Ingram's visit to the Glambecks, had in any case been coming to an end
the next day, when he was to have gone to Königsberg on his way to the
Caucasus, a place he hoped might trick him by its novelty for at least a
time out of boredom, and the Baron and Baroness were greatly surprised
when he told them he was not going to the Caucasus but to Kökensee
instead.
With one voice they exclaimed, "Kökensee?"
"To paint the pastor's wife's hair," said Ingram.
The Baron and Baroness were silent. The explanation seemed to them
beyond comment. Its disreputableness robbed them of speech. Herr Ingram,
of course, an artist of renown--if he had not been of very great renown
they could not have seen their way to admitting him on terms of equality
into their circle--might paint whoever's hair he pleased; but was there
not some ecclesiastical law forbidding that the hair of one's pastor's
wife should be painted? To have one's hair painted when one was a
pastor's wife was hardly more respectable than having it dyed. People of
family were painted in order to hand down their portrait to succeeding
generations, but you had to have generations, you had to have scions,
you had to have a noble stock for the scions to spring from, and the
painting was entered into soberly, discreetly, advisedly, in the fear of
God, for the delectation of children, not lightly or wantonly, not for
effect, not, as Herr Ingram had added of Frau Pastor's hair, because any
portion of one's person was strangely beautiful. Strangely beautiful?
They looked at each other; and the Baroness raised her large and
undulating white hands from her black lap for a moment and let them drop
on to it again, and the Baron slowly nodded his entire agreement.
Ingram had found a room in the village inn at Kökensee, a place so
sordid, so entirely impossible as the next habitation after theirs for
one who had been their guest, that the Baron and Baroness were concerned
for what their servants must think when they heard him direct their
coachman in the presence of their butler and footman, as he clambered
nimbly into the dogcart, to take him to it. And the Baroness went in and
wrote at once to her son Hildebrand in Berlin, who had introduced Ingram
to Glambeck, and told him she did not intend permitting Herr Ingram to
visit her again. "_To please you_," she wrote, "_I did it. But how true
it is that these artists can never rise beyond being artists! I have
finished with outsiders, however clever. Give me gentlemen_."
She did not mention, she found she could not mention, the hair; and to
the Baron that evening she expressed the hope that at least the picture
would only be in watercolour. Watercolour, she felt, seemed somehow
nearer the Commandments than oils.
It was impossible to paint a serious picture of Ingeborg in the dark
little parlour at the parsonage, and as there was no other room at all
that they could use Ingram began a series of sketches of her out of
doors, in the garden, in the punt, anywhere and everywhere.
"I must get some idea of you," he said, perceiving that a reason for his
coming every day had to be provided. "Later on I'll do the real picture.
In a proper studio."
"I wonder how I'll get to a proper studio?" smiled Ingeborg.
"I've got a very good one in Venice. You must sit to me there."
"As though it were round the corner! But these are very wonderful," she
said, taking up the sketches. "I wish I were really like that."
"It's exactly you as you were at the moment."
"Nonsense," she said; but she glowed.
She knew it was not true, but she loved to believe he somehow, by some
miracle, saw her so. The sketches were exquisite; little impressions of
happy moments caught into immortality by a master. Hardly ever did he do
more than her head and throat, and sometimes the delicate descent to her
shoulder. The day she saw his idea of the back of her neck she flushed
with pleasure, it was such a beautiful thing.
"That's not me," she murmured.
"Isn't it? I don't believe anybody has ever explained to you what you're
like."
"There wasn't any need to. I can see for myself."
"Apparently that's just what you can't do. It was high time I came."
"Oh, but wasn't it," she agreed earnestly.
He thought her frankness, her unadorned way of saying what she felt, as
refreshing and as surprising as being splashed with clear cold shining
mountain water. He had never met anything feminine that was quite so
near absolute simplicity. He might call her the most extravagantly
flattering things, and she appreciated them and savoured them with a
kind of objective delight that interested him at first extraordinarily.
Then it began to annoy him.
[Illustration: "But these are very wonderful," she said, taking up the
sketches. "I wish I were really like that."]
"You're as unselfconscious," he told her one afternoon a little crossly,
when he had been ransacking heaven and earth and most of the poets for
images to compare her with, and she had sat immensely pleased and
interested and urging him at intervals to go on, "as a choir-boy."
"But what a nice, clean, soaped sort of thing to be like!" she said.
"And so much more alive than lettuces."
"I wonder if you _are_ alive?" he said, staring at her; and she looked
at him with her head on one side and told him that if she were not a
bishop's daughter and a pastor's wife and a child of many prayers and
trained from infancy to keep carefully within the limits of the
allowable in female speech she would reply to that, "You bet."
"But that's only if I were vulgar that I'd say that," she explained.
"Gentility is the sole barrier, I expect really, between me and excess."
"You and excess! You little funny, cold-watery, early-morningy thing.
One would as soon connect the dawn and the fields before sunrise and
small birds and the greenest of green young leaves with excess."
He was more near being quite happy during this first week than he could
remember to have been since that period of pinafore in which the world
is all mother and daisies. He was enjoying the interest of complete
contrast, the freshness that lies about beginnings. From this
remoteness, this queer intimate German setting, he looked at his usual
life as at something entirely foolish, hurried, noisy, and tiresome. All
those women--good heavens, all those women--who collected and coagulated
about his path, what terrible things they seemed from here! Women he had
painted, who rose up and reproached him because his idea of them and
their idea were different; women he had fallen in love with, or tried to
persuade himself he had fallen in love with, or tried to hope he would
presently be able to persuade himself he had fallen in love with; women
who had fallen in love with him, and fluffed and flapped about him,
monsters of soft enveloping suffocation; women he had wronged--absurd
word! women who had claims on him--claims on him! on him who belonged
only to art and the universe. And there was his wife--good heavens, yes,
his wife....
From these distresses and irksomenesses, from a shouting world, from the
crowds and popularity that pushed between him and the one thing that
mattered, his work, from the horrors of home life, the horrors of
society and vain repetitions of genialities, from all the people who
talked about Thought, and Art, and the Mind of the World, from
jealousies, affections, praises, passions, excitement, boredom, he felt
very safe at Kökensee. To be over there in the middle of the distracting
emptiness of London was like having the sour dust of a neglected
market-place blown into one's face. To be over here in Kökensee was to
feel like a single goldfish in a bowl of clear water. Ingeborg was the
clear water. Kökensee was the bowl. For a week he swam with delight in
this new element; for a week he felt so good and innocent, exercising
himself in its cool translucency, that almost did he seem a goldfish in
a bib. Then Ingeborg began to annoy him; and she annoyed him for the
precise reason that had till then charmed him, her curious resemblance
to a boy.
This frank affection, this unconcealed delight in his society, this
ever-ready excessive admiration, were arresting at first and amusing and
delicious after the sham freshness, the tricks, the sham daring things
of the women he had known. They were like a bath at the end of a hot
night; like a country platform at the end of a stuffy railway journey.
But you cannot sit in a bath all day, or stay permanently on a platform.
You do want to go on. You do want things to develop.
Ingram was nettled by Ingeborg's apparent inability to develop. It was
all very well, it was charming to be like a boy for a little while, but
to persist in it was tiresome. Nothing he could say, nothing he could
apply to her in the way of warm and varied epithet, brought the faintest
trace of self-consciousness into her eyes. What can be done, he thought,
with a woman who will not be self conscious? She received his speeches
with enthusiasm, she hailed them with delight and laughter, and, what
was particularly disconcerting, she answered back. Answered back with
equal warmth and with equal variety--sometimes, he suspected, annoyed at
being outdone in epithet, with even more. To judge from her talk she
almost made love to him. He would have supposed it was quite making love
if he had not known, if he had not been so acutely aware that it was
not. With a face of radiance and a voice of joy she would say suddenly
that God had been very good to her; and when he asked in what way, would
answer earnestly, "In sending you here." And then she would add in that
peculiar sweet voice--she certainly had, thought Ingram, a peculiar
sweet voice, a little husky, again a little like a choir-boy's, but a
choir-boy with a slight sore throat--"I've missed you dreadfully all
these years. I've been lonely for you."
And the honesty of her; the honest sincerity of her eyes when she said
these things. No choir-boy older than ten could look at one with quite
such a straight simplicity.
Every day punctually at two o'clock, by which time the daily convulsion
of dinner and its washing up was over at the parsonage, he walked across
from his inn, while Kökensee's mouths behind curtains and round doors
guttered with excited commentary, telling himself as he gazed down the
peaceful street that this was the emptiest, gossip-freest place in the
world, to the Dremmel gate; and dodging the various rich puddles of the
yard, passed round the corner of the house along the lilac path beneath
the laboratory windows to where, at the end of the lime-tree avenue,
Ingeborg sat waiting. Then he would sketch her, or pretend to sketch her
according as the mood was on him, and they would talk.
By the second day he knew all about her life since her marriage, her six
children--they amazed and appalled him--her pursuit, started by him, of
culture, her housekeeping, her pride in Robert's cleverness, her
solitude, her thirst for some one to talk to. Persons like Ilse and
Rosa, Frau Dremmel, Robertlet and Ditti, became extraordinarily real to
him. He made little drawings of them while she talked up the edge of his
paper. And he also knew, by the second day, all about her life in
Redchester, its filial ardours, its duties, its difficulties when it
came to disentangling itself from the Bishop; and his paper sprawled up
its other edge with tiny bishops and unattached, expressive aprons. The
one thing she concealed from him of the larger happenings of her life
was Lucerne, but even that he knew after a week.
"So you can do things," he said, looking at her with a new interest.
"You can do real live things."
"Oh, yes. If I'm properly goaded."
"I wonder what you mean by properly goaded?"
"Well, I was goaded then. Goaded by being kept in one place
uninterruptedly for years."
"That's what is happening to you now."
"Oh, but this is different. And I've been to Zoppot."
"Zoppot!"
"Besides, _you're_ here."
"But I won't be here for ever."
"Oh, but you'll be somewhere in the same world."
"As though that were any good."
"Of course it is. I shall read about you in the papers."
"Nonsense," he said crossly. "The papers!"
"And I shall curl up in your memory."
"As if I were dead. You sometimes really are beyond words ridiculous."
"I expect it's because I've had so little education," she said meekly.
At tea-time almost every day Herr Dremmel joined them in the garden, and
the conversation became stately. The sketches were produced, and he made
polite comments. He discussed art with Ingram, and Ingram discussed
fertilizers with him, and as neither knew anything about the other's
specialty they discussed by force of intelligence. Ingeborg poured out
the tea and listened full of pride in them both. She thought how much
they must be liking and admiring each other. Robert's sound sense, his
quaint and often majestic English, his obviously notable scientific
attainments must, she felt sure, deeply impress Ingram. And of course to
see and speak to the great Ingram every day could not but give immense
gratification to Robert, now that he had become aware of who he was. She
sat between the two men in her old-fashioned voluminous white frock,
looking from one to the other with eager pride while they talked. She
did not say anything herself out of respect for such a combination of
brains, but she was all ears. She drank the words in. It was more
mind-widening she felt even than the _Clarion_.
Ingram hated tea-time at the parsonage. Every day it was more of an
effort to meet Herr Dremmel's ceremoniousness appropriately, and his
scientific thirst for facts about art bored Ingram intolerably. He
detested the large soft creases of his clothes and the way they buttoned
and bulged between the buttonings. He disliked him for having sleeves
and trousers that were too long. He shuddered at the thought of the six
children. He did not want to hear about super-phosphates, and resented
having regularly every afternoon to pretend he did; and he did want, and
this became a growing wish and a growing awkwardness, to make love to
Herr Dremmel's wife.
Herr Dremmel's large unconsciousness of such a possibility annoyed him,
particularly his obliviousness to the attractiveness of Ingeborg. He
would certainly deserve, thought Ingram, anything he got. It was
scandalous not to take more care of a little thing like that. Every day
at tea-time he was enraged by this want of care in Herr Dremmel, and
every day before and after tea he was engrossed, if abortive efforts to
philander can be called so, in not taking care of her himself.
"You see," said Ingeborg when he commented on the immense personal
absences and withdrawals of Herr Dremmel, "Robert is very _great_. He's
wonderful! The things he does with just grains! And of course if one is
going to achieve anything one has to give up every minute to it. Why,
even when he loved me he usedn't to--"
"Even when he loved you?" interrupted Ingram. "What, doesn't he now?"
"Oh, yes, yes," she said quickly, flushing. "I meant--of course he does.
And besides, one always loves one's wife."
"No, one doesn't."
"Yes, one does."
They left it at that.
At the end of his second week in Kökensee Ingram found himself
increasing the number of his adjectives and images and comparisons,
growing almost eagerly poetical, for the force of proximity and want of
any one else to talk to or to think about was beginning to work, and it
was becoming the one thing that seemed to him to matter to get
self-consciousness into her frank eyes, something besides or instead of
that glow of admiring friendliness. He was now very much attracted, and
almost equally exasperated. She was, after all, a woman; and it was
absurd, it was incredible, that he, Ingram, with all these opportunities
should not be able to shake her out of her first position of just wonder
at him as an artist and a celebrity.
She was so warm and friendly and close in one sense, and so nowhere at
all in another; so responsive, so quick, so ready to pile the sweetest
honey of flattery and admiration on him, and so blank to the fact
that--well, that there they were, he and she. And then she had a sense
of fun that interrupted, a sense most admirable in a woman at any other
time, but not when she is being made love to. Also she was very
irrelevant; he could not fix her; she tumbled about mentally, and that
hindered progress, too. Not that he cared a straw for her mentality
except in so far as its quality was a hindrance; it was that other part
of her, her queer little soul that interested him, her happiness and
zest of life, and, of course, the graces and harmonies of her lines and
colouring.
"You know, I suppose," he said to her one evening as they walked slowly
back along the path through the rye-field, and the cool scents of the
ended summer's day rose in their faces as they walked, "that I'd give a
hundred days of life in London or Paris for an hour of this atmosphere,
this cleanness that there is about you."
"I don't think a hundred's much. I'd give them _all_ to be with you.
Here. Now. In the rye-field. Isn't it wonderful this evening--isn't it
beautiful? Did you smell that?" She stopped and raised her nose
selectingly. "Just that instant? That's convolvulus."
"You have such faith in my gods," he went on, when he could get her away
from the convolvulus, "such a bravery of belief, such a dear bravery of
belief."
"Well, but of course," she said, turning shining eyes on to him. "Who
wouldn't believe in your gods? Art, love of beauty--"
"But it isn't only art. My gods are all sweet things and all fine
things," said Ingram, convinced at the moment that he had never done
anything but worship gods of that particular flavour, so thoroughly was
he being purged by the hyssop of life in Kökensee.
"Oh," said Ingeborg with an awed enthusiasm, "how wonderful it is that
you should be exactly what you are! But it's _clever_ of you," she added
with a little movement of her hands, smiling up at him, "to be so
_exactly_ what you are."
"And do you know what exactly you are? You're the open window in the
prison-house of my life."
She held her breath a moment. "How very beautiful!" she then said. "How
_very_ beautiful! And how kind you are to think of me like that! But why
is it a prison-house? You of all people--"
"It isn't living, you see. It's existence in caricature over there. It's
like dining perpetually with Madame Tussaud's waxworks, or anything else
totally unreal and incredible."
"But I don't understand how a great artist--"
"And you're like an open window, like the sky, like sweet air, like
freedom, like secret light--"
"Oh," she murmured, deprecating but enchanted.
"When I'm with you I feel an intolerable disgust for all the chatter and
flatulence of that other life."
"And when I'm with you," she said, "I feel as if I were stuffed
with--oh, with stars."
He was silent a moment. Then, determined not to be outdone, he said:
"When I'm with you I begin to feel like a star myself."
"As though you weren't always one."
"No. It's only you. Till I found you I was just an angry ball of mud."
"But--"
"A thirsty man in a stuffy room."
"But--"
"An emptiness, a wailing blank, an eviscerated thing."
"A what?" asked Ingeborg, who had not heard that word before.
"And you," he went on, "are the cool water that quenches me, the scent
of roses come into the room, liquid light to my clay."
She drew a deep breath. "It's wonderful, wonderful," she said. "And it
sounds so real somehow--really almost as though you meant it. Oh, I
don't mind you making fun of me a bit if only you'll go on saying lovely
things like that."
"Fun of you? Have you no idea, then, positively no idea, how sweet you
are?"
He bent down and looked into her face. "With little kisses in each of
your eyes," he said, scrutinizing them.