PATRICK
I felt somewhat disconcerted, but as occasionally happens in moments of
trepidation, I managed to overcome the difficulty by a bold stroke.
“I say, Uncle, you must excuse me,” I began, “but accident led me
across the path of a man who was gazing gloomily at the house at
Hennequeville, and I was told he was a painter. I thought, perhaps,
that there was some connection between this painter and the portrait
which came to-day, and also certain incidents which caused me, before
our marriage, a great deal of pain.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your hurried departure to....”
“Well, that’s true, and it was about this that I wanted to speak to
you, so that the subject should never again be mentioned between us.
You must know that Cordélia came back to the house one evening with a
stranger whom she had discovered in a farmyard painting some wench
feeding her fowls. She declared that he was a wonderful artist and she
was very grateful to him for agreeing to accept her as a pupil.
“The stranger used to laugh at her youthful enthusiasm and he conducted
himself like a gentleman. He was an Englishman of good family, slightly
eccentric, possessing views on most things which were peculiar to
himself. I did not always follow what he meant, but his ideas cast a
spell over Cordélia for the time being. I saw no reason why they should
not work together either in the house or the country round. Patrick,
for such is his christian name, and the only one by which he signs his
paintings, lived in a cottage on the borders of Tongues forest.
“I was at that time greatly taken up with business which compelled me
to go frequently to Paris, and I failed to perceive the changes which
were taking place in Cordélia.
“It was Surdon and his wife who called my attention to the fact that
she had lost her vivacity, no longer played at farming, or mounted her
horse, but spent her whole time in painting or reading or dreaming,
leaving the house only when the stranger made an appointment to go
sketching in some part of the country, and returning thoughtful and
silent.
“I then took stock of Cordélia and was amazed to discover a new look
on her face. She was now as grave as she used to be gay, and wore a
curious absorbed expression as though lost in a reverie. I bitterly
reproached myself for my carelessness and oversight. However, I said
nothing, the better to keep a watch over her. I soon saw for myself
that Cordélia was living only through the medium of this man Patrick’s
thought.”
“Oh, good Heavens! that’s just what I feared,” I gasped.
“Don’t worry yourself,” went on my uncle, “for as you will see, the
whole business is of no consequence. Do you know the sort of man
Cordélia had to do with?”
“A rogue,” I returned.
“That’s just it. A sort of mountebank who tried to persuade her that
the moon was made of green cheese, and told her a pack of silly tales
about his psychic powers and such-like nonsense, which ended by turning
her head.”
“But did she still love me?” I inquired.
“I believe she still loved you, only she didn’t want to be married!”
“Oh, good Heavens!” I exclaimed.
“I will tell you what happened, and you will see that the whole thing
is of no consequence.”
“Forgive me, Uncle, but I can plainly see that what you tell me is of
the utmost consequence. I never dreamt that it was going to be of so
much consequence!”
“Look here, my boy, you make me ill. Are you a man or not? Aren’t
you married to a girl whom you adore and who loves you now that her
eyes have been opened? If to-morrow morning there is any question of
this imposter of a Patrick may the devil take me! I’ll never shake
you by the hand again. So listen to me, for we must have done with
this business.... I discovered in a desk in the studio a regular
correspondence carried on between Cordélia and Patrick in secret.”
“Well, that’s about the limit!”
“This correspondence,” continued my uncle, “is what these people call a
correspondence between souls. And I can assure you, my dear Hector, it
is not this psychic communion, to use their own words, that will make
me a grandfather one of these days!... Almost at the same time I found
in Cordélia’s room, in addition to this rubbish, a new bookcase crammed
with works on magic. Yes, a library of occult science. An incredible
number of books on the unseen world, on faces and souls. Can’t you
picture a book on ‘faces and souls’? Oh and an illustrated work on
stigmatism, mediums, thaumaturgy and what not....
“To prove to you, my dear fellow, that the whole business is of no
consequence, I must tell you that I had no need even to see Patrick
to get rid of him. Everything came out in the most natural way from
Cordélia, who was always a sensible girl, and herself realized the
danger which she was incurring by listening to this charlatan. When she
discovered me in the thick of all these books and Patrick’s letters
before me, she threw her arms round my neck and cried: ‘Save me,
Papa!’”
“Dear, dear, dear Cordélia!” I could not help interjecting. “That’s
like her old self. I recognize her there!”
“‘Yes, I’ll save you from that madman, my Cordélia,’ I replied. ‘Hector
will soon be home from America, and you shall be married.’ And it was
then, my dear Hector, that she said: ‘But I can’t marry Hector. Patrick
has forbidden me.’”
“Ah, yes!” I said, gasping anew. “Ah yes!... This is too thick....
Really this Patrick having the cheek to forbid her to marry me!”
“Yes, she declared that she was morally bound to obey Patrick, as her
mind belonged to him.”
“Her mind belonged to him! Why hang it all, this beats everything. And
what reply did you make, pray?”
“I said to her: ‘Pack up your things, my dear, and we’ll make a trip
to some part of Europe where there will be no danger of meeting this
delightful gentleman, and above all, let’s have no more letter
writing. We’ll talk about all this again in a couple of months’
time’.... Well, we left here as you know and there was no need to wait
a couple of months. At the end of six weeks this Patrick was forgotten,
and Cordélia thought only of you. And now, my dear boy, say good-by.
Cordélia is yours, and I hope that you won’t have any difficulty in
keeping her. Bless my soul, do your best to make her happy!”
Having said which, he clasped me in his arms almost stifling me, and
left me, muttering between his teeth:
“Stuff and nonsense. Stuff and nonsense.”
When I got back to the house Mathilde, old Surdon’s wife, told me that
her mistress was expecting me in her room. I entered, and my eyes fell
on a dainty little champagne supper which lay ready for us, and it
was none too soon, for Cordélia and I had eaten nothing or scarcely
anything during the day, our attention being fully occupied in greeting
our guests and returning their civilities.
The table was set in the boudoir, and the door leading to Cordélia’s
room was closed. I stood there like a great stupid. I dared not knock
at the door, and I began to cough as I stared fatuously at the walls
which I myself had papered.
At that moment the door was softly opened and I heard Cordélia say once
more in her laughing voice: “Gracious, how ugly! Gracious, how ugly!”
I looked round and joined in the laugh, for this time I knew that she
was not alluding to me.
I was surprised to see her muffled up in a fur cloak.
“Hallo, have you caught cold?” I exclaimed.
“I haven’t caught cold,” she made answer. “I am cold. Don’t you find it
bitterly cold?”
I thought she was jesting, for as a matter of fact, the day had been
unusually warm for the time of the year, and a pleasant wood fire was
blazing in the boudoir which I could very well have dispensed with.
“You know that those sables suit you to perfection, and it’s a little
affectation on your part. Not that I have the faintest objection, but
you’ll be suffocated in them.”
She replied with a shiver and summoned Mathilde to put more wood on the
fire.
My heart sank within me, for I imagined that she must be really out of
sorts.
“I tell you there’s nothing the matter with me,” she said, taking
things very simply, “I feel cold. It might happen to any one to feel
cold. I won’t have you worrying yourself about me. I can’t pretend to
be warm when I’m cold. What a tyrant you are!... I say, we’re beginning
our married life well,” she went on in the funniest manner, as she
kissed me before Mathilde, who did not seem to mind, accustomed as she
was for so many years to see us kiss each other.
It was Cordélia who told Mathilde to leave the room. Then she at once
asked:
“What has father been talking to you about? You and he have been
wandering about the park, which you dislike, for more than
half-an-hour. What did he tell you?”
“He told me a lot of things of no consequence,” I returned. “Let’s have
something to eat. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Oh yes. But you know you may as well tell me what he said. It was I
who sent him out to you. I wanted you to know all, dearest, before you
came upstairs to me here. Believe me the whole thing is utter nonsense.
Tell me that you forgive me.”
“Do I forgive you!... Dear, dear, dear Cordélia!”
As she carved the truffled galantine, she went on:
“When I think of it now I see how silly I was, but he was such an odd
person. Indeed he really seems to have fascinated me.”
“Don’t let us speak of it,” I entreated. “Don’t let us speak of it.”
“You ought to be glad to hear me speak so calmly of it. It shows that
I am entirely cured. And I can assure you that I am quite as pleased
as you are. One must not touch such things as occultism, hypnotism,
and magic you know. One gets carried away and ceases to be master of
oneself. It is a morbid condition to be in.... What do you think of
this galantine? Come, pour me out some champagne.... And kiss me....
What are you thinking about? Surely you’re not going to trouble about
Patrick now. There! To mention his name makes me feel quite queer.”
A shiver passed through her.
“I’m certain, Hector, there’s a draught coming from somewhere.”
“No, dearest, all the doors are closed.”
“An ice-cold draught.”
Her teeth chattered. I rose from the table filled with an indescribable
uneasiness. And suddenly, as I looked at her, I saw her turn pale.
“What is it? What’s the matter Cordélia dearest?”
“I see now what’s the matter,” she returned, drawing her cloak more
closely round her. “It’s the portrait.”
“The portrait! What do you mean?”
“The portrait which Patrick sent to me and I ordered to be taken down
into the cellar.”
“Well?”
“Well, the portrait is cold.”
Cordélia’s words were Greek to me and the look of blank amazement in
my eyes bore witness, not only to my inability to comprehend her, but
also to my uneasiness.
“You don’t understand. You don’t understand,” declared Cordélia in
a quavering voice. “That is what they call the externalization of
sensibility. They assert that men of science have made conclusive
experiments in this respect. For instance, the celebrated M. de
Rochas has demonstrated scientifically that one can take a person’s
sensibility from him and transport it to a glass of water and make that
person suffer by plunging a pin into the glass of water.”
I sprang from my chair utterly dismayed by the tone in which Cordélia
uttered what I regarded as “devil’s tales.”
“Are you going crazy, Cordélia? Surely you don’t believe in such
preposterous stuff. Come.... Come.... Do say something.”
“I feel cold,” she replied, in an increasingly quavering and far-away
voice. “I feel cold. I am as cold as my portrait. I see that I shall
be ill if the portrait is left in the cellar. Besides it was wrong of
me to send it down there. _He_ must be displeased.”
I realized with a feeling of intense sorrow that my Cordélia was not so
completely cured of her strange malady as she imagined, and with tears
in my eyes I exclaimed:
“Where would you like me to put it? I don’t want to go against your
wishes in such a trifling matter.”
“Wherever you please, wherever you please, but don’t leave it in the
cellar. And be careful not to knock it about.”
“Of course not. I’ll go and fetch it,” I said, greatly perturbed.
“You must forgive me, dearest, but it’s not my fault, is it? I’m very
sorry he sent it to us.”
“So am I.”
I went downstairs. I was fuming. I called Surdon and gave him
instructions to fetch the portrait and then I told him not to bother
about it, for after what Cordélia had said, I feared lest he should
subject it to rough usage.
I myself descended into the cellar. I seized the wretched canvas and
carried it to the drawing-room on the first floor, taking care in
spite of myself not to knock it against the furniture or walls. Some
people may say—some people are so clever!—that I behaved like a great
simpleton, an ass. May be. But we shall see about that. We shall see
about that.
The fact is that Cordélia held such sway over my mind that I could not
choose but accede to her wishes.
Nevertheless after I deposited the portrait against the foot of a
round table I flung wide open the French windows of the balcony which
was not calculated to make it warm. The cool freshness of the night
after a beautiful day, floated into the room. No blame could attach
to me. I had treated the portrait with care and it was not now in the
cellar. That was all that was asked of me, and if Cordélia was no
longer feeling cold I should at once be able to cure her of her strange
obsession.
When I returned to her she was still shivering in her cloak, and she
gave me a mournful look.
“Why did you put the portrait in a draught?” she asked. “I was certain
that you would play some trick. It’s too bad of you. I am still cold.
Bring it here, and then I shall be quite easy in my mind.”
“Certainly, that’s the best thing to be done,” I exclaimed, and I went
off again, bitterly regretting my mistaken calculation. I should have
done better to put the thing near the fire; and then, if Cordélia had
taken it into her head that I had left it in the cold, out of spite,
she would have been confounded once for all.
When the portrait was brought into the boudoir, Cordélia, of course,
declared that she was no longer cold. She removed her fur cloak, and I
perceived that she was clad in a charming loosely-fitting robe. Oh what
a delightful, sweet little thing she was!
“My dearest, you can’t think how beautiful you are,” I cried. “That’s
the honest truth, and no mere idle fancy, and when I kiss you I don’t
feel as if I am kissing a portrait!”
“I agree with you,” she said laughing merrily. “You are taking my
breath away.”
Truth to tell I held her somewhat tightly in my arms, for I was
quivering with happiness. She had become entirely normal again, so much
so that she recalled me to the realities of our supper. And we started
afresh to eat with good appetite and a light heart. We drank out of the
same glass like children. Nevertheless, warned by my experience with
the portrait, I was careful to keep the conversation from straying to
the past. Our plans for the future and our impending travel about the
world engrossed our attention.
“How happy we shall be!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, my dear Cordélia, we shall be very happy. We must think of
nothing else.”
I had uttered a word too many.
“What do you expect me to think about, my dear Hector?” she returned,
as she regarded my air of embarrassment. “Oh, of course, you say that
because of the portrait. I admit that I was greatly impressed by it,
or rather by its being sent here, because I have never seen it, and I
don’t want to see it,”—I had placed it in a corner with its face to
the wall—“but the whole thing is over now—quite. Oh quite, I assure
you. And when I think of it, now that I am all right again, I feel a
little foolish of course.”
Nothing could have given me greater pleasure than these last words. I
did not lose the opportunity to score.
“You admit, dear, that just now you were not very well. The exertions
of the day, and the necessity to recover your strength—you were simply
hungry—these things were the cause of the trouble and brought about
that fit of shivering, you may be sure.”
“Yes, I am inclined to think so.”
I kissed her again for these last words, but I thought it as well to
add with the greatest good humor.
“Personally, I have no fear of the ‘externalization of sensibility.’”
I had no sooner made the remark than Cordélia’s face grew serious once
more.
“We make a mistake, I think, to treat these matters lightly. I may
have given way to fancies, but I repeat that the ‘externalization of
sensibility’ has been scientifically proved. It is our modern material
conception of things which has imprisoned the soul within the body, but
in the Middle Ages....”
Oh come, I say, I thought to myself. We are flying off at a tangent
again. We are in the Middle Ages now!
“In the Middle Ages the soul was easily liberated from the body.”
“We are not in the Middle Ages now, my dearest.”
“How wonderful were its wanderings outside its prison!”
“Yes, yes, of course.... I say do try some of this fruit.”
“Have you ever heard of persons being bewitched?”
“Never, and I don’t want to know anything about them.”
“What a great big silly you are, Hector! It is impossible to talk
seriously with you. There are certain things you must know, unless you
want to remain a blockhead.”
“Thank you.”
“The casting of spells is bound up in the history of France, and
modern discoveries have proved to us that these things are not pure
imagination. When a person wanted to cast a spell on any one, he made a
small wax image which resembled as nearly as possible the person whom
he wished to be rid of.”
“Indeed, and what then?” I inquired, slyly putting my arm round her
waist.
“And then after, of course, externalizing the sensibility of this
person to the wax image, he stuck a pin into the image and the person
died.”
“Are you certain that the person died?”
“Am I certain! No, I am not certain about it.”
“I’m glad of that,” I returned as I gazed into my Cordélia’s face with
the tenderest expression.
“But there are persons who are certain of it; persons who even maintain
that many mysterious deaths in the Middle Ages can be accounted for
only on this assumption.”
I dared not ask who those persons were. I was greatly perturbed that
the conversation should once more stray to a subject which was
distasteful to me. Suddenly she stood up.
“Show me the portrait,” she requested, “I want to have a look at it.”
Not five minutes before she had assured me that she had no wish to see
it!
“Is it really necessary, my dear Cordélia?” I asked, not afraid to show
a distrust which I hoped she might share.
But unfortunately her thoughts were once more entirely centered on the
portrait, and it was with a regret which I shall feel all my life that
I saw her bend over the canvas and turn its face towards us.
Though it remained in the shadow, the outline of the figure stood out
clearly in its peculiar radiance.
“Oh how beautiful it is!” whispered Cordélia.
She stood for a few minutes still and silent, and then asked my opinion:
“Don’t you think it is beautiful, Hector?”
“Very beautiful,” I answered. “Very beautiful.”
To be sure I had no wish to contradict her, and moreover I had
expressed my real opinion. Truth to tell, I did not know how to keep my
countenance. When a woman dabbles in high art the simplest gesture by
a man may appear to her a piece of stupidity.... Still I ventured to
press her hand softly to remind her of my presence. She turned her head
towards me, and with a delightful and gentle look in her eyes, pointing
to the canvas, said:
“You can say what you like about the man who painted that portrait,
my dear Hector, you can say that he is cracked, and, in fact, I quite
think that he is a bit crazy, but you must admit that he is a great
artist.”
And as I made the mistake of not replying at once, she went on:
“Oh, can’t you speak.... Besides he is the first artist to paint the
‘aura.’”
“Just so.”
“What do you mean, ‘Just so’? Do you know what the ‘aura’ is?”
“No.”
“Then why did you say ‘Just so’? I will tell you what the ‘aura’ is:
it is the cloud of light which emanates from each individual and is
discernible by the trained consciousness.”
“Indeed! So the consciousness must be trained?”
Cordélia released herself from my arm which was round her waist, and
gave me a stern look:
“Don’t, my dear Hector, adopt an attitude of making game of what you
don’t understand. You would do better to think of all the matter round
us which radiates light. Why should not the human body shed a radiance?
It is not only a trained consciousness which can perceive these
light-rays, but they are visible to the open eyes of certain persons,
I can tell you. Look at this portrait! Besides, the negative of a
photograph can develop these light-rays for us even far from the body
whence they emanate, and sometimes they retain their actual shape. That
is the aura.”
“Really the negative of a photograph?”
“You are the only person to be ignorant of it.”
“I am very sorry.”
“This fluid substance,” she went on with intense seriousness,
“represents our perceptions and something more than our perceptions,
our intellectual life, which emanates from us and precedes us and is
conscious of things long before our body is. It is this force which,
when I am in the street, makes me think of a person whom I shall meet
in another five minutes, because my aura is conscious of him before
he is discernible by my physical vision. Do you follow me? Do you
understand me?”
“Yes,” I acquiesced, absolutely terrified by the turn which the
conversation had taken, “I am beginning to understand.”
“Well, it is none too soon! If you only knew how interesting in reality
the whole thing is. It is indeed the new thought—the only one that will
matter in a few years’ time. And this aura—your perceptions and my
perceptions—is a force which can operate from a distance; and be made
to operate from a distance; that is a well-known phenomenon. In this
particular aspect it is called suggestion; and suggestion is a reality
which is as indisputable as a mathematical formula—as two and two make
four, for instance. By means of suggestion, auras have been seen at an
incredible distance from the body, if not separated from it altogether,
for that would involve death at least ... almost to forget the body.”
And after uttering these last words in tones of rapt excitement which
utterly overwhelmed me, she became once more plunged in thought.
What was she thinking about? What was she thinking about?
I sank into a chair and as I gazed at her a sense of hopelessness came
over me. I saw her in profile as she stood erect facing the infernal
picture. The light wrap which covered her shoulders had slipped off,
and I beheld her bare young throat, the adorable outline of her arm
as it hung with infinite grace by her side. My feeling of dejection
gradually gave way to an admiration which longed to find expression.
I drew myself up cautiously and stole towards her like a thief; and I
closed my arms round her to seize her as though I already feared lest
my dear beauteous treasure should be torn away from me.
Taken aback, a slight cry escaped her and she turned round with a
peculiar look in her eyes which I had never beheld in them before, and
stared at me as if she no longer knew me.
“Cordélia, I am your husband and I adore you,” I whispered.
And I pressed my lips to hers, but the terror of it! I met lips which
were as cold as stone, and I had no sooner placed a kiss upon them than
she became a statue in my arms. I was holding to my heart an inanimate
form; a form not devoid of life, but from which life had taken wing
elsewhere.
Cordélia had fallen on my shoulders in a cataleptic-like sleep. I
called to her. I used the most endearing words. I implored her to speak
to me. She did not hear me. So far from returning my kisses she was
unconscious of them.
“Cordélia! Dear, dear, dear Cordélia!” I cried. “Where are you? Where
are you?”
At last, after laying her on the sofa in her deadly immobility, I began
to shout and summon assistance like a madman.