live it if we didn’t cherish our illusions. Why, if I didn’t think myself better than Mr. Fleight, I’d take a peerage and every one of my ancestors would turn in their coffins for thirteen hundred years back.”

“I don’t know what this is all about,” Augusta said. “It seems to me to be nonsense. If you want to be conceited, you can be conceited without talking about it so much. But I’ve been thinking about this matter of marrying Mr. Fleight. I daresay you think that I’m rather a fool, because I’m a poor girl and Mr. Fleight is a millionaire, and I ought to jump at the offer. But it isn’t as simple as you think. Of course, I want diamonds and large houses and carriages and that sort of thing. Every woman does. But I might get them from another man and not lose my self-respect. For there’s no doubt that I shall lose my self-respect if I marry Mr. Fleight. You don’t, I think, quite understand what it is for a German woman to marry a Jew. There’s no explaining it. It’s worse, far worse, than if your own sister married a bricklayer. It’s almost unspeakable. Of course, I know that this isn’t Germany. And, of course, I know that Jews here can rise to high positions under the Crown. And if one rose to a high position in the Government, one might recover some of one’s self-respect. Supposing, for instance, I became a British peeress and the mother of a British peer, I might forget to remember all day long that I was a dishonoured German. But it’s a risk — you must admit that it’s a risk.”

Mr. Blood looked at her and spoke with a seriousness far greater than any he had yet shown.

“Of course, Augusta,” he said, “I admit that it’s a risk. I admit that your point of view is perfectly reasonable. Money is almost everything in the world. Almost everything. But I’ll tell you what—”

He paused gravely and considered Mr. Macpherson, who, in the crowd beneath them, was causing some commotion by attempting to push through towards the garden doors.

“Confound it!” Mr. Blood began again, “here I am, taking up responsibilities. I’m a sentimentalist, that’s what I am. I began this just as a lark, but here I am—”

He paused again, but when he did speak his words came with much greater firmness.

“Now listen,” he said. “I’ll make you this offer. If you marry our poor friend, I’ll look after you. I’ll look after you personally. I’ll see that my women have to do with you socially. I’ll push Mr. Fleight with my own personal influence instead of merely just showing him what to do. As for a peerage — that’s just nothing. I could buy him and you a peerage to-morrow as a wedding present, for it’s just as much a marketable commodity as a diamond tiara. There’s every possible reason why Mr. Fleight should have a peerage. He’s one of the pillars of society. He and his father before him have benefited the community by the creation of an enormous industry—”

“Now you’re getting cynical again,” Augusta said.

“I’m not,” Mr. Blood said; “it’s all perfectly true. He deserves a peerage, just as his soap deserves a gold medal at an international exhibition. It’s good stuff. The gold medal would make more people buy the soap, and so would the peerage, and the more people who buy his soap the better it is for the world, because it’s thoroughly good stuff, and most soaps aren’t. So that you may be certain of your peerage.”

“Ah! but I don’t so much want that sort of peerage,” Augusta answered. “I want one that comes after a career. One that comes after you’ve fought a long time. Like that of — what was the Jew’s name? — Disraeli! There was something august about that. I could sleep soundly on a pillow that had that sort of coronet embroidered upon it.”

“Well, he’s got quite a good chance for that,” Mr. Blood said, “quite a good chance.”

Augusta remained silent for some seconds Then she brought out suddenly:

“This is a tremendous lot of talk. Too much talk. If your Fleight can point to any single instance of real luck happening to him from this day on, I’ll marry him. I tell you I don’t object to him. I’m just frightened of him.”

“But,” Mr. Blood said, “look at this party. Isn’t it the most amazing luck for him to get all these people together just five days after he was so hopelessly discredited?”

“Oh, that isn’t luck,” Augusta answered, “he’s just bought that. And even his money isn’t luck, because, as he’s said so often, he’d be much happier if he were keeping a small shop. What I mean is a piece of outside luck—” She paused for a moment and remained lost in thought. The dancers were kissing their hands from the stage, their dance having just come to a conclusion, and the audience was breaking into eddies and swirls like water in a sluice when the gates are opened. They were beginning to feel within themselves the stirring for supper. Some were making out through the immensely tall windows into the dark garden; some disappearing beneath the boxes through the door that ave into the supper room. The Chancellor, who had gone down from his box, was standing exactly under the centre of the dome talking to Mr. Macpherson; and the people on each side of him were going away in a steady stream, so that Mr. Parment stood there visible and deserted.

“Even at his own party,” Augusta said, “the wretched man hasn’t seen his own Russian dancers, and he won’t get any supper. I don’t see what he is to get. He’s throwing all this money away! For nothing.”

The hall was growing more and more deserted, and Mr. Macpherson was talking more and more volubly to the Chancellor. They could even hear his voice exclaiming:

“I knew a chap—” but those words were so familiar to them that they could have made them out almost by the motion of his lips.

“I’ll tell you what,” Augusta said, with a sudden firmness. “I’ll marry him if he wins this election. I suppose that’s what he’s spent all this money for; and, if he gets in, I’ll marry him.”

“But that’s absolutely impossible,” Mr. Blood said; “his agent said so this afternoon. It was even difficult to get chaps to back his nomination papers when we handed them in. You know that. Nothing but a miracle could get him in now; but, of course, he’ll get in later, I’ll guarantee that.”

“That’s what I mean by luck,” Augusta said—” a miracle.”

The space between Mr. Parment and the door was now entirely vacant, and they perceived crossing it the figure of Mr. Reginald Debenham, the fourth Government junior whip. His step was very swift and his face was full of perturbation. When he approached the Chancellor he spoke three words.

Suddenly Mr. Macpherson started away from them with a leap that suggested the motions of a kangaroo. He screamed out as he came towards the boxes, and he beckoned with his hand to somebody who must be standing right under their feet. “Mr. Fleight,” they could hear him cry, “I say, Fleight! Isn’t it glorious? Isn’t it exciting!” He disappeared beneath their feet and they could still hear his voice crying out on a very high note:

“Mr. Fleight! I say, where’s Mr. Fleight? The Chancellor wants him.”

Mr. Blood stood up with a sharp, agitated movement. “A miracle!” he exclaimed. “Luck! I believe it’s come. Come along! Come along with me!”

He gripped her by the wrist and went with her down the passage, behind the boxes and across the floor to where the Chancellor stood listening to Mr. Debenham, who was talking in low tones. On the way they were overtaken and passed by Cluny Macpherson, who was urging on Mr. Fleight. Mr. Fleight appeared exceedingly calm, but quite dejected. There was about the Chancellor, in the great, bright space, an air of deep solemnity. Mr. Debenham, on the other hand, was plainly enraged. He clenched his teeth and seemed as if he wished to spit. Four servants in livery were rolling up the immense, pink carpets in preparation for the dance that was to follow. Some of the guests were crowding in knots out of the supper-room doors. They hung back, however, as if they did not wish to intrude upon the great man and his council. The two front-bench Government men were walking slowly towards them as if they had certain rights to share in the deliberation, but did not wish to arrive indiscreetly soon. The Leader of the Opposition, supported by his two followers, and having Miss Langham, the novelist, in her torn scarlet velvet dress, still upon his arm, remained stationary in front of the box that had lately been occupied by Mr. Blood and Augusta. He appeared to expect that Mr. Fleight would come and join him.

With his manner of enormous solemnity the Chancellor addressed Mr. Fleight:

“I can’t use the word ‘congratulations,’” he said, “they couldn’t be expected from me.” He stumbled in his speech for a moment, but then he added: “Still, I have hopes of seeing you — enrolled behind me — when you come to understand public problems better. The great truths — the great, fine truths — you’ll come to understand.”

With his calmness entirely unruffled Mr. Fleight said: “I don’t quite know what has happened. Macpherson says I have won my election, but I don’t know how.” Mr. Debenham let his intense anger loose in the words:

“Yes, you’ve scraped in. That ass Gregory died this morning of a cold in his head, the fool! Inflammation of the lungs! Got his feet wet! As if an ass couldn’t get his feet wet without dying!”

“Then I—” Mr. Fleight was beginning....

“You,” Mr. Debenham said, “confound you! there was no one to be nominated against you! You’re returned unopposed. I suppose you’re to be congratulated, but it certainly won’t be I that do it. It’s the worst kind of luck!”

“It’s the best kind of luck for Mr. Rothweil,’’ Mr. Blood suddenly made his voice heard.” It’s what you might call a miracle.”

He went towards the Chancellor, who was swaying from side to side upon his legs. “You’ll permit me,” he said, “to differ from you. You can perfectly fittingly congratulate our friend upon—”

Augusta was standing all alone. Her blonde face had an absent expression as if she were slightly dazed.

“The future Lady Rothweil,” Mr. Blood concluded his speech, “for she has just promised to marry our friend.”

Mr. Fleight said only: “Ah!”

Mr. Macpherson exclaimed:

“Oh, I say — Augusta!”

Mr. Debenham, as a gentlemanly man of the world, tried to compose his features to an urbanity fitting the occasion. The Chancellor contrived it with much more success, and with the pompous humour of a man six foot high addressing a small child, he begged to be introduced to her ladyship, for he took Augusta to be a person of title.

Mr. Fleight remained perfectly still, gazing into vacancy in front of him. They were all crowding round Augusta, and suddenly the words that he had uttered to Gilda Leroy in the little shop on the Saturday before he had begun his election campaign came into his head. For the rest of his life — there would be the palm plants, and the marble staircases, and the Christian wife he was only too sadly aware he had purchased, standing at the top of the stairs in white satin, whilst the invisible orchestra played the Preislied out of the “Meistersingers.” He was standing quite alone; all the rest of them were crowding round Augusta. He shrugged his shoulders right up to his ears and let them slowly fall.