Dynasty of Death

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Oh, but I didn’t want to go without you.” Adelaide’s voice was simple and clear. She gazed at her husband with all her innocent adoration in her eyes, and Jules gazed back, smiling fondly. He thought. There’s, a lot to be said for breeding, after all. Very convenient in a wife, for Adelaide can’t possibly not know a little something about my “Merry Widow.” He said; “I’m so sorry, Adelaide, but I must go off again immediately after dinner. I’ve heard from Andre that the old Major isn’t very well. After all, he’s in his eighties. It’s pretty lonely for Mama there, too; she’s getting old and there’s no one at home but François, now, and you know what he is. Mama’s sixty-five now, and too stout to get about much. She likes to see us occasionally.”

  “I’d go with you,” said Adelaide contritely, “but I’m expecting Emma and Wilson tonight. They’ll be disappointed not to find you in.”

  “Papa, may I have a bicycle?” asked Emile.

  “Not until you learn to treat it better than you did the last,” replied his father. “You’ve had four bicycles in two years, and I don’t approve of carelessness and extravagance.”

  Armand, who was not very talkative, asked his father about the war. He listened to the reply with real interest and respectful attention. Jules enjoyed talking to the boy; he found him more intelligent than most adults. While he spoke, Armand watched him with his narrow, secret eyes. Emile, who was a sulker when he wasn’t laughing, scowled at the silver epergne, muttered ill-temperedly at the maid when she offered him pudding. Christopher listened, as usual, to everything, and said nothing. When Jules’ idle glance happened to touch him, the eyes of father and son met with a strange effect like that of a collision, followed by a recoil that resounded all through them. It was always this way, this deadly antagonism. Jules looked away, and fastened his attention courteously on his eldest son.

  At the conclusion of the meal Jules rose to go, kissed his wife lightly, and promised to return as soon as possible.

  “Give Mama Norwood a kiss for me,” said Adelaide.

  On the way to the hall and his coat and hat, Jules glanced with satisfaction into the rooms he passed. In an age that was stuffy and crowded with furniture and ornaments, Adelaide was far ahead of her time, for she had built her home of coolness, space, exquisitely grouped furniture of fine rosewood and slender mahogany, breadths of uncluttered polished floors, neutral-tinted walls and specially made plain rugs of dim and unobtrusive patterns. She relied on flowers and an occasional pastel in a plain frame, for ornamentation. Her taste was, like herself, impeccable.

  It was a fine clear night, so Jules swung along lithely to his mother’s house. Quaker Terraces was no longer fashionable; the houses were becoming dingy and shabby, the gardens and walks grubby. But old Florabelle would not leave the street; she had come here as Raoul’s bride over forty years ago, and though she was in her late sixties, and the wife for many years now of Major Norwood and the mother of his children, every doorway and room, every inch of the garden, her very bedroom, shared with the Major, reminded her of her dead young lover and first husband. The furniture had been changed half a dozen times since Raoul’s death, the walls painted and re-papered, but very often, even now, Florabelle would suddenly glance up with a half smile, for the years went back and she expected to see Raoul. When she spoke of him, even when in grief, she did not speak of him as dead, but as one living and loved, at a little distance. This steadfast love, this green loyalty, puzzled all her family, for the old, gross, cunning and petulant Florabelle was certainly a strange receptacle for the perfume of devotion.

  Jules disliked the old house where he had been born. He had none of the French love for deep roots and walls that have stood for many years. He thought the house stuffy, dark, old-fashioned and decayed, as it was, and not having any sentimentality, he was not moved by the sight of the room where he had first breathed, nor the nursery where he had played as a child, nor the gardens in which he had raced. He loathed the bad taste of Florabelle’s parlor, with its high narrow ceiling and long gloomy walls, and windows like dismal crevices. Here, he thought, was the very essence of a dying era, Victorianism, combined with a prodigious amount of bad taste. It was glitteringly clean, but crowded. Antimacassars, wax flowers under glass, overburdened marble mantelpieces draped in red velvet, whatnots groaning under collections of ivory and Dresden figurines, horsehair sofas and hideous walnut chairs and heavy tables, red velvet drapes on each side of Nottingham window curtains: all these made his eyes wince. On a white bearskin rug lay a yellow tomcat, bellicose and unfriendly.

  Florabelle was extremely stout now; as she was short in stature, the fat of her made her look almost as broad as she was tall. Her breasts and belly had merged together in one solid mass under her black silk dress, which had a fussy arrangement of white lace at the throat. Her hair was white, but elaborately curled in a fashion dating from her youth. Under this mound of waves and curls was her face, triple-chinned, rosy, small-nosed, bright blue of eye, pouting with still red lip, still smooth and tinted of complexion. A pretty old fat face, and a vulgar, petulant one, shrewd but not intelligent, knowing and suspicious. Diamonds glittered everywhere on her, in her ears, at her throat, clustered on her fat white fingers. One leg was rather stiff these days, and she used a cane with a carved golden head. She read gay novels incessantly when she was not sewing or gossiping, and her interest in fashions, the affairs of her family and her neighbors, had not abated with the years. Neither had her malice decreased, nor her sympathy improved.

  Florabelle’s favorite was Jules, who had given her the least trouble of all her children. Moreover, he reminded her of his father. She liked to have him sit by her, and at these times she would keep her hand on his shoulder and lean toward him, smiling and listening, or scolding, her bright blue eyes glistening with malice or amusement or interest. She disliked Adelaide, whom she considered to have “no style.”

  Jules found his mother yawning over an article, in a paper, by Zola. Apparently Florabelle found that in this piece the writer was not living up to his usual reputation, for she seemed extremely bored. After she had kissed Jules, she exclaimed pettishly: “Whoever these days cares about the Dreyfus case! And something’s always happening to the Jews, anyway. I haven’t the slightest doubt they deserve it! People who are always in trouble, and having enemies and being run from place to place—well, I have no patience with them.”

  Jules examined the article, J’accuse, and put it down. “You’re a good old barbarian, Mama,” he said. He stared at the paper thoughtfully, where he had laid it on the table. “And a good old Britisher. Always kick the under dog. Under a realistic government, or philosophy, the under dog deserves kicking.”

  Major Norwood, in excellent health, sat on the opposite side of the fireplace, half dozing, half smiling. A mane of thick hair, snow-white and silken, lay on his shoulders, and his white mustache drooped almost to his chin. Age had only mellowed a temperament good-natured and kindly and honestly generous, if stupid, and he greeted everyone with an affectionate smile and deep interest, though he was apt to forget one immediately, and even to muddle his closest family relationships. But when it finally penetrated to the old man’s consciousness that this was Jules, he became quite alert, and his innocent blue eyes began to shine under the shelf of his white eyebrows.

  “My dear, dear Jules, how glad I am to see you! And how splendidly everything is going! I see that our stock has risen six points today. War rumors, eh?”

  “I suppose so, Papa.”

  “I’ve wired my broker to buy three thousand shares for me tomorrow at the opening price.”

  Jules quickened, and frowned. “That was very foolish, Papa Norwood. You must let me send a wire cancelling it. You see, it is not at all certain that war will be declared, after all. I—I expect that the rumor will be pooh-poohed tomorrow night, and the stock will go down immediately. Suppose, for instance, that you put in your order to buy at eight or ten points lower than today’s price?”

 
; The Major was silent a moment, and his innocent eyes sharpened slowly as they fixed themselves on Jules’ face. Then he nodded, and said, “Ah.”

  Jules smiled. By tomorrow night, he would be able to buy Barbour-Bouchard stock at ten points lower than today’s price. He had seen to that very dexterously. Within a week it would be a third higher than it was today, and the Bouchards’ net would draw in a pretty mess of fish.

  Florabelle engaged Jules in a rapid-fire conversation, in which his part consisted of monosyllables. Among other things, she was annoyed, as usual, with François.

  “I really don’t know, Jules! A man of his age, sitting and mooning like a calf. It’s enough to give me nerves all over. And so irritable it is impossible to have him in the room. Jules, did Adelaide buy you that cravat? Dear me, dear me, I always did say that poor girl had no taste, or was color-blind, or something. So drab and dreary. I declare, it is no contrast at all, all pale grays and dark gray brocade. No life. I like life. Now, a touch of red, or deep blue there, on the edge—but no, Adelaide must be satisfied, and so she picked out that cravat! Like a clergyman or an old gentleman. It would look much nicer on the Major, I’m sure. But what was I saying about François? Oh, yes, he gets duller every day. And it seems today that he expected that ridiculous child, Alice, to come, and she didn’t. Such a silly, frivolous little piece, and besides, I never did like red hair. And Elsa has such atrocious taste, too, not like Adelaide’s, which is so lifeless and dead, but too rich and heavy for such a small baggage. Do you know what she wore yesterday, and she not an ounce over ninety pounds? A sable cape! And a hat like a cartwheel on her head! You never saw anything so ridiculous! The child could hardly carry it all. And so saucy, too. When I suggested that her cape and hat certainly did not suit her, she became quite impertinent. I would have had my ears boxed soundly if I had answered my elders like that at her age. I really don’t know what the world’s coming to. Well! She had promised François to come today, and she didn’t—”

  Jules took her hand and held it firmly, as he always did when he wanted to stop her flow of talk and get her to concentrate.

  “You say, she didn’t come, after promising François?”

  “Eh? Whatever! Why should you be so interested in that, Jules? Your eyes are like bright pinpoints. Well, she did promise. She told me she would be here for tea with me and François this afternoon. She always comes when she promises. But no doubt the chit had a cold or a headache, or something, and just couldn’t come, and so I can’t see why François should act like a caged lion—that’s what the dear Major called it, didn’t you, Major?—a caged lion. Walked back and forth and screamed at me, and when I said he’d probably have a fit, as he used to when he was a child, he was positively rude to me, wasn’t he, Major?”

  The Major started from a doze. “Eh? Oh, yes, my love. I believe he said: ‘Shut up!’”

  Florabelle whimpered. “‘Shut up!’ To his mother! I tell you, I nearly swooned, Jules. I wish you would speak to him, indeed I do. And all because a child young enough to be his daughter didn’t come to read her foolish poetry to him.”

  “Did Alice send a message to François?”

  “No, Elsa called this afternoon, and was all sweetness, the big hulking creature. She said she and Paul thought Alice was bothering us too much lately, and was really quite considerate, and laughed a little about Alice, saying she was going to take her to New York for awhile. They are leaving the day after tomorrow, I believe. For a very extended stay. Elsa hinted that she and Paul were quite sure that Alice and her cousin Thomas Van Eyck were sweet on each other, and so—”

  Jules stood up abruptly. “Where’s François?”

  “Why, he’s upstairs in his room. Did you wish to see him, Jules? I’ll send for him.”

  “Never mind, Mama. I’ll go up myself and see him.”

  He almost ran from the hot bright room with its white bearskin rug. He found François sitting at his desk upstairs, brooding sullenly over several white sheets of paper. François turned his head as Jules knocked lightly and entered. He threw down his pen pettishly. “Well?” he asked rudely. “So it’s you?”

  Jules smiled amiably. “Yes, it’s me. May I sit down? Thanks.”

  “I didn’t say you could sit down,” said François, glowering suspiciously. He was afraid of Jules, as well as disliking him. “But I suppose I can’t throw you out.”

  “Hardly.” Jules crossed his knees, lit one of his long thin cigars. François coughed pointedly, looked excessively pained, then got up and opened a window. He sat down again, surveyed Jules intently, his heavy black eyebrows knotted together. He was very ill at ease. Jules always made a little patch of nervous sweat break out between his shoulder-blades, and he had the feeling that there was something dangerous in the room with him. Even when they had been children it had been the same. He covered his uneasiness, nervousness and suspicious fear by exaggerated hostility and rudeness.

  Jules, smoking elegantly, watched his brother. François was not very tall, but he had a leanness and fleshlessness that made him appear much taller than he was. He had a brown cadaverous face, with hollow cheekbones, fiery but uncertain black eyes, long thin nose and chin, wide hysterically tense mouth, and a shock of thick black hair which always seemed to need combing. His clothing seemed to be about to blow off him, for his cravat slipped under one ear, his coat slipped off a shoulder, his shoe-laces were perpetually untied, his waistcoat unbuttoned. He wore an expression of chronic petulance, impatience and irritability, and his whole air, his jerky and high-pitched voice, testified to a passionate and arrogant egotism. He could never be in repose; his legs were always twisting about chairs, his hands always plucking at tablecloths, his nose and forehead mechanically wrinkling and smoothing themselves. There was something febrile and nerve-racking about him.

  He seemed more nervous than ever whenever Jules was about. As Jules watched him, he could hardly contain his restlessness. He jerked his head, tossed back his untidy hair, his nose and forehead wrinkled and twitched. But all the time he fixed his sullen uncertain eyes upon his brother and panted a little. His old feeling of adjacent danger increased to the point of hysteria.

  Jules coughed gently, and said with great smoothness: “You are looking tired, François. You need a rest, or change.”

  This was a sore spot with François, as Jules well knew. François, overcome by this unexpected sympathy and gentleness from his feared brother, flung out his hands impetuously. “Don’t I know it! You are right, Jules. I never thought you were so discerning and sympathetic. Perhaps I’ve misjudged you. But I need a rest, or change. I—I feel I am about to suffocate. It is deadly in this town of Windsor. It would not be so bad if I had sufficient money of my own. But I haven’t. You know mother: she allows me a miserable one hundred dollars a month, and swears I shall get no more until she dies and I receive my share of father’s estate. In the meantime, I starve! How can an artist endure such a state of affairs? It strangles me—” He paused, and his strained eyes again fixed themselves with a pathetic expression of suspicion, pleading and trust upon Jules.

  Jules studied the end of his cigar. “Yes,” he said gently and thoughtfully. “I think I understand very well. I’m not going to pretend that I can feel completely what you say an artist must feel. But I can certainly understand what a man of your age must feel, being treated like a child. I’ve given the subject considerable thought lately.”

  Eagerness flashed like a light over simple François’ face. “Jules! Can you help me? Will you speak to mother?”

  Jules sighed. “As you have said, you know mother. François, I simply don’t know what you can do! It is very terrible. That is why I have come to talk to you tonight. No one else will. Our family is not known for sympathy.”

  “Don’t I know it!” exclaimed François bitterly. “Materialistic barbarians! Frey had to run away from them. Trudie, poor girl, ran away—into death, from them. Mother continually asks me: ‘Why don’t you do something practical
—make money!’ As if money were anything but the gruesome business of barter and exchange! The world thinks in terms of the bazaar, where everything is for sale, and nothing is sacred. Where beauty is valueless, unless it adorns something utilitarian, like—like—”

  “A china chamber, for instance,” suggested Jules.

  François winced, but smiled. “Well, if one wants to be vulgar, yes. Yes! That is quite right. The world has a bed-chamber mind, and can see beauty only when it is as obvious and gross as painted pink roses and green leaves.” He paused, then said with a return to his thin hostility, “But I still don’t like that last Van Gogh of yours, Jules. Too—too—”

  “Realistic, perhaps?”

  “Realistic! What a horrible word! As though reality were to be cherished and admired and sought after, in all its ugliness! As though reality, so sordid and bleak and hideous and terrible, were something of value! That is the wonder and the joy and the salvation of beauty, that it masks and covers reality, and makes it endurable to our eyes.”

  Jules sighed lightly and examined his fingernails. “There is a lot in what you say, François, but living in a practical and a realistic world, one must give hostages, arrive at compromises. It is a paradox, but if one wishes to get what one wants, one must compromise. At first. But all this does not alter the basic fact that you, an intelligent man, who might be able to create if you had peace of mind, are treated ignominiously, like an imbecile child.”

  François regarded him with a sort of pathetic wonder. “I—I did not know you cared that much about me, Jules. You—you always seemed a trifle hard, and exigent, like our ghastly Uncle Ernest. I was wrong. I beg your pardon,” He sighed, and to any one but Jules that sigh would have sounded very touching.

  He looked at François gravely. “You are thirty-five, aren’t you, François? Have you ever thought of marrying?”