Father had grown stouter. He always did. But he looked very well. And
his shirts and socks seemed to be all right. Melanie had seen to them,
although the dust was thick all over the furniture, and the windows were
semi-opaque with smoke. Father was glad to see her, said she was looking
very pretty and asked her kindly if she didn't need some more money; but
he was not in the least enthusiastic over her reforms in the
housekeeping. "Who cares about dust!" he told her. "And as for smoke on
the windows, I'm never here in the daytime anyhow except for lunch--and
I don't want to look out of the windows then." And as for getting hold
of Biron to keep him up to the mark, Marise found that it was trying to
put your finger between the tree and the bark, to get between Biron and
her father. Every evening after they had both earnestly finished the
serious business of eating dinner, Biron left Melanie to the mere brute
labor of cleaning up and washing dishes while he put on a clean apron
and came into the salon to consult with his employer about the two meals
of the morrow. Marise was astonished at the learning and acumen
displayed by both of them in the matter. However had her father learned
so intimately all the resources of Les Halles in all the seasons? He
subscribed to a newspaper which gave a complete report of the arrivals
at the market from both sea-shore and country-side, over which he and
Biron pored intently, putting on round spectacles and bending their
portly frames over the page. And there was a wine-sellers' journal too,
the news items of which were brought up for consideration once a week.
"_When it fails, I go out and run a mile, and then I can eat anything._"
Melanie was no longer allowed to serve the meals thus prayerfully
planned and created. It was Biron himself who brought in the _plat_,
set it down and waited anxiously till it had been tasted and the
verdict pronounced. He did not sit down opposite his master and share
the meal ... not yet! But Marise had an intuition that it would not be
long before he would. Why not? He was the only other person capable of
appreciating that meal. He and her father were bound together by a
common passion: they completed and rounded out each other's lives. Where
else could Mr. Allen find such another cook? Where else could Biron find
another such employer? They were blood-brothers, fellow-priests of a
common cult. They might be thankful that somehow they had found each
other in the world.
When, after a few days of sharing this menage, she told her father she
thought she would go down to see Jeanne, he said, sure, that was all
right if she felt like it, and was she sure she didn't need any more
money?
* * * * *
Under the thick green shade of pollarded sycamores sat old Jeanne in the
wheeled-chair Marise and her father had given her. The young girl, whom
Marise and her father paid to take care of Jeanne, came running to
unlock the gate and let the visitor in.
There was old Jeanne, her head tied up in the black coif, just as Marise
had seen her a thousand times, her face all twisted to one side just as
she had seen her that one time she could not forget. And how glad she
was to see Marise, pulling her down to kiss her on both cheeks, crying a
little for joy and wiping away the tears with her one active hand; for
although she had recovered somewhat, so that she could eat and talk a
little if she formed the words very slowly and was not excited, she had
never been able to use her paralyzed arm or leg again.
Marise must sit beside her, and let old Jeanne look into her face
closely with her loving old eyes, and stroke her white young hand with
her gnarled fingers that had worked so hard for the child Marise. And
when her first agitation was over, and she was calm enough to try to
talk, the questions, the loving, anxious questions: Was she well, the
darling, darling girl? And was she happy? And did that Parisian slut of
a maid look out for her decently? And who did the marketing? And who did
her hair, her beautiful, beautiful hair? Jeanne's brown hand rested
lightly on the shining dark head. No one had hair like her Marise. She
must let it down so that Jeanne could see it again as in the old days.
And how about her linen? Jeanne was troubled on this point. Linen was
not what it had been and the way it was washed in Paris was a crime. A
Parisian family were staying near by, and Jeanne's daughter-in-law did
their washing. Such grimy, gray linen--it made Jeanne sick to think that
perhaps her darling was no better cared for. Marise must needs open her
valise there and then, and take out a chemise to show Jeanne, who
handled it, held it close to her one good eye, touched the tip of her
tongue to it, and gave it back, saying, with an attempt at tolerance,
"Oh, well, it's as good as a laundress can do nowadays, I dare say," and
possessed herself of Marise's hand again, holding it to her heart
fondly.
Marise found the tears were in her eyes. How sweet it was to be loved!
She clung to the old hand as she had when she was a child and Jeanne's
had been the only hand held out to her.
The old, crafty wrinkles came around Jeanne's eyes. She pulled Marise's
head close to her and whispered, "You've never told? Nobody at all?"
"No, no," said Marise hastily. "No one." She felt the old sickness rise
to her throat as she said it.
"And you're not ... no man ... you're not engaged or...."
"No, oh, no!" said Marise, still more hastily.
Jeanne's face quieted. She drew a long breath and stroked Marise's hand.
"That's right! That's right! They're all alike, my darling. Don't forget
that. They're all alike when it comes to women."
Next morning Marise was amazed to have Jeanne greet her all over again,
as though she had not seen her, with fresh surprise and joy, the same
questions, the same trembling stroking of her hair. Only why was her
hair up on her head? That must be just a joke. She must be playing
being a lady. And was she sure she knew her catechism? Her white veil
was ready, finer than any other little girl's veil. How lovely she would
look in it!
"Yes," whispered the young caretaker, in answer to Marise's look of
bewilderment, "she doesn't remember you were here yesterday. She often
imagines you are with her when she is quite alone. We hear her talking
happily to you. And now she does not know the difference between you and
her own daughter who died. No, she will never know if you just slip away
now. She will never know that you came or that you are not still here."
When Marise went quietly out at the gate she left Jeanne dozing in her
chair under the plane-trees, dozing, and waking to talk lovingly to the
two little girls who had both died so long ago.
* * * * *
She had learned in the village that Mlle. Hasparren was no longer
teaching in Bayonne, had gone back to her own little hill-town in the
Pyrenees. Marise knew the way there very well, having spent many a
week-end and vacation with Mlle. Hasparren in the old days. The boy from
the farm where Jeanne was living chanced to have an errand that took him
over the pass and down into that valley. On an impulse Marise asked to
go with him. She stowed her valise away under the plank seat and
scrambled up beside the bullet-headed boy in the blue beret. How it all
took her back to her childhood! The little two-wheeled cart flew off
behind the swift small horse, rattling and jolting up hill and down,
just as when she and Mlle. Hasparren had gone off together.
At the beginning of the long steep road up to the divide, she and the
boy got out and walked, her shoes soon powdered white with dust. How
dusty Mlle. Hasparren's shoes had been the day they stood waiting in the
station...!
They plunged down the other side into the green, poplar-planted valley
with every home, every turn of the road as it had been. They stopped at
the tiny, white-washed cabin, with its leafy atrium of sycamores. As the
boy drove away and the sound of his rattling wheels died to silence,
Marise heard from within the first notes of the Sonata in G, the one she
had first studied with Mlle. Hasparren.
She went in without knocking, sure that the little home contained no
servant, and there sat Mlle. Hasparren, her hair several shades whiter,
her black dress several degrees shabbier, her quiet worn face and steady
eyes bent lovingly over the keys. The music was like the very sound of
her voice.
They sat up late that night talking--Marise must tell all about Rome and
the old Visconti, as legendary a figure to Mlle. Hasparren as Paganini;
and Mlle. Hasparren must tell how she came to leave her city-school and
go back to the little mountaineers in the rough, plain village
class-room. "I seemed to feel nearer to them," she said, not knowing
very well how to tell why she had, "and I felt a great longing for my
mountains and my own old home. And they need music here. Do you remember
Father Armandariz?"
"Oh, yes," Marise nodded. She had never forgotten the lean young priest
who led the open-air singing of his improvised chorus in front of his
fortress-like old church. "Oh, yes, don't you remember we used to drive
over just to hear his choir sing here and in another parish too?"
"He is doing wonderful work. We work together a great deal."
"You! With a cure!" Marise was astounded.
Mlle. Hasparren laughed. "Oh, yes, yes, those radical ideas of mine. Of
course I still have them. But they don't seem so important as they did.
Father Armandariz and I are good friends. We both love music. That's
enough. He puts cotton in his ears when I let fall a heresy, and I dip
my fingers in the holy-water font and cross myself when I go to play the
organ in church. Those are little things, and little things mustn't be
allowed to interfere with great ones."
That evening Marise watched a choir rehearsal, Mlle. Hasparren at her
piano, Father Armandariz, bony, threadbare, hollow-cheeked, his eyes
gleaming with ardor, leading now the group of serious-faced Basque girls
in black mantillas, now the great-chested, burly Basque men whose
resonant basses shook the little house. One of them (Mlle. Hasparren
had said he was the village shoemaker) was given a bass solo and
practised it over several times, while the others listened. He held his
head high, drew in a great breath and sang as though it were the meaning
of his life he were singing out, "Magnificat anima mea Dominum!" And
then all the others with him, "My soul magnifies God!" Father Armandariz
stopped them. "No, the altos were too slow on coming in. Once more." And
then again, "Once more."
They all kept their eyes on him earnestly; they began again
unfalteringly as many times as was necessary; before the evening was
over they looked tired; but it was a good fatigue, and when they finally
finished and turned to smile at each other and fold their music sheets
together, their faces wore a quiet, purified serenity which Marise
envied them. This was music. Not one of them was thinking of himself nor
how the music had made him appear to advantage nor how he could use
music as a tool to get ahead of other people, or get himself talked
about.
The memory of Donna Antonia's soirees, of Mme. de la Cueva's good advice
came into her mind. People called that sort of thing "art-atmosphere,"
didn't they? It was the cemetery of art, that's what it was, with the
egotism of the performer dancing on the grave. One evening here, such an
evening as this--there was more music in it than in months of chatter
about the clothes and hair and morals and incomes of the people who make
it on the platform.
At the piano Mlle. Hasparren and Father Armandariz were talking together
of the next evening's rehearsal, Mlle. Hasparren occasionally
illustrating with one hand what she was saying. How deeply human was the
look of intimate confidence they bent on each other, the ugly young
priest and the ugly old school-teacher. They might well be thankful that
they had found each other in the world.
Mlle. Hasparren turned around now and asked Marise if she would not play
for them. "I would be so proud to show my friends what an old pupil of
mine has come to be," she said fondly.
It seemed to Marise that she had never in her life felt so like playing.
What should it be? She swerved on her way to the piano to stoop to kiss
Mlle. Hasparren's swarthy cheek, and, sitting down, with an affectionate
smile at her, began the Toccata in D minor, just as Mlle. Hasparren had
taught it to her, with all she had learned since then. She had never
played to such an audience; when she turned around Father Armandariz was
looking beatific and Mlle. Hasparren exalted with pride. She had never
played so well. She had, she felt, just begun to know what music was.
* * * * *
Mlle. Hasparren had set up for her a folding cot in her own room, since
there was no other bedroom in the tiny house. They slept side by side,
near enough so that they could have reached out and clasped each other's
hands as on that night so long ago when Mlle. Hasparren had pulled
Marise out of the black pit. Marise could not go to sleep. Long after
Mlle. Hasparren lay breathing deep, her dark face relaxed in a selfless
quiet that was not more selfless than her waking look, Marise lay
looking out at the stars and the mountains, thinking, trembling,
sometimes feeling hot bitter tears in her eyes, sometimes feeling her
heart swell high with strange, unearthly aspiration.
Mlle. Hasparren was right. She had always been right. To keep clear of
all troubling, maddening, personal relations that were sure to end by
poisoning you, not to want anything for yourself, to give all for
music--how _safe_ you would be, to live like that. And how sweet it
would be to feel safe! She never had. She was so _tired_ of feeling
afraid. Why _not_ live like that? When you knew it was the only safe
way! When you knew that if you did not, you would fall headlong into
that dreadful mire that splashed up such indelible stains upon your mind
at even the few chance contacts with it which life brought to a girl.
Yes, that was the only safe way. Never to go back to Rome at all.
Somehow to devise a life all devotion to music, with the miserable
personal affections burned up in that greater ardor. Yes, that, Marise
decided, that was the only tolerable, the only endurable future she
could see.
* * * * *
People began to stand up, to put on their wraps and collect their
valises. The train was passing the outskirts of Rome. It would be in the
station in a few minutes.
Marise tied on her veil over a piteous white face. She had said she
would not go back to Rome at all. She had scarcely been ten days away.
She had come back. Like any other woman she had come back to the trap.