“Lord Tarlyon on the telephone, madam.”
“I cannot speak to him, Foster. You can see very well that I cannot
speak to him and why I cannot speak to him, and so why didn’t you ask
him his message straight away? And take away that towel and bring
another not so new. You know very well, Foster, that one cannot dry
oneself properly with a new towel. And then ask Lord Tarlyon what he has
to say for himself?”
Foster returned.
“His lordship is sorry he disturbed you, madam, and rang up merely to
beg you to be punctual for dinner at half-past eight. And may he send
his car for you?”
“Tell his lordship,” said Shelmerdene, “that I am always punctual. Add,
Foster, that punctuality is the only servile quality I have. And he may
send his car for me. Thank him. And for Heaven’s sake, Foster, close
those drawers! You know I can’t bear open drawers in a room. I knew
something was worrying me.”
In the fulness of time Shelmerdene emerged from her bath and re-entered
her bedroom. Her dressing-gown was of white velvet trimmed with ermine
and lined with jade green charmeuse. She sat at the toilet-table and
looked at herself in the mirror.
“Foster!” called Shelmerdene, softly, vaguely.
“Yes, madam?”
“What shall I wear to-night?”
“Well, madam....”
“Oh, dear! why are English maids so stupid! Why have they no taste! Why
must good maids always be French? Oh, Foster, what shall I do? You are
so lacking in ideas, in _finesse_, in judgment, in all sartorial
courtliness! On the other hand, you are a very nice girl and I like you
very much, and, anyway, you are clean, which is a good deal more than
some of my friends are, what with being in a hurry and powder being so
cheap. I withdraw everything I said previous to that last sentence,
Foster.”
“There is the black sequin, madam....”
“There is certainly the black sequin, Foster. And there has been the
black sequin ever since the Armistice. You may have it for yourself,
Foster, for being such an ass.”
“Oh, thank you, madam!”
“So you say, but what will really happen will be that you will wear that
black sequin dress one night at the Hammersmith Palais de Danse, which I
hear is very modish these days, and some young man will take a fancy to
you, and you will marry him, and then where will I be? I ask you,
Foster, where will I be?”
“Oh, but, madam, I would never, never leave you!”
“Pouf!” said Shelmerdene. “But, talking of that, Foster, how would you
like it if I married again? Or if my husband came back? Ah, yes,” said
Shelmerdene softly, “if he came back....”
Foster did not know what to say. She wanted to ask a few questions. She
was a nice girl, but she wanted frightfully to ask a few questions. She
whispered:
“Do you think, madam, he will?”
Shelmerdene looked at her for a long, long time. Shelmerdene’s eyes were
blue, they were as blue as night.
“I don’t know, Foster. He has been gone a very long time, you know--ten
years is a long time, isn’t it? He was a very grim sort of man, let me
tell you, and he made a very great mistake. And I was very young, and I
made a great mistake. So there you are, Foster. Silly, isn’t it?”
And Shelmerdene looked at Foster for a long, long time; but Foster was
quite sure that her mistress did not see her. She waited....
“You see, Foster, life is an awful mess, and men are extraordinary. You
will notice, when you meet your young man at the Palais de Danse, how
very extraordinary men are. They are always jealous about the wrong
things ... and now I am thirty-four years old! I am thirty-four years
old, Foster! Oh, dear, it is perfectly amazing how soon one becomes
thirty-four years old!”
And Foster whispered:
“And did he go away, madam--just like that?”
“Don’t whisper, girl! We are speaking of commonplace things--love--never
whisper about love, Foster! All the trouble in the world has come from
whispering about love. I saw him going--day by day, night by night, I
saw him going, and I let him go. I was too proud, too proud. But I am
not proud now. You will, of course, bear me out in that?”
“Well, madam, I think you’ve got a great sort of pride--the sort, madam,
that lets you let your friends use you as much as they like while you
sit down and despise them all by yourself. I’ve watched you often, if I
may say so, madam.”
“Muddled but pleasant, Foster. But if you had listened to what I was
saying instead of thinking out how best you could slander those of my
friends you like least, you would have realised I was talking about
pride, not dignity. There is too much muck in pride, Foster. Remember
that in your wretched moments. But I was very proud then, and I let him
go, that queer, grim, good-looking man. He was very good-looking,
Foster, in a naval sort of way--but what a fool! Oh, my God, what a
fool!”
And Foster whispered:
“And if he came back now, madam--would you ...?”
“Ah,” said Shelmerdene, “you ask me what I don’t know. Ten years is a
very long time, as I remarked before. I am in the fourth decade of my
life, Foster, and I must have understanding. I know too much about love
to want only love. Love, Foster, is just a trick of the heart to fool
the mind--without understanding, it is no use to me. It is funny how
well Englishmen can understand niggers and how idiotic they can be
about women. They get so sleepy, Foster.... If he came back now, would I
let him? I don’t know, I can’t tell. If he came back sweetly--oh,
sweetly, Foster! then yes, yes, yes! But if he came back bitterly.... I
will wear the new silver tissue from Lanvin, Foster. And the silver
shoes--there, in that box from Hellstern. I am thirty-four years old,
and I would like to look----”
“Here it is, madam. It _is_ a lovely dress!”
“Yes, it will do very well. I shall look like a greyhound to-night,
though of course there will be no man there to notice it. I have often
looked like a greyhound, but there is only one man who has ever remarked
it. A very inadequate crowd of men about, Foster. If I could only write
a book I would write one on men, and I would call it _Rats, Rape and
Rheumatism_. Oh, what fun I would have with that book, Foster! Imagine
the face of a publisher when I took him a book with that title! He would
say: ‘Eh--but--eh--we cannot publish a book like this, you know!’ And I
would say: ‘And why not, pray? Look at Mrs. Asquith.’ And after we had
looked at Mrs. Asquith he would publish my book at once, and then I
would go into Hatchard’s in Piccadilly and ask Mr. Humphreys: ‘And how
is my book going, Mr. Humphreys?’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ he would say.
‘Yes, Mr. Humphreys, my book, _Rats, Rape and Rheumatism_.’ And I would
say that very loud, you see, Foster, and every one in the shop would
look at me, whispering among themselves: ‘There is that terrible woman
who wrote that terrible book!’ And with one accord, in fact one might
almost say in a body, they would drop the trash they had thought of
buying and buy my book, for it is not every day, Foster, that a woman
writes a book called _Rats, Rape and Rheumatism_.”
“I am sure you could write a very good book, madam. Your life would make
such an interesting novel!”
“Oh, every woman thinks that! It is extraordinary how conceited women
are about their past miseries. I can bear women less and less. And, oh,
I wish I was not going out to dinner to-night! I would like to dine on
an egg and then read a good book. What are you reading, Foster?”
“Well, madam.... It’s by Ethel M. Dell.”
“Is it any good? I have never read any of Miss Dell’s books. But then I
have never read any of Henry James’s, either, not right through.”
“Well, madam.... It’s a love-story, about a girl and an earl, you know.”
“No, Foster, I don’t know. There are earls and earls, and, if you will
forgive me, some need belting and some don’t. Will you bring the book
and read it out to me? Please, Foster. You haven’t read out to me for
such a long time.”
“Well, madam, here it is. Chapter One.
“‘I shall go to sea to-morrow,’ said Saltash, with sudden decision. ‘I’m
so tired of this place, Larpent--fed up to repletion.’
“‘Then by all means let us go, my lord!’ said Larpent, with the faint
glimmer of a smile behind his beard, which was the only expression of
humour he ever permitted himself.’”
“Give me the nail-file, Foster.”
“‘Saltash turned and surveyed the skyline over the yacht’s rail with
obvious discontent on his ugly face. His eyes were odd, one black, one
grey, giving a curiously unstable appearance to a countenance which
otherwise might have claimed to possess some strength. His brows were
black and deeply marked----’”
“Foster, have you taken that stain off the blue serge?”
“Yes, madam. ‘A certain arrogance, a certain royalty of bearing
characterised him. Whatever he did--and his actions were often far from
praiseworthy--this careless distinction of mien always marked him. He
received an almost involuntary respect wherever he went----’”
“Thank you, Foster. That is very nice. I don’t wonder this Saltash man
received an almost involuntary respect wherever he went, what with
having one grey eye and one black one. I once met a man with a black
eye, but I don’t think I’ve ever met a man with eyes of various colours,
earl or commoner. But perhaps I will meet one to-night, Foster, and fall
in love with him! Oh, dear, it _is_ such a long time since I was in love
with any one! What shall I do, Foster?”
“You had better let me do your hair now, madam. It’s getting on.”
“Yes, but how awful it would be never, never to fall in love again!
Particularly now that the days are drawing in. Don’t pull so hard,
Foster. Hair is, after all, but hair. Wintering in England is a cold
business without a man in one’s life. There’s that wretched telephone
again! You’re hurting me, girl! If it’s Mrs. Loyalty tell her I can’t
lunch with her to-morrow, after all. I shall not be well to-morrow, I
feel.”
Foster went to the telephone on the little table by the bed.
“Hallo! Hallo! Is that Mayfair 2794?”
“Yes,” said Foster. “Who is that speaking, please?”
“Is that Mrs.----?” asked the voice.
“Who is that speaking, please?”
“I say,” said the voice, “just tell Mrs.---- that I would like to speak
to her, would you?”
“I’m afraid, sir, that madam will not speak to you unless you give your
name.”
“What’s your name?” asked the voice.
“Foster, sir.”
“Well, look here, Foster, don’t be an ass all your life, be a dear
instead and just ask your mistress to come to the telephone. It’s most
important, tell her----”
Shelmerdene said, icily, from her chair:
“I hope, Foster, that you are having an entertaining conversation. May I
ask how it concerns me?”
“Gentleman wants to speak to you, madam. Gives no name.”
“Any remarks?”
“He has a very pleasant voice, madam.”
Shelmerdene went to the telephone. She sat on the edge of the bed.
“Hallo, hallo!” said the voice.
“Just a moment,” said Shelmerdene. Her dressing-gown had slipped off her
knee and her knee was cold, so she re-arranged the dressing-gown over
her knee.
SHELMERDENE: Now!
THE VOICE: At last, Shelmerdene! How are you, dear?
SHELMERDENE: I am very well, thank you. May I know to whom I am giving
this information?
THE VOICE: _Shelmerdene!_ Do you really mean to say that you don’t
recognise my voice?
SHELMERDENE: I am sorry. I do hate to hurt people. And you have a very
nice voice, too!
THE VOICE: Thank you, Shelmerdene. (_Bitterly_) Well, as you don’t
recognise my voice I had better go away. Are you sure you don’t, my
dear?
SHELMERDENE: Well, you know, the profusion of endearing epithets in your
conversation leads me to conclude that you are either a friend or a
person of colossal cheek. But now I come to think of it, I have a vague
idea about you. You have the voice of a man I dined with once.
THE VOICE: Ah, yes! You dined with me once--upon a time.
SHELMERDENE: Oh, _la, la_! I said _once_, my friend.
THE VOICE: You were never a great mathematician, Shelmerdene. But what
does it matter how often we dined, so long as we did dine? And ever
since then I have remembered you, for there are very few beautiful
women, even in one’s dreams. Therefore I have rung you up, after all
these years.
SHELMERDENE: Thank you, stranger. You speak very prettily. Are you
trying to pretend that you were in love with me at that distant time?
THE VOICE: I think I am in love with you now.
SHELMERDENE: You _think_! You are not very dexterous, sir....
THE VOICE: You are sitting on the edge of the bed now. Please, no
ceremony with me, Shelmerdene! Lie down on the bed, dear--you wil be
more comfortable so, on that virginal bed!
SHELMERDENE: Irony, my friend, does not become the moment. It is a
vulgarity peculiar to cultured men. It is a knack, and I don’t like
knacks. Shall I ring off?
THE VOICE: No, no! Please!
SHELMERDENE: Well, a moment. (_To Foster_) Leave us, Foster.
THE VOICE: Shelmerdene, you are very hard!
SHELMERDENE: No, I am very tired ... of hardness. You understand?
THE VOICE: I want to hear about your life, Shelmerdene. I have not seen
you for so long! Do things still happen to you, and do you still let
them happen?
SHELMERDENE: How bitter you are, aren’t you, in a hidden sort of way!
THE VOICE: Do things still happen to you, Shelmerdene?
SHELMERDENE: No.
THE VOICE: So abrupt!
SHELMERDENE: I was thinking of your voice. I like it, but it’s bitter.
THE VOICE: I have drunk vinegar.
SHELMERDENE: But I thought they called it gin-and-bitters in the navy!
THE VOICE: Have it your own way, Shelmerdene. But you have still told me
nothing of yourself.
SHELMERDENE: But what am I to tell you? What is the use of my telling
you that I have been in love only once in my life? You will not believe
me.... But it is true, you know. Though, of course, there was a time
when I was inquisitive.
THE VOICE: And that has passed?
SHELMERDENE: That has passed.
THE VOICE: But isn’t life very dull for you, then? What do you do?
SHELMERDENE: I wait.
THE VOICE: So serious!
SHELMERDENE: I must go on with my dressing now. I am very late.
THE VOICE: A moment, please, please! You said you had been in love only
once in your life. Tell me of that.
SHELMERDENE: But the man’s mad! What is there to tell? It ended--it just
ended! He said, you know, that love was like religion, for it must be
done well or not at all.... And that’s all there is of it. He went. One
can’t explain an ideal, one can only explain the failure of an ideal.
One can’t describe a love-affair, one can only describe the end of a
love-affair. I loved him, I lost him. And I’m still alive--and so, I
suppose, is he! I wonder if he is a little softer than he was....
THE VOICE: And so you ended a beautiful thing because of a caprice?
SHELMERDENE: Oh, for God’s sake, don’t use that horrible
word--“caprice!” It is just a label given to women by half-witted men.
It is the name disappointed men give to women’s constancy. No, no, never
use that silly word again! Besides, it is not worthy of your pleasant
voice.
THE VOICE: Bother my voice! And how, why, did your one real love-affair
end?
SHELMERDENE: We were too proud, you see. I was very young, and he would
not understand. He simply would not understand!
THE VOICE: (_Impatiently_) But what is it that he would not understand?
Women are always complaining of that....
SHELMERDENE: _Please_ don’t generalise! It is so easy to insult a woman
by saying women. How did he fail? Oh, he would not understand that
marriage is comradeship, not domination. It is very difficult for some
men to understand that, and it is very difficult for some women to be
dominated.
THE VOICE: It is very difficult for some women to be loyal!
SHELMERDENE: Again! Well, perhaps. Loyalty, like a sense of humour, is a
quality universally praised because every one thinks he or she has it.
And when you say that a woman is lacking in loyalty you really mean that
she is not so celibate as you might wish. When you say that it is
difficult for some women to be loyal, what you really mean is that it is
difficult for some women to be celibate. You are quite right, it is. And
why, in God’s name, should they be? Must all Englishwomen be made of
stone because most Englishmen are educated only from the throat
downwards! Now, tell me why did you ring me up--was it to discuss,
“loyalty”?
THE VOICE: Your voice hurts rather, Shelmerdene. I have just returned to
England.
SHELMERDENE: (_Very softly_) Yes?
THE VOICE: I was very ill, in Ceylon. And then one night, when I was
better, I was wandering about the veranda of my friend’s station, and I
happened to hear the whirr of the P. and O. from Colombo to England. It
was very distant, four miles away at least, but the night was very, very
still, and I not only heard the whirr but above it a twitter--a tinkling
something--a very faint, long-drawn silly something, which could only be
the music of the liner’s orchestra----
SHELMERDENE: Yes? I am listening.
THE VOICE: That is what I heard, Shelmerdene, and it somehow made me see
things very far away. I, who had been abroad so long, saw England.
Funny, wasn’t it? And I saw _you_--I saw you dancing, Shelmerdene! I saw
you dancing as I last saw you, dancing very gaily and subtly through the
maze of the Avalon’s ballroom, and smiling up into your partner’s face.
How well you danced, Shelmerdene! Do you still dance so well?
SHELMERDENE: Dancing changes.
THE VOICE: Of course. And men and women die.
SHELMERDENE: But dancing is the only thing that changes.
THE VOICE: But I was telling you of my vision, that night in Ceylon. And
in my vision, you somehow looked like a greyhound---- Hallo, hallo! What
is it?
SHELMERDENE: Nothing, nothing! Go on.
THE VOICE: But there is no more, Shelmerdene! I came home. Now tell me a
little about yourself--about the only man you’ve ever really loved! Did
you say he was your husband?
SHELMERDENE: He _is_ my husband.
THE VOICE: Really! In spite of everything, you mean? Now, tell me,
Shelmerdene----
SHELMERDENE: You mock. I will not tell you anything, because you mock.
Yes, you are hard, and you mock. I made a mistake when I said that you
had the voice of a man I dined with once. You have the voice of a man
who has played with many women----
THE VOICE: Simply because I loved one unhappily! And you,
Shelmerdene--and _you_! Why, I can see the whole procession of your
past, the long, long procession of the men who have loved you, the men
you have touched! Oh, my God!
SHELMERDENE: Silence, silence, silence! What I have done I have done
because I wanted the world, but you have done it because you wanted
revenge. What I have done I have done because I have too much heart, but
you have done it because you have no heart. Through the telephone I can
hear that you have no heart, and I can see the hole where your heart
should be. My life has made me sad, but yours has made you bitter--oh,
why, why?