"SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING."
MANY of the guests in the foreign quarter had made a start downwards
into the plains; and the Kurhaus itself, though still well filled with
visitors, was every week losing some of its invalids. A few of the
tables looked desolate, and some were not occupied at all, the lingerers
having chosen, now that their party was broken up, to seek the refuge of
another table. So that many stragglers found their way to the English
dining-board, each bringing with him his own national bad manners, and
causing much annoyance to the Disagreeable Man, who was a true John Bull
in his contempt of all foreigners. The English table was, so he said,
like England herself: the haven of other nation's offscourings.
There were several other signs, too, that the season was far advanced.
The food had fallen off in quality and quantity. The invalids, some of
them better and some of them worse, had become impatient. And plans were
being discussed, where formerly temperatures and coughs and general
symptoms were the usual subjects of conversation! The caretakers, too,
were in a state of agitation; some few keenly anxious to be of to new
pastures; and others, who had perhaps formed attachments, an occurrence
not unusual in Petershof, were wishing to hold back time with both
hands, and were therefore delighted that the weather, which had not
yet broken up, gave no legitimate excuse for immediate departure.
Pretty Fräulein Müller had gone, leaving her Spanish gentleman quite
disconsolate for the time being. The French Marchioness had returned to
the Parisian circles where she was celebrated for all the domestic
virtues, from which she had been taking such a prolonged holiday in
Petershof. The little French danseuse and her poodle had left for Monte
Carlo. M. Lichinsky and his mother passed on to the Tyrol, where Madame
would no doubt have plenty of opportunities for quarrelling: or not
finding them, would certainly make them without any delay, by this means
keeping herself in good spirits and her son in bad health. There were
some, too, who had hurried off without paying their doctors: being of
course those who had received the greatest attention, and who had
expressed the greatest gratitude in their time of trouble, but who were
of opinion that thankfulness could very well take the place of francs:
an opinion not entirely shared by the doctors themselves.
The Swedish professor had betaken himself off, with his chessmen and his
chessboard. The little Polish governess who clutched so eagerly at her
paltry winnings, caressing those centimes with the same fondness and
fever that a greater gambler grasps his thousands of francs, she, had
left too; and, indeed, most of Bernardine's acquaintances had gone their
several ways, after six months' constant intercourse, and companionship,
saying good-bye with the same indifference as though they were saying
good-morning or good-afternoon.
This cold-heartedness struck Bernardine more than once, and she spoke
of it to Robert Allitsen. It was the day before her own departure, and
she had gone down with him to the restaurant, and sat sipping her
coffee, and making her complaint.
"Such indifference is astonishing, and it is sad too. I cannot
understand it," she said.
"That is because you are a goose," he replied, pouring out some more
coffee for himself, and as an after thought, for her too. "You pretend
to know something about the human heart, and yet you do not seem to
grasp the fact that most of us are very little interested in other
people: they for us and we for them can spare only a small fraction of
time and attention. We may, perhaps, think to the contrary, believing
that we occupy an important position in their lives; until one day,
when we are feeling most confident of our value, we see an unmistakable
sign, given quite unconsciously by our friends, that we are after all
nothing to them: we can be done without, put on one side, and forgotten
when not present. Then, if we are foolish, we are wounded by this
discovery, and we draw back into ourselves. But if we are wise, we draw
back into ourselves without being wounded: recognizing as fair and
reasonable that people can only have time and attention for their
immediate belongings. Isolated persons have to learn this lesson sooner
or later; and the sooner they do learn it, the better."
"And you," she asked, "you have learnt this lesson?"
"Long ago," he said decidedly.
"You take a hard view of life," she said.
"Life has not been very bright for me," he answered. "But I own that I
have not cultivated my garden. And now it is too late: the weeds have
sprung up everywhere. Once or twice I have thought lately that I would
begin to clear away the weeds, but I have not the courage now. And
perhaps it does not matter much."
"I think it does matter," she said gently. "But I am no better than you,
for I have not cultivated my garden."
"It would not be such a difficult business for you as for me," he said,
smiling sadly.
They left the restaurant, and sauntered out together.
"And to-morrow you will be gone," he said.
"I shall miss you," Bernardine said.
"That is simply a question of time," he remarked. "I shall probably miss
you at first. But we adjust ourselves easily to altered circumstances:
mercifully. A few days, a few weeks at most, and then that state of
becoming accustomed, called by pious folk, resignation."
"Then you think that the every-day companionship, the every-day exchange
of thoughts and ideas, counts for little or nothing?" she asked.
"That is about the colour of it," he answered, in his old gruff way.
She thought of his words when she was packing: the many pleasant hours
were to count for nothing; for nothing the little bits of fun, the
little displays of temper and vexation, the snatches of serious talk,
the contradictions, and all the petty details of six months' close
companionship.
He was not different from the others who had parted from her so lightly.
No wonder, then, that he could sympathise with them.
That last night at Petershof, Bernardine hardened her heart against the
Disagreeable Man.
"I am glad I am able to do so," she said to herself. "It makes it
easier for me to go."
Then the vision of a forlorn figure rose before her. And the little
hard heart softened at once.
In the morning they breakfasted together as usual. There was scarcely
any conversation between them. He asked for her address, and she told
him that she was going back to her uncle who kept the second-hand book-
shop in Stone Street.
"I will send you a guide-book from the Tyrol," he explained. "I shall
be going there in a week or two to see my mother."
"I hope you will find her in good health," she said.
Then it suddenly flashed across her mind what he had told her about his
one great sacrifice for his mother's sake. She looked up at him, and he
met her glance without flinching.
He said good-bye to her at the foot of the staircase.
It was the first time she had ever shaken hands with him.
"Good-bye," he said gently. "Good luck to you."
"Good-bye," she answered.
He went up the stairs, and turned round as though he wished to say
something more. But he changed his mind, and kept his own counsel.
An hour later Bernardine left Petershof. Only the concierge of the
Kurhaus saw her off at the station.