Is some nerve being touched by the new treatment? I seem alternately to
be numb and perfectly indifferent to how the war is going, and then
madly interested. But I am too sensitive to leave my flat for any
meals--I drive whenever one of the "fluffies" (this is what Maurice
calls the widow, the divorcée and other rejoicers of men's war hearts)
can take me in her motor--No one else has a motor--There is no petrol
for ordinary people.
"It reminds one of Louis XV's supposed reply to his daughters"--I said
to Maurice yesterday. "When they asked him to make them a good road to
the Château of their dear _Gouvernante_, the Duchesse de la Bove--He
assured them he could not, his mistresses cost him too much! So they
paid for it themselves, hence the '_Chemin des Dames_.'"
"What reminds you of what--?" Maurice asked, looking horribly puzzled.
"The fluffies being able to get the petrol--."
"But I don't see, the connection?"
"It was involved--the mistresses got the money which should have made
the road in those days, and now--."
Maurice was annoyed with himself; he could not yet see, and no wonder,
for it _was_ involved!--but I am angry that the widow and the divorcée
both have motors and I none!
"Poor Odette--she hates taxis! Why should she not have a motor?--You are
_grinchant_, _mon cher_!--since she takes you out, too!"
"Believe me, Maurice, I am grateful, I shall repay all their
kindnesses--they have all indicated how I can best do so--but I like to
keep them waiting, it makes them more keen."
Maurice laughed again nervously.
"It is divine to be so rich, Nicholas"!
* * * * *
All sorts of people come to talk to me and have tea (I have a small
hoard of sugar sent from a friend in Spain). Amongst them an ancient
guardsman in some inspection berth here--He, like Burton, knows the
world.
He tests women by whether or no they take presents from him, he tells
me. They profess intense love which he returns, and then comes the
moment (he, like me, is disgustingly rich). He offers them a present,
some accept at once, those he no longer considers; others hesitate, and
say it is too much, they only want his affection--He presses them, they
yield--they too, are wiped off the list--and now he has no one to care
for, since he has not been able to find one who refuses his gifts. It
would be certainly my case also--were I to try.
"Women"--he said to me last night--"are the only pleasure in life--men
and hunting bring content and happiness, work brings satisfaction, but
women and their ways are the only _pleasure_."
"Even when you know it is all for some personal gain?"
"Even so, once you have realized that, it does not matter, you take the
joy from another point of view, you have to eliminate vanity out of the
affair, your personal vanity is hurt, my dear boy, when you feel it is
your possessions, not yourself, they crave, but if you analyse that, it
does not take away from the pleasure their beauty gives you--the
tangible things are there just as if they loved you--I am now altogether
indifferent as to their feelings for me, as long as their table manners
are good, and they make a semblance of adoring me. If one had to depend
upon their real disinterested love for their kindness to one, then it
would be a different matter, and very distressing, but since they can
always be caught by a bauble--you and I are fortunately placed,
Nicholas."
We laughed our vile laughs together.--It is true--I hate to hear my own
laugh. I agree with Chesterfield, who said that no gentleman should make
that noise!
* * * * *
As I said before, all sorts of people come to see me, but I seem to be
stripping them of externals all the time. What is the good in them? What
is the truth in them? Strip me--if I were not rich what would anyone
bother with me for? Is anyone worth while underneath?
One or other of the fluffies come almost daily to play bridge with me,
and any fellow who is on leave, and the neutrals who have no anxieties,
what a crew! It amuses me to "strip" them. The married one, Coralie, has
absolutely nothing to charm with if one removes the ambience of success,
the entourage of beautiful things, the manicurist and the complexion
specialist, the Reboux hats, and the Chanel clothes. She would be a
plain little creature, with not too fine ankles,--but that
self-confidence which material possessions bring, casts a spell over
people.--Coralie _is_ attractive. Odette, the widow, is beautiful. She
has the brain of a turkey, but she, too, is exquisitely dressed and
surrounded with everything to enhance her loveliness, and the serenity
of success has given her magnetism. She announces platitudes as
discoveries, she sparkles, and is so ravishing that one finds her trash
wit. She thinks she is witty, and you begin to believe it!
Odette can be best stripped, people could like her just for her looks.
Alice, the divorcée, appeals to one.--She is gentle and feminine and
clinging--she is the cruelest and most merciless of the three, Maurice
tells me, and the most difficult to analyse: But most of one's friends
would find it hard to stand the test of denuding them of their worldly
possessions and outside allurements, it is not only the fluffies, who
would come out of not much value!
Oh! the long, long days--and the ugly nights!
One does not sleep very well now, the noise of "Bertha" from six A.M.
and the raids at night!--but I believe I grow to like the raids--and
last night we had a marvelous experience. I had been persuaded by
Maurice to have quite a large dinner party. Madame de Clerté, who is
really an amusing personality, courageous and agreeable, and Daisy
Ryven, and the fluffies, and four or five men. We were sitting smoking
afterwards, listening to de Volé playing, he is a great musician.
People's fears are lulled, they have returned to Paris. Numbers of men
are being killed,--"The English in heaps--but what will you!" the
fluffies said, "they had no business to make that break with the Fifth
Army! Oh! No! and, after all, the country is too dull--and we have all
our hidden store of petrol. If we must fly at the last moment, why on
earth not go to the theatre and try to pass the time!"
de Volé was playing "Madame Butterfly"--when the sirens went for a
raid--and almost immediately the guns began--and bombs crashed. One very
seldom sees any fear on people's faces now, they are accustomed to the
noise. Without asking any of us, de Volé commenced Chopin's Funeral
March. It was a very wonderful moment, the explosions and the guns
mingling with the splendid chords. We sat breathless--a spell seemed to
be upon us all--We listened feverishly. de Volé's face was transfigured.
What did he see in the dim light?--He played and played. And the whole
tragedy of war--and the futility of earthly interests--the glory, the
splendour and the agony seemed to be brought home to us. From this, as
the noise without became less loud, he glided into Schubert, and so at
last ceased when the "all clear" commenced to rend the air. No one had
spoken a word, and then Daisy Ryven laughed--a queer little awed laugh.
She was the only Englishwoman there.
"We are keyed up," she said.
And when they had all gone I opened my window wide and breathed in the
black dark night. Oh! God--what a rotter I am.
* * * * *
_Friday_--Maurice has a new suggestion--he says I should write a
book--he _knows_ I am becoming insupportable, and he thinks if he
flatters me enough I'll swallow the bait, and so be kept quiet and not
try him so much.--A novel?--A study of the causes of altruism? What?--I
feel--yes, I feel a spark of interest. If it could take me out of
myself--I shall consult the Duchesse--I will tell Burton to telephone
and find out if I can see her this afternoon. She sometimes takes half
an hour off between four and five to attend to her family.
Yes--Burton says she will see me and will send me one of her Red Cross
cars to fetch me, then I can keep my leg up.
I rather incline to a treatise upon altruism and the philosophical
subjects. I fear if I wrote a novel it would be saturated by my ugly
spirit, and I should hate people to read it. I must get that part of me
off in my journal, but a book about--Altruism?
I must have a stenographer of course, a short-hand typist, if I do begin
this thing. There are some English ones here no doubt. I do not wish to
write in French--Maurice must find me a suitable one.--I won't have
anything young and attractive. In my idiotic state she might get the
better of me! The idea of some steady employment quite bucks me up.
* * * * *
I felt rather jarred when I arrived at the Hotel Courville--the paving
across the river is bad; but I found my way to the Duchesse's own
sitting room on the first floor--the only room apparently left not a
ward--and somehow the smell of carbolic had not penetrated here. It was
too hot, and only a little window was open.
How wonderfully beautiful these eighteenth century rooms are! What grace
and charm in the panelling--what dignity in the proportions! This one,
like all rooms of women of the Duchesse's age, is too full--crammed
almost, with gems of art, and then among them, here and there, a
shocking black satin stuffed and buttoned armchair, with a bit of
woolwork down its centre, and some fringe! And her writing table!--the
famous one given by Louis XV to the ancestress, who refused his
favours--A mass of letters and papers, and reports, a bottle of creosote
and a feather! A servant in black, verging upon ninety, brought in the
tea, and said Madame la Duchesse would be there immediately--and she
came.
Her twinkling eyes kindly as ever "Good day Nicholas," she said and
kissed me on both cheeks, "Thou art thy mother's child--_Va!_--And I
thank thee for the fifty thousand francs for my _blessés_--I say no
more--_Va!_--."
Her scissors got caught in her pocket, not the purple jersey this time,
and she played with them for a minute.
"Thou art come for something--out with it!"
"Shall I write a book?, that's it. Maurice thinks it might divert
me--What do you think?"
"One must consider," and she began pouring out the tea, "paper is
scarce--I doubt, my son, if what you would inscribe upon it would
justify the waste--but still--as a _soulagement_--an asperine so to
speak--perhaps--yes. On what subject?"
"That is what I want your advice about, a novel?--or a study upon
Altruism, or--or--something like that?"
She chuckled and handed me my tea, thin tea and a tiny slice of black
bread, and a scrape of butter. There is no cheating of the regulations
here, but the Sevres cup gave me satisfaction.
"You have brought me your bread coupon, I hope?" she interrupted
with,--"if you eat without it one of my household has less!"