Parade's End (64 page)

She said to herself: ‘Damn it, how clumsy I am getting! … I used to be able to take his hide off with a word. Now I take sentences at a time… .’

She went on with her uninterrupted sentence to Cowley:

‘Of course he may never be going to see his only son again, so it makes him sensitive… . The officer at Paddington, I mean… .’

She said to herself: ‘By God, if that beast does not give in to me tonight he never
shall
see Michael again… . Ah, but I got him… .’ Tietjens had his eyes closed, round each of his high-coloured nostrils a crescent of whiteness was beginning. And increasing… . She felt a sudden alarm and held the edge of the table with her extended arm to steady herself… . Men went white at the nose like that when they were going to faint… . She did not want him to faint… . But he
had
noticed the word Paddington… . Ninety-eight days before… . She had counted every day since… . She had got that much information… . She had said
Paddington
outside the house at dawn and he had taken it as a farewell. He
had
… He had imagined himself free to do what he liked with the girl… . Well, he wasn’t… . That was why he was white about the gills… .

Cowley exclaimed loudly:

‘Paddington! … It isn’t from there that back-from-leave trains go. Not for the front: the B.E.F… . Not from Paddington… . The Glamorganshires go from there to the depot… . And the Liverpools … They’ve got a depot at Birkenhead… . Or is that the Cheshires? …’ He asked of Tietjens: ‘Is it the Liverpools or the Cheshires that have a depot at Birkenhead, sir? … You remember we recruited a draft from there when we were at Penhally… . At any rate, you go to Birkenhead from Paddington… . I was never there myself… . They say it’s a nice place… .’

Sylvia said – she did not want to say it:

‘It’s quite a nice place … but I should not think of staying there for ever… .’

Tietjens said:

‘The Cheshires have a training camp – not a depot – near Birkenhead. And of course there are R.G.A.s
there.
…’ She had been looking away from him… . Cowley exclaimed:

‘You were nearly off, sir,’ hilariously. ‘You had your peepers shut… .’ Lifting a champagne glass, he inclined himself towards her. ‘You must excuse the captain, ma’am,’ he said. ‘He had no sleep last night… . Largely owing to my fault… . Which is what makes it so kind of him… . I tell you, ma’am, there are few things I would not do for the captain… .’ He drank his champagne and began an explanation: ‘You may not know, ma’am, this is a great day for me… . And you and the captain are making it the greatest day of my life… .’ Why, at four this morning there hadn’t been a wretcheder man in Ruin town. And now … He must tell her that he suffered from an unfortunate – a miserable – complaint… . One that makes one have to be careful of celebrations… . And today was a day that he had to celebrate… . But he dare not have done it where Sergeant-Major Ledoux is along with a lot of their old mates… . ‘I dare not … I dussn’t!’ he finished. ‘So I might have been sitting, now, at this very moment, up in the cold camp… . But for you and the captain… . Up in the cold camp … You’ll excuse me, ma’am… .’

Sylvia felt that her lids were suddenly wavering:

‘I might have been myself,’ she said, ‘in a cold camp, too … if I hadn’t thrown myself on the captain’s mercy! … At Birkenhead, you know… . I happened to be there till three weeks ago… . It’s strange that you mentioned it… . There
are
things like signs … but you’re not a Catholic! They could hardly be coincidences… .’

She was trembling… . She looked, fumblingly opening it, into the little mirror of her powder-box – of chased, very thin gold with a small blue stone, like a forget-me-not in the centre of the concentric engravings… . Drake – the possible father of Michael – had given it to her… . The first thing he had ever given her. She had brought it down to-night out of defiance. She imagined that Tietjens disliked it. She said breathlessly to herself: ‘Perhaps the damn thing is an ill omen… .’ Drake had been the first man who had ever … A hot-breathed brute! … In the little glass her features were chalk-white… . She looked like … she looked like … She had a dress of golden tissue… . The breath was short between her white set
teeth.
… Her face was as white as her teeth… . And … Yes! Nearly! Her lips… . What was her face like? … In the chapel of the convent of Birkenhead there was a tomb all of alabaster… . She said to herself:

‘He was near fainting… . I’m near fainting… . What’s this beastly thing that’s between us? … If I let myself faint … But it would not make that beast’s face any less wooden! …’

She leaned across the table and patted the ex-sergeant-major’s black-haired hand:

‘I’m sure,’ she said, ‘you’re a very good man… .’ She did not try to keep the tears out of her eyes, remembering his words: ‘Up in the cold camp.’ … ‘I’m glad the captain, as you call him, did not leave you in the cold camp… . You’re devoted to him, aren’t you? … There are others he does leave … up in … the cold camp… . For punishment, you know… .’

The ex-sergeant-major, the tears in his eyes too, said:

‘Well, there
is
men you ’as to give the C.B. to… . C.B. means confined to barracks… .’

‘Oh, there are!’ she exclaimed. ‘There are! … And women, too… . Surely there are women, too? …’

The sergeant-major said:

‘Waacs, per’aps … I don’t know… . They say women’s discipline is much like ours… . Founded on hours!’

She said:

‘Do you know what they used to say of the captain? …’ She said to herself: ‘I pray to God the stiff, fatuous beast likes sitting here listening to this stuff… . Blessed Virgin, mother of God, make him take me… . Before midnight. Before eleven… . As soon as we get rid of this … No, he’s a decent little man… . Blessed Virgin!’ … ‘Do you know what they used to say of the captain? … I heard the warmest banker in England say it of him… .’

The sergeant-major, his eyes enormously opened, said:

‘Did you know the warmest banker in England? … But there, we always knew the captain was well connected… .’ She went on:

‘They said of him… . He was always helping people.’ … ‘Holy Mary, mother of God! … He’s my
husband
. It’s not a sin… . Before midnight… . Oh, give me a sign… . Or before … the termination of hostilities… . If you give me a sign I could wait.’ … ‘He helped virtuous
Scotch
students, and broken-down gentry… . And women taken in adultery… . All of them… . Like … You know Who… . That is his model… .’ She said to herself: ‘Curse him! … I hope he likes it… . You’d think the only thing he thinks about is the beastly duck he’s wolfing down.’ And then aloud: ‘They used to say: “He saved others; himself he could not save… .”’

The ex-sergeant-major looked at her gravely:

‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘we couldn’t say exactly that of the captain… . For I fancy it was said of our Redeemer… . But we ’
ave
said that if ever there was a poor bloke the captain could ’elp, ’elp ’im ’e would… . Yet the unit was always getting ’ellish strafe from headquarters… .’

Suddenly Sylvia began to laugh… . As she began to laugh she had remembered … The alabaster image in the nun’s chapel at Birkenhead the vision of which had just presented itself to her, had been the recumbent tomb of an honourable Mrs. Tremayne-Warlock… . She was said to have sinned in her youth and her husband had never forgiven her. That was what the nuns said… . She said aloud:

‘A sign …’ Then to herself: ‘Blessed Mary! You’ve given it me in the neck… . Yet you could not name a father for your child, and I can name two… . I’m going mad… . Both I and he are going to go mad… .’

She thought of dashing an enormous patch of red upon either cheek. Then she thought it would be rather melodramatic… .

She made in the smoking-room, whilst she was waiting for both Tietjens and Cowley to come back from the telephone, another pact, this time with Father Consett in heaven! She was fairly sure that Father Consett – and quite possibly other of the heavenly powers – wanted Christopher not to be worried, so that he could get on with the war – or because he was a good sort of dullish man such as the heavenly authorities are apt to like… . Something like that… .

She was by that time fairly calm again. You cannot keep up fits of emotion by the hour. At any rate, with her, the fits of emotion were periodical and unexpected, though her colder passion remained always the same… . Thus, when Christopher had come into Lady Sachse’s that afternoon, she had been perfectly calm. He had mooned
through
a number of officers, both French and English, in a great octagonal, bluish salon where Lady Sachse gave her teas, and had come to her side with just a nod – the merest inflexion of the head! … Perowne had melted away somewhere behind the disagreeable duchess. The general, very splendid and white-headed and scarlet-tipped and gilt, had also borne down upon her at that… . At the sight of Perowne with her he had been sniffing and snorting whilst he talked to the young nobleman – a dark fellow in blue with a new belt who seemed just a shade too theatrical, he being chauffeur to a marshal of France and first cousin and nearest relative, except for parents and grandparents, of the prospective bride.

The general had told her that he was running the show pretty strong on purpose because he thought it might do something to cement the Entente Cordiale. But it did not seem to be doing it. The French – officers, soldiers, and women – kept pretty well all on the one side of the room – the English on the other. The French were as a rule more gloomy than men and women are expected to be. A marquis of sorts – she understood that these were all Bonapartist nobility – having been introduced to her had distinguished himself no more than by saying that, for his part, he thought the duchess was right, and by saying that to Perowne who, knowing no French, had choked exactly as if his tongue had suddenly got too big for his mouth.

She had not heard what the duchess – a very disagreeable duchess who sat on a sofa and appeared savagely careworn – had been saying, so that she had inclined herself, in the courtly manner that at school she had been taught to reserve for the French legitimist nobility, but that she thought she might expend upon a rather state function even for the Bonapartists, and had replied that without the least doubt the duchess had the right of the matter… . The marquis had given her from dark eyes one long glance, and she had returned it with a long cold glance that certainly told him she was meat for his masters. It extinguished him… .

Tietjens had staged his meeting with herself remarkably well. It was the sort of lymphatic thing he
could
do, so that, for the fifth of a minute, she wondered if he had any feelings or emotions at all. But she knew that he
had.
… The general, at any rate, bearing down upon them with satisfaction, had remarked:

‘Ah, I see you’ve seen each other before to-day… . I thought perhaps you wouldn’t have found time before, Tietjens. Your draft must be a great nuisance… .’

Tietjens said without expression:

‘Yes, we have seen each other before… . I made time to call at Sylvia’s hotel, sir.’

It was at Tietjens’ terrifying expressionlessness, at that completely being up to a situation, that the first wave of emotion had come over her… . For, till that very moment, she had been merely sardonically making the constatation that there was not a single presentable man in the room… . There was not even one that you could call a gentleman … for you cannot size up the French … ever! But, suddenly, she was despairing! … How, she said to herself, could she ever move, put emotion into, this lump! It was like trying to move an immense mattress filled with feathers. You pulled at one end, but the whole mass sagged down and remained immobile until you seemed to have no strength at all. Until virtue went out from you… .

It was as if he had the evil eye, or some special protector. He was so appallingly competent, so appallingly always in the centre of his own picture.

The general said, rather joyfully:

‘Then you can spare a minute, Tietjens, to talk to the duchess! About coal! … For goodness’ sake, man, save the situation! I’m worn out… .’

Sylvia bit the inside of her lower lip – she never bit her lip itself! – to keep herself from exclaiming aloud. It was just exactly what should not happen to Tietjens at that juncture… . She heard the general explaining to her in his courtly manner, that the duchess was holding up the whole ceremony because of the price of coal. The general loved her desperately. Her, Sylvia! In quite a proper manner for an elderly general… . But he would go to no small extremes in her interests! So would his sister!

She looked hard at the room to get her senses into order again. She said:

‘It’s like a Hogarth picture… .’

The undissolvable air of the eighteenth century that the French contrive to retain in all their effects kept the
scene
singularly together. On a sofa sat the duchess, relatives leaning over her. She was a duchess with one of those impossible names: Beauchain-Radigutz or something like it. The bluish room was octagonal and vaulted, up to a rosette in the centre of the ceiling. English officers and V.A.D.s of some evident presence opened out to the left, French military and very black-clothed women of all ages, but all apparently widows, opened out to the right, as if the duchess shone down a sea at sunset. Beside her on the sofa you did not see Lady Sachse; leaning over her you did not see the prospective bride. This stoutish, unpresentable, coldly venomous woman, in black clothes so shabby that they might have been grey tweed, extinguished other personalities as the sun conceals planets. A fattish, brilliantined personality, in mufti, with a scarlet rosette, stood sideways to the duchess’s right, his hands extended forward as if in an invitation to a dance; an extremely squat lady, also apparently a widow, extended, on the left of the duchess, both her black-gloved hands, as if she too were giving an invitation to the dance.

The general, with Sylvia beside him, stood glorious in the centre of the clearing that led to the open doorway of a much smaller room. Through the doorway you could see a table with a white damask cloth; a silver-gilt inkpot, fretted, like a porcupine with pens, a fat, flat leather case for the transportation of documents, and two notaries: one in black, fat, and bald-headed; one in blue uniform, with a shining monocle, and a brown moustache that he continued to twirl.