“Proper, what’s that? Aren’t they just the most disreputable people
on earth? Isn’t that why they’re amusing? Really clever people are
never proper. It takes every drop of Clémentine’s blue blood to keep
her afloat, and that man Felix! these writers with their habits of
sleeping all day, Blaise tells me he is writing a play without words.
It must be witty. _En voilà une occasion pour faire de l’esprit._ And
the Spaniard, the painter, it appears that he wants to do a fresco for
my music room. Well, he won’t. Only, if he doesn’t for me, he will for
François. Blaise says he’s the greatest mural painter since Tiepolo. I
detest that ‘_Trompe l’œil_’ school, but I’d like to spite François.
What do you think? I’m very poor this year. I sold a forest for half
its value. Now then, what about Philibert--gone to Egypt with his
little salamander, has he?”
“I believe so, Aunt.”
“And you? You don’t look very sad.”
“I don’t think I am, Aunt.”
“Good, excellent; you console yourself, eh?”
“No, Aunt, I don’t; not, that is, in the way you mean.”
“Rubbish; don’t look so virtuous, child. If you haven’t already, you
soon will. We all do. It’s a law of nature. My husband was the dullest
man on earth, I couldn’t abide him. If he hadn’t been the first Duke of
France no one would ever have asked him to dinner. How do you think I
put up with him for twenty years? You find me an ugly old woman, very
fat, very fond of good cooking. My child, there are only two kinds of
pleasure worth having in this world, and one of them has to do with the
stomach. I’ve enjoyed both. I now only enjoy one. That’s enough. What
a face you make at me! If you go against the laws of nature you’ll get
into trouble.”
“But, Aunt, seriously, these clever friends of Blaise--are they
disreputable?”
“Child, child, how boring you are, you Americans have such literal
minds. All I mean is that they’ve no moral sense. They’ve something
else though in its place, something better, perhaps, or worse, anyhow
more discriminating.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve a moral sense that
bothers the life out of you. Now go along with you. I must get up. I’ll
come to your party. Your mother-in-law won’t approve. She’s a superior
person. As for you, God knows what you’ll be in ten years time with
such a husband and such a conscience. I had better keep an eye on you.
In the choice of a lover you can ask my advice. I know men. They’re not
worth much, but you don’t take or refuse one for that reason. You’ve
found that out for yourself by now.”
She dismissed me, waving again her little fat hand from under the
immense canopy of her bed.
I left her, amused and rather exhilarated. A wicked old woman and a
very great lady. It didn’t occur to me to take her seriously, but I
liked her. All the same, the last thing I wanted was a lover. The mere
thought filled me with disgust.
Your dinner was awfully nice, Blaise dear. I remember the evening well.
A few snowflakes softly floated down in your little courtyard as old
Albert, your manservant, in his ancient green coat, opened the door. He
had cooked the dinner and arranged the table and made the fire in the
living room and put the champagne on ice; I knew that, but his manner
was of a fine, calm formality as he ushered Aunt Clo and myself into
your presence. A group of men who somehow impressed one as not at all
ordinary, and a bright little lady dressed like a parrot, in a tiny,
shabby, candle-lit room, filling the place comfortably with their easy
good-humour, that was my first impression, followed quickly by others,
pleasant, special impressions, aspects sharp and neat in an atmosphere
that gave one a feeling of tasting a fine subtle flavour. Each person
in the room was an individual unlike any one else. With no beauty to
speak of, several were old men in oddly cut clothes, they were more
interesting to watch than any lovely creature. Their faces were worn
and lined and gentle, thin masks through which one saw the fine play
of intelligence. Some were already known to the great world of thought
and public affairs, others have since become so, but all were simple,
homely men that night, with a certain childlike gaiety that was very
appealing.
Albert’s food was excellent; succulent, substantial food that suggested
the provinces. The wine was very old. For a moment as I watched
your convives inhaling the bouquet from lifted glasses, I imagined
myself far away in Balzac’s country, a snowy street of silent houses
stretching out between high poplars to a great river, a carriage at
the door, with a postillion in a three-cornered hat, waiting to drive
me to some romantic rendezvous. But the talk swept me along with its
merry-go-round of the present.
I cannot, after all these years, recall what was said, impossible
to recapture now the quick turns of wit, the dry little jokes, the
swift touches of poetry, that followed each other with such rapid
intellectual grace. It was all incredibly rapid. I could just manage
to keep up with the sense of it. I didn’t attempt to take part. Ideas
were as thick in that room as confetti at a fête. Clémentine, in an
apple-green dress, with a round red spot of rouge on either cheek,
swayed this way and that in response to innumerable sallies, her
face changing like lightning. She was a match for those men. Her wit
played over the history of her country like a jolly little ferret
nosing out and pouncing upon joke and anecdote from the vast field of
the past. Cardinals, princes, and ruffians were held up to ridicule.
International affairs were dealt with clearly and deftly by her cutting
tongue. She played with the ideas round her as if they were a swarm of
brilliant darting winged creatures. Her delight in this battle of wit
was contagious. The talk grew faster and faster. Soon every one was
talking at once. No one could finish a sentence.
Cambon was explaining to Aunt Clothilde why the Government would not
tolerate an Ambassador to the Pope. Clémentine was defending the
English, no one appeared to like the English. Felix was making fun of
Diaghilev, the new Russian who had appeared with his Imperial Ballet a
week before.
What delightful people! Certainly without reservation of any kind I
find them now as I did then the most delightful people in the world.
Ludovic wore a celluloid collar. His body was too heavy for his legs
and his head too big for his body; no matter; his profound, quiet
gaze and tired, brown face expressed a nobility that made one ashamed
of noticing his ill-cut coat. Felix looked like a faun. With his
exaggerated features thrust forward into the candle-light he said
funny, penetrating things that kept Aunt Clo chuckling. I watched,
fascinated. These were the people Aunt Clo called disreputable,
utterly lacking in a moral sense. Were ever sinners so joyous, so
light-hearted? Rebels against creeds, against the fixed order of
society, against the didactic spoken word, they were kind to me,
the Philistine, exerting at once and with unconscious ease the most
disarming charm.
Vaguely I recalled the mentality of my American home. It was there
behind me, like a cold and lifeless plaster cast behind a curtain.
Here was something infinitely more interesting, something brilliantly
living, something merry and subtle and fine that defied disapproval.
The powers of evil? Chimeras! No room for them here, no room for
anything dismal and boring. I felt an uplift, it was like an awakening.
All that horror of soul searching, all the dreary puritan A. B. C. of
right and wrong was a childish nightmare. These people understood the
world. They made fun of evil. They loved each other and found no fault
with their friends. Under their gaiety was a deep sympathy for poor
humanity.
They said things that would have sent St. Mary’s Plains reeling with
horror into one large devastating revival meeting. If St. Mary’s Plains
could have dreamed of the character of their conversation it would call
upon God to destroy them. I laughed. Albert filled my glass.