On the morning that Gregory Jardine had waked from his dream, Madame von
Marwitz sat at her writing-table tearing open, with an air of impatient
melancholy, note after note and letter after letter, and dropping the
envelopes into a waste-paper basket beside her. A cigarette was between
her lips; her hair, not dressed, was coiled loosely upon her head; she
wore a white silk _peignoir_ bordered with white fur and girdled with a
sash of silver tissue. She had just come from her bath and her face,
though weary, had the freshness of a prolonged toilet.
The room where she sat, with its grand piano and its deep chairs, its
sofa and its capacious writing-table, was accurately adjusted to her
needs. It, too, was all in white, carpet, curtains and dimity coverings.
Madame von Marwitz laughed at her own vagary; but it had had only once
to be clearly expressed, and the greens and pinks that had adorned her
sitting-room at Mrs. Forrester's were banished as well as the
rose-sprigged toilet set and hangings of the bedroom. "I cannot breathe
among colours," she had said. "They seem to press upon me. White is like
the air; to live among colours, with all their beauty, is like swimming
under the water; I can only do it with comfort for a little while."
Madame von Marwitz looked up presently at a wonderful little clock of
gold and enamel that stood before her and then struck, not impatiently,
but with an intensification of the air of melancholy, an antique silver
bell that stood beside the clock. Louise entered.
"Where is Mademoiselle?" Madame von Marwitz asked, speaking in French.
Louise answered that Mademoiselle had gone out to take Victor for his
walk, Victor being Madame von Marwitz's St. Bernard who remained in
England during his mistress's absences.
"You should have taken Victor yourself, Louise," said Madame von
Marwitz, not at all unkindly, but with decisive condemnation. "You know
that I like Mademoiselle to help me with my letters in the morning."
Louise, her permanent plaintiveness enhanced, murmured that she had a
bad headache and that Mademoiselle had kindly offered to take Victor,
had said that she would enjoy taking him.
"Moreover," Madame von Marwitz pursued, as though these excuses were not
worthy of reply, "I do not care for Mademoiselle to be out alone in such
a fog. You should have known that, too. As for the dress, don't fail to
send it back this morning--as you should have done last night."
"Mademoiselle thought we might arrange it to please Madame."
"You should have known better, if Mademoiselle did not. Mademoiselle has
very little taste in such matters, as you are well aware. Do my feet
now; I think that the nails need a little polishing; but very little; I
do not wish you to make them look as though they had been varnished; it
is a trick of yours."
Madame von Marwitz then resumed her cigarette and her letters while
Louise, fetching files and scissors, powders and polishers, mournfully
knelt before her mistress, and, drawing the _mule_ from a beautifully
undeformed white foot, began to bring each nail to a state of perfected
art. In the midst of this ceremony Karen Woodruff appeared. She led the
great dog by a leash and was still wearing her cap and coat.
"I hope I am not late, Tante," she said, speaking in English and going
to kiss her guardian's cheek, while Victor stood by, majestically
benignant.
"You are late, my Karen, and you had no business to take out Victor at
this hour. If you want to walk with him let it be in the afternoon.
_Aïe! aïe!_ Louise! what are you doing? Have mercy I beg of you!" Louise
had used the file awkwardly. "What is that you have, Karen?" Madame von
Marwitz went on. Miss Woodruff held in her hand a large bouquet
enveloped in white paper.
"An offering, Tante; they just arrived as I came in. Roses, I think."
"I have already sent half a dozen boxes downstairs for Mrs. Forrester to
dispose of in the drawing-room. You will take off your things now,
child, and help me, please, with all these weary people. _Bon Dieu!_ do
they really imagine that I am going to answer their inept effusions?"
Miss Woodruff had unwrapped a magnificent bunch of pink roses and laid
them beside her guardian. "From that good little dark-faced lady of
yesterday, Tante."
Madame von Marwitz, pausing meditatively over a note, glanced at them.
"The dark-faced lady?"
"Don't you remember? Mrs. Harding. Here is her card. She sat and gazed
at you, so devoutly, while you talked to Mr. Drew and Lady Campion. And
she looked very poor. It must mean a great deal for her to buy roses in
January--_un suprême effort_," Miss Woodruff quoted, she and her
guardian having a host of such playful allusions.
"I see her now," said Madame von Marwitz. "I see her face;
_congestionnée d'émotion, n'est-ce-pas_." She read the card that Karen
presented.
"Silly woman. Take them away, child."
"But no, Tante, it is not silly; it is very touching, I think; and you
have liked pink roses sometimes. It makes me sorry for that good little
lady that you shouldn't even look at her roses."
"No. I see her. Dark red and very foolish. I do not like her or her
flowers. They look stupid flowers--thick and pink, like fat, smiling
cheeks. Take them away."
"You have read what she says, Tante, here on the back? I call that very
pretty."
"I see it. I see it too often. No. Go now, and take your hat off. Good
heavens, child, why did you wear that ancient sealskin cap?"
Karen paused at the door, the rejected roses in her arms. "Why, Tante,
it was snowing a little; I didn't want to wear my best hat for a morning
walk."
"Have you no other hat beside the best?"
"No, Tante. And I like my little cap. You gave it to me--years
ago--don't you remember; the first time that we went to Russia
together."
"Years ago, indeed, I should imagine from its appearance. Well; it makes
no difference; you will soon be leaving town and it will do for Cornwall
and Tallie."
When Karen returned, Madame von Marwitz, whose feet were now finished,
took her place in an easy chair and said: "Now to work. Leave the
accounts for Schultz. I've glanced at some of them this morning and, as
usual, I seem to be spending twice as much as I make. How the money runs
away I cannot imagine. And Tallie sends me a great batch of bills from
Cornwall, _bon Dieu_!" _Bon Dieu_ was a frequent ejaculation with Madame
von Marwitz, often half sighed, and with the stress laid on the first
word.
"Never mind, you will soon be making a great deal more money," said
Karen.
"It would be more to the point if I could manage to keep a little of
what I make. Schultz tells me that my investments in the Chinese
railroads are going badly, too. Put aside the bills. We will go through
the rest of the letters."
For some time they worked at the pile of correspondence. Karen would
open each letter and read the signature; letters from those known to
Madame von Marwitz, or from her friends, were handed to her; the letters
signed by unknown names Karen read aloud:--begging letters; letters
requesting an autograph; letters recommending to the great woman's
kindly notice some budding genius, and letters of sheer adulation,
listened to, these last, sometimes with a dreamy indifference to the
end, interrupted sometimes with a sudden "_Assez_."
There were a dozen such letters this morning and when Karen read the
signature of the last: "Your two little adorers Gladys and Ethel
Bocock," Madame von Marwitz remarked: "We need not have that. Put it
into the basket."
"But, Tante," Karen protested, looking round at her with a smile, "you
must hear it; it is so funny and so nice."
"So stupid I call it, my dear. They should not be encouraged."
"But you must be kind, you will be kind, even to the stupid. See, here
are two of your photographs, they ask you to sign them. There is a
stamped and addressed envelope to return them in. Such love, Tante! such
torrents of love! You must listen."
Madame von Marwitz resigned herself, her eyes fixed absently on the
smoke curling from her cigarette as if, in its fluctuating evanescence,
she saw a symbol of human folly. Gladys and Ethel lived in Clapham and
told her that they came in to all her concerts and sat for hours waiting
on the stairs. Their letter ended: "Everyone adores you, but no one can
adore you like we do. Oh, would you tell us the colour of your eyes?
Gladys thinks deep, dark grey, but I think velvety brown; we talk and
talk about it and can't decide. We mustn't take up any more of your
precious time.--Your two little adorers, Gladys and Ethel Bocock."
"Bocock," Madame von Marwitz commented. "No one can adore me like they
do. Let us hope not. _Petites sottes._"
"You will sign the photographs, Tante--and you will say, yes, you
must--'To my kind little admirers.' Now be merciful."
"Bocock," Madame von Marwitz mused, holding out an indulgent hand for
the pen that Karen gave her and allowing the blotter with the
photographs upon it to be placed upon her knee. "And they care for
music, _parbleu_! How many of such appreciators are there, do you think,
among my adorers? I do this to please you, Karen. It is against my
principles to encourage the _schwärmerei_ of schoolgirls. There," she
signed quickly across each picture in a large, graceful and illegible
hand, adding, with a smile up at Karen,--"To my kind little admirers."
Karen, satisfied, examined the signatures, held them to the fire for a
moment to preserve their vivid black in bold relief, and then put them
into their envelope, dropping in a small slip of paper upon which she
had written: "Her eyes are grey, flecked with black, and are not
velvety."
They had now reached the end of the letters.
"A very good, helpful child it is," said Madame von Marwitz. "You are
methodical, Karen. You will make a good housewife. That has never been
my talent."
"And it is my only one," said Karen.
"Ah, well, no; it is a good, solid little head in other directions, too.
And it is no mean musician that the child has become. Yes; there are
many well-known artists to whom I would listen less willingly than to my
Karen. It is only in the direction of _la toilette_," Madame von Marwitz
smiled with a touch of roguishness, "only in the direction of _la
toilette_ that the taste is rather rudimentary as yet. I was very cross
last night, _hein_?"
"It was disappointing not to have pleased you," said Karen, smiling.
"And I was cross. Louise has her _souffre-douleur_ expression this
morning to an exasperating degree."
"We thought we were going to make the dress quite right," said Karen.
"It seemed very simple to arrange the lace around the shoulders; I stood
and Louise draped me; and Louise is clever, you know."
"Not clever enough for that. It was all because with your solicitude
about Louise you wanted her to escape a scolding. She took the lace to
Mrs. Rolley too late and did not explain as I told her to do. And you
did not save her, you see. Put those two letters of Mr. Drew's in the
portfolio; so. And now come and sit, there. I want to have a serious
talk with you, Karen."
Karen obeyed. Madame von Marwitz sat in her deep chair, the window
behind her. The fog had lifted and the pale morning sunlight struck
softly on the coils of her hair and fell on the face of the young girl
sitting before her. With her grey dress and folded hands and serene gaze
Karen looked very like the little convent _pensionnaire_. Madame von
Marwitz scrutinized her thoughtfully for some moments.
"You are--how old is it, Karen?" she said at last.
"I shall be twenty-four in March," said Karen.
"_Bon Dieu!_ I had not realised that it was so much; you are singularly
young for your years."
"Am I, Tante? I don't know," Karen reflected, genially. "I often feel,
oh far older than the people I talk with."
"Do you, _mon enfant_. Some children, it is true, are far wiser than
their elders. You are a wise child; but you are young, Karen, very young
for your years, in appearance, in demeanour, in candour of outlook. Tell
me; have you ever contemplated your future? asked yourself about it?"
Karen, looking gravely at her, shook her head. "Hardly at all, Tante. Is
that very stupid?"
"Not stupid, perhaps; but, again, very child-like. You live in the
present."
"The past was so sad, Tante, and since I have been with you I have been
so happy. There has seemed no reason for thinking of anything but the
present."
"Well, that is right. It is my wish to have you happy. As far as
material things go, too, your future shall be assured; I see to that.
But, you are twenty-three years old, Karen; you are a woman, and a child
no longer. Do you never dream dreams of _un prince charmant_; of a home
of your own, and children, and a life to build with one who loves you?
If I were to die--and one can count on nothing in life--you would be
very desolate."
Karen, for some silent moments, looked at her guardian, intently and
with a touch of alarm. "No; I don't dream," she said then. "And perhaps
that is because you fill my life so, Tante. If someone came who loved me
very much and whom I loved, I should of course be glad to marry;--only
not if it would take me from you; I mean that I should want to be often
with you. And when I look forward at all I always take it for granted
that that will come in time--a husband and children, and a home of my
own. But there seems no reason to think of it now. I am quite contented
as I am."
The kindly melancholy of Madame von Marwitz's gaze continued to fix her.
"But I am not contented for you," she observed. "I wish to see you
established. Youth passes, all too quickly, and its opportunities pass,
too. I should blame myself if our tie were to cut you off from a wider
life. Good husbands are by no means picked up on every bush. One cannot
take these things for granted. It is of a possible marriage I wish to
speak to you this morning, my Karen. We will talk of it quietly." Madame
von Marwitz raised herself in her chair to stretch her hand and take
from the mantelpiece a letter lying there. "This came this morning, my
Karen," she said. "From our good Lise Lippheim."
Frau Lippheim was a warm-hearted, talented, exuberant Jewess who had
been a fellow student of Madame von Marwitz's in girlhood. The
eagle-flights of genius had always been beyond her, yet her pinions were
wide and, unburdened by domestic solicitudes, she might have gone far.
As it was, married to a German musician much her inferior, and immersed
in the care and support of a huge family, she ranked only as second or
third rate. She gave music-lessons in Leipsig and from time to time,
playing in a quintet made up of herself, her eldest son and three eldest
girls, gave recitals in Germany, France and England. The Lippheim
quintet, in its sober way, held a small but dignified position.
Karen had been deposited by her guardian more than once under the
Lippheim's overflowing roof in Leipsig, and it was a vision of Frau
Lippheim that came to her as her guardian unfolded the letter--of the
near-sighted, pale blue eyes, heavy, benignant features, and crinkled,
red-brown hair. So very ugly, almost repulsively so; yet so kind, so
valiant, so untiring. The thought of her was touching, and affectionate
solicitude almost effaced Karen's personal anxiety; for she could not
connect Frau Lippheim with any matrimonial project.
Madame von Marwitz, glancing through her letter, looked up from the last
sheet. "I have talked with the good Lise more than once, Karen," she
said, "about a hope of hers. She first spoke of it some two years ago;
but I told her then that I would say nothing to you till you were older.
Now, hearing that I am going away, to leave you for so long, she writes
of it again. Did you know that Franz was very much attached to you,
Karen?" Franz was Frau Lippheim's eldest son.
The vision that now flashed, luridly, for Karen, was that of an immense
Germanic face with bright, blinking eyes behind glasses; huge lips; a
flattened nose, modelled thickly at the corners, and an enormous laugh
that rolled back the lips and revealed suddenly the Semitic element and
a boundless energy and kindliness. She had always felt fond of Franz
until this moment. Now, amazed, appalled, a violent repulsion went
through her. She became pale. "No. I had not guessed that," she said.
Her eyes were averted. Madame von Marwitz glanced at her and vexation
clouded her countenance. She knew that flinty, unresponsive look. In
moments of deep emotion Karen could almost disconcert her. Her face
expressed no hostility; but a sternness, blind and resisting, like that
of a rock. At such moments she did not look young.
Madame von Marwitz, after her glance, also averted her eyes, sighing
impatiently. "I see that you do not care for the poor boy. He had hoped,
with his mother to back him, that he might have some chance of winning
you;--though it is not Franz who writes."
She paused; but Karen said nothing. "You know that Franz has talent and
is beginning, now, to make money steadily. Lise tells me that. And I
would give you a little _dot_; enough to assure your future, and his. I
only speak of the material things because it is part of your
childishness never to consider them. Of him I would not have spoken at
all, had I not believed that you felt friendship and affection for him.
He is so good, so strong, so loyal that I did not think it impossible."
After another silence Karen found something to say. "I have friendship
for him. That is quite different."
"Why so, Karen?" Madame von Marwitz inquired. "Since you are not a
romantic school-girl, let us speak soberly. Friendship, true friendship,
for a man whose tastes are yours, whose pursuits you understand, is the
soundest basis upon which to build a marriage."
"No. Only as a friend, a friend not too near, do I feel affection for
Franz. It is repulsive to me--the thought of anything else. It makes me
hate him," said Karen.
"_Tiens!_" Madame von Marwitz opened her eyes in genuine surprise. "I
could not have imagined such, decisive feeling. I could not have
imagined that you despised the good Franz. I need not tell you that I do
not agree with you there."
"I do not despise him."
"Ah, there is more than mere negation in your look, your voice, my
child. It is pride, wounded pride, that speaks; and it is as if you told
me that I had less care for your pride than you had, and thought less of
your claims."
"I do not think of my claims."
"You feel them. You feel Franz your inferior."
"I did not think of such things. I thought of his face, near me, and it
made me hate him."
Karen continued to look aside with a sombre gaze. And, after examining
her for another moment, Madame von Marwitz held out her hand. "Come,"
she said, "come here, child. I have blundered. I see that I have
blundered. Franz shall be sent about his business. Have I hurt you? Do
not think of it again."
The girl got up slowly, as if her stress of feeling made her awkward.
Stumbling, she knelt down beside her guardian and, taking the hand and
holding it against her eyes, she said in a voice heavy with unshed
tears: "Am I a burden? Am I an anxiety? Let me go away, then. I can
teach. I can teach music and languages. I can do translations, so many
things. You have educated me so well. You will always be my dear friend
and I shall see you from time to time. But it is as you say, I am a
woman now. I would rather go away than have you troubled by me."
Madame von Marwitz's face, as she listened to the heavy voice, that
trembled a little over its careful words, darkened. "It is not well what
you say, Karen," she replied. "No. You speak to me as you have no right
to speak, as though you had a grievance against me. What have I ever
done that you should ask me whether you are a burden to me?"
"Only--" said Karen, her voice more noticeably trembling--"only that it
seemed to me that I must be in the way if you could think of Franz as a
husband for me. I do not know why I feel that. But it hurt me so much
that it seemed to me to be true."
"It has always been my joy to care for you," said Madame von Marwitz. "I
have always loved you like my own child. I do not admit that to think of
Franz as a husband for you was to do you a wrong. I would not listen to
an unfitting suitor for my child. It is you who have hurt me--deeply
hurt me--by so misunderstanding me." Sorrow and reproach grew in her
voice.
"Forgive me," said Karen, who still held the hand before her eyes.
Madame von Marwitz drew her hand gently away and raising Karen's head so
that she could look at her, "I forgive you, indeed, Karen," she said.
"How could I not forgive you? But, child, do not hurt me so again. Never
speak of leaving me again. You must never leave me except to go where a
fuller happiness beckons. You do not know how they stabbed--those words
of yours. That you could think them, believe them! No, Karen, it was not
well. Not only are you dear to me for yourself; there is another bond.
You were dear to him. You were beside me in the hour of my supreme
agony. You desecrate our sacred memories when you allow small suspicions
and fears to enter your thoughts of me. So much has failed me in my
life. May I not trust that my child will never fail me?"
Tragic grief gazed from her eyes and Karen's eyes echoed it.
"Forgive me, Tante, I have hurt you. I have been stupid," she spoke
almost dully; but Madame von Marwitz was looking into the eyes, deep
wells of pain and self-reproach.
"Yes, you have hurt me, _ma chérie_," she replied, leaning now her cheek
against Karen's head. "And it is not loving to forget that when a cup of
suffering brims, a drop the more makes it overflow. You are harsh
sometimes, Karen, strangely harsh."
"Forgive me," Karen repeated.
Madame von Marwitz put her arms around her, still leaning her head
against hers. "With all my heart, my child, with all my heart," she
said. "But do not hurt me so again. Do not forget that I live at the
edge of a precipice; an inadvertent footstep, and I crash down to the
bottom, to lie mangled. Ah, my child, may life never tear you, burn you,
freeze you, as it has torn and burned and frozen me. Ah, the memories,
the cruel memories!" Great sighs lifted her breast. She murmured, while
Karen knelt enfolding her, "His dead face rises before me. The face that
we saw, Karen. And I know to the full again my unutterable woe." It was
rare with Madame von Marwitz to allude thus explicitly to the tragedy of
her life, the ambiguous, the dreadful death of her husband. Karen knelt
holding her, pale with the shared memory. They were so for a long time.
Then, sighing softly, "_Bon Dieu! bon Dieu!_" Madame von Marwitz rose
and, gently putting the girl aside, she went into her bedroom and closed
the door.