“Don’t be a fool.” She had seemed angry; she dug her nails into his palm. “I shall never forget it. No matter what I do, or you do. Ever.”
Then she had gone. Tonight she was at the opera in Stern’s box, and Stern had, over the past four days, performed one discreet service for Acland. At Acland’s request he had introduced him to a solicitor, whose name was Solomons and who operated from dingy premises on the edge of the City.
The best there is, despite appearances, Stern had said, and Acland assumed Stern to be a good judge. He could hardly consult his father’s solicitors in a matter such as this.
Acland had made a will; it was signed and witnessed. Not a very impressive will, he had thought, reading it over, but the best he could do, since his family money was tied up in trust until he was twenty-five—if he were ever to be twenty-five. His motorcar to Freddie; his clothes and other personal belongings to his brothers; his books to Constance, for she sometimes borrowed them, though he doubted she read them. All the money not in trust, some two thousand pounds, to Jenna, who might—one day—need it.
It would bring in an income, Solomons had said, of some one hundred and fifty pounds a year—hardly munificent, but adequate. In the pocket of his jacket, Acland now had a card with Solomons’ address; before they left this room—and they would not stay long—he must give it to Jenna, and explain.
The necessity of doing this vexed him; the room vexed him. Now that he was here Acland wondered how he could have imagined that it would do any good. He was using Jenna as he had used her three or four times before, visiting London from his training camp. He knew this to be a betrayal—of Jenna, and of himself. Her acceptance of the fact that he came to her for one purpose, and one only, made no difference.
I should leave here. I should go now, Acland said to himself wearily. But his capacity for disgust—even self-disgust—was exhausted. Without speaking to Jenna, he began to undress.
He lay back on the sagging bed, on the cheap blankets, and pillowed his head on his arms. Jenna undressed more slowly, thinking perhaps that he watched her; but although Acland’s face was turned in her direction, he scarcely saw her. He was a prisoner of the war, he thought to himself. If the experience of the war could have been communicated to anyone, to Jenna now, he had a vague sense that he might begin to be free. It could not be communicated; he refused to communicate it. It would be like passing on to someone else—knowingly, and with intent—a disease.
“They’re sending me to the Amiens area next,” he said. “At least that’s the rumor.”
“Amiens?” Jenna lifted off her petticoat. “Where’s that?”
“Farther north than I was before. Just a place. It’s near the river Somme.”
Jenna did not reply. She removed the rest of her underclothing. Then, when she was naked, she sat beside him on the bed. She began to touch him. She did this now: She made love to him in a new bold way Acland rather disliked, although it was effective.
He averted his eyes. He thought of the brothels in France, the queues of men—officers in one queue, men in another. Inside, flimsy partitions, usually no more than curtains; the sighs and grunts of soldiers. The women had a sullen yet avid air; they wasted no time on preliminaries. They earned more money that way.
“No kissing,” one of the girls had said to him. She had unruly black hair, worn loose; a trick of the light made her resemble Constance. “No fucking,” she said. They seemed to be the only two English phrases she knew.
She had made a fist about his penis and jerked at it in the dark; she was efficient enough. It was over very quickly. It worked—as this was working now.
Jenna lowered her body onto his; she moved above him, rising, then sinking, her eyes closed, her expression rapt. Pleasure of a kind: Acland felt it narrow to the sharpest point of light. When it was over, Jenna lifted herself free; no words. There was a washstand in the room; she moved across to wash herself there. The water ran; Jenna soaped her thighs, then toweled them.
From some very distant place, the place from which he watched her, Acland said, “Will it be all right?”
“Of course it will be all right. I’m careful. I count the days.”
“I’d rather it wasn’t like this.” Acland sat up. “I’m sorry, Jenna.”
“Don’t be. We’re not children now. We take what we can, and we give what we can.”
She hesitated then, and Acland saw her face change. For a moment he feared she would take him in her arms—but perhaps she saw the instinctive recoil, for she drew back.
“I do still love you, you see,” she said in a careful voice. “I wish it would go away, but it won’t. I know you don’t love me. I know you won’t ever come back. And so—I’d rather this. It’s this—or nothing.”
She reached for her petticoat, then looked back. “It won’t go on much longer anyway, will it?”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps better not.”
“Was this the last time, then?” She put the question like a child, standing there, still naked, clutching her petticoat in front of her.
“I think so. Yes.”
“Ah, well. Here—let me help you with your shirt.”
No pleas and no recriminations. Acland felt diminished, but also relieved.
When they were both dressed, Jenna turned and looked back at the ugly room. Beyond the window a train whistled. Acland reached into his pocket and took out Solomons’ card; he gave it to her. He explained: If anything happened to him, she must go to Solomons at once; the solicitor would take care of everything.
“I never wanted money from you.” Jenna stared down at the piece of pasteboard.
“I know that, Jenna. Even so.” He made an awkward gesture of the hands. “I have nothing else to give.”
“I don’t believe that.” For the first time there was passion in her voice. “Not to me—but there are other people. I remember you, Acland. The way you used to be. When we were happy—”
“It was simpler then. I seem to have lost the gift.”
He smiled then. Jenna, who had grown used to his indifference, found she could not bear to see that smile.
“Take care.” She opened the door. “I’ll go now. It’s better if we leave separately.”
Separately indeed. Acland stayed a while, alone, in the shabby room, listening to the trains shunt back and forth. He was not cured, but then he had not really expected to be cured; the relief of sex was always temporary. He smoked a cigarette, then left.
He walked back through quiet streets, avoiding main roads, reaching Park Street just after eleven, the time the opera party should have returned.
They had not returned. They had telephoned, his mother said, and they were going on for supper at Maud’s.
Climbing into the first of the taxicabs Stern had summoned, Steenie—who had never seen Rigoletto before, but knew its more famous arias—hummed to himself. “La donna è mobile”—that melodious celebration of infidelity. Steenie liked this refrain. He sat on the jump seat; he began to whistle it.
On the backseat, somewhat crushed by the large figure of Freddie, sat Jane and Constance. Next to Steenie, on the other jump seat, sat his new friend Wexton. Wexton, a large and ungainly man of great benevolence, sat hunched up; his elbows protruded. He apologized for his knees, which he tried to telescope beneath the seat. They protruded too.
Wexton was wearing a borrowed opera cloak and a borrowed collapsible top hat. Its mechanism seemed to fascinate him. He flipped the hat up and down. He twirled it in his hands. Steenie watched him happily. He was in love with Wexton; he began to suspect Wexton might love him.
Opposite him, Freddie and Jane discussed the opera. Jane ventured an opinion on the tenor who had sung the part of the Duke, and the baritone who had sung the part of the hunchback father, the jester Rigoletto. Freddie, who usually avoided the opera, said even he had enjoyed it; he especially liked the last act, which was bloodthirsty.
“That bit when Rigoletto thinks it’s the Duke dead in the sack, and
then discovers it’s his daughter. That was jolly good. Oh—and the curse—”
“La maledizione?”
“That’s it. It sounds better in Italian. That was terrific. It made my hair stand up on the back of my neck.”
“Oh, yes—and just after that, when the assassin comes to Rigoletto to offer his services. The scoring is for muted solo cello—and double bass, I think. There are these pizzicato strings. It’s—”
Jane stopped. Freddie was looking at her blankly. She smiled, then hid her smile with an odd defensive gesture of the hands.
“What is it?” Wexton leaned forward.
“Oh, it’s … effective. That’s all. Very effective.”
Wexton leaned back. He made no comment. He flipped his opera hat up and down. Steenie continued to whistle. Constance, who had stared out the window all this time, and who had not spoken since they left their box, straightened up.
“Do stop whistling, Steenie. It’s beginning to mangle my nerves. Anyway, we’re here. Maud’s taxi is just behind us. Come on.”
Maud’s post-opera suppers were always informal affairs. She and Stern led the way to her dining room; the younger guests followed. Servants were dispensed with. Maud waved her hand in a vague way toward a sideboard on which chafing dishes were laid out. Wexton, who was always hungry, eyed these. To Steenie’s amused delight, he refused caviar, which he said he never ate, then consumed three helpings of scrambled eggs.
Maud, who knew that at these gatherings it was usually Jane who was left out, concentrated her attentions there. She asked Jane about her work at Guy’s Hospital, not that it greatly interested her—Maud found hospitals depressing—but because she knew it was the best way to break down Jane’s barriers of shyness. Like the accomplished hostess she was, she contrived to listen to Jane with animation and encouragement while never losing sight of her other guests.
She noticed, therefore, the way in which Steenie was looking at this young American, Wexton, and decided it would be better not to mention it to Gwen. She watched Freddie bumble about from group to group in a lost way. She watched her lover, Stern, who in his urbane manner was making an attempt to converse with an unresponsive Constance.
Stern stood before the fire, leaning against the chimneypiece. He was wearing evening dress; Maud, gazing at him fondly, thought how handsome, how distinguished he looked. His stillness, his capacity for concentration—these things she loved. Now, although Maud knew Constance’s conversation was unlikely to be of great interest to him, he listened with every appearance of close attention, his sleek and tawny head bent toward the tiny figure at his side. Constance toyed with scrambled eggs. Stern put a series of polite questions to which Constance replied in a sullen way, without animation. Then something Stern said seemed to catch her attention. She put down her plate and began to speak more rapidly. Maud, curious, left Jane to Freddie and approached.
Maud did not catch the beginning of Constance’s remarks, only the tail end.
“… I was afraid,” she heard. “The storm was terrible. And then, at the very end, when he finds his daughter in that black sack, I wanted to know what he would do. I could have cried when the curtain came down. He did love her so much! I think he killed himself. I think he threw himself into the river with his sack. Yes, that’s what he did, after the curtain came down.”
She gave herself a little shake. She looked up at Stern in a childlike way.
“I am glad I came. Would you say it was Verdi’s best opera?”
The naïveté of this seemed to amuse Stern. He greeted Maud and drew her toward them.
“Well, now. Is it his best opera? What would you say, Maud?”
“I like it. But I prefer Trovatore.” Maud smiled. “Monty, of course, prefers Wagner to Verdi. We must take you, Constance. You have stamina. Tannhäuser, perhaps. You would like that. Or The Ring.”
Not long after this, to Maud’s relief, for she grew tired, her guests left. Stern remained, standing in a thoughtful way by the fire, and Maud—who loved the ends of evenings, when she and Stern were alone—sat down and stared into the coals for a while. The quiet was companionable. Maud fetched them both a glass of wine. Stern lit one of his cigars.
“Isn’t Constance odd?” Maud began, for she liked postmortems and meant to steer the conversation to the interesting subject of Steenie. “So quaint! That question about Verdi. She can be such a child sometimes—and at others …” She sighed. “Well, she is grown-up now. It will be her ball soon. I think that will be a success. We must find her a husband, Monty.”
“At once? Quick-smart?” Stern smiled.
“Well, as soon as possible. You promised to think. What about that Russian—”
“Lady Cunard’s? No. I think not. He has debts. A sponger, or so I hear.”
“Really?” Maud looked up. “Then what about the American—Gus Alexander? You like him—you said so yourself. And he’s awfully rich. He sent Constance two hundred red roses.”
“Did he indeed?”
“You don’t think he’d suit?” Maud frowned. “I don’t see why not. I think he’s fun. Not pretentious in the least. Who then?”
“My dear”—Stern leaned forward; he kissed her brow—“I cannot think of a single suitable candidate. There is a limit to the number of men who want a child-wife. The responsibility is too great. Particularly one of that type. Constance will be a heartbreaker. I wouldn’t wish that on my friends—no, not even at your request. And now—I know you like to matchmake, but you do it better on your own—I must leave you, I fear. It’s late. I have work to do.”
“Oh, Monty, you won’t stay?”
“My dear, nothing would give me greater pleasure, as you know. But I must be at the War Office tomorrow morning, and I have a board meeting after that. Tomorrow?”
“Very well. Tomorrow.” Maud, who knew better than to argue, kissed him goodnight.
When he had left the house, she could not resist running to the window, so she might watch him walk along the street. He turned in the direction of the chambers he still kept up in Albany, near the Burlington Arcade.
Maud watched him lovingly. He walked at a slow pace, she saw, hatless, stopping once or twice to look up at the night sky. This was unusual. Stern’s habitual gait, neither fast nor slow but measured, conveyed a sense of purpose. He walked in the manner of a man whose days were strung with appointments, appointments that caused him no anxiety. Stern, though punctual, was rarely seen to consult a watch and never gave an impression of haste. The appointments would wait, his gait seemed to suggest; they would wait because their outcome rested with him.
That was how he usually walked; not that night. That night he looked like a man preoccupied, even uncertain of his route. Maud, struck by this, watched him attentively. She craned her neck. She saw him reach the corner, where it was his custom to pick up a cab. He stood there some while, a tall and solitary black-coated figure, the light from a gas lamp striking his bared head. He stared out fixedly across the street. Several taxicabs passed him, their FOR HIRE signs illumined, but Stern hailed none of them. Once, in an angry way he turned about, and Maud, heart lifting, thought he must have changed his mind and was returning to her.
But no. Stern walked a few paces, stopped beneath a second lamp, looked up again toward the sky. For an instant she could see the pale oval of his face; then he bent his head, turned back. Without hesitation now, as if he had come to a decision, he set off on foot in the direction of Albany. Maud watched him until he was out of sight.
Maud was puzzled. Seeing her lover thus, at a distance, from a window, as she might have seen a stranger, she had been struck by how vulnerable he looked. A man in love, Maud might have said, but it had been a stranger she watched, a man perplexed by some word, gesture, or glance from the beloved. This thought (my aunt Maud was a romantic even then) gave her a frisson of pleasure. The next moment, recollecting herself, she turned away with a smile at such foolishness.
Stern, though accomplished at lovemaking,
was not a man to allow sentiment to ruffle his composure; he did not betray his feelings in the bedroom, let alone standing in the street by Hyde Park corner. Maud knew she might like to imagine that Stern, standing there, thought of her. She also knew it was unlikely. His mind would not have dwelt on her—or indeed on any other woman—and if she were to admit to Stern that momentary suspicion of hers, he would dismiss it with impatience. When he was apart from her, he claimed, his thoughts were always occupied with his business.
Maud, reminding herself that she was not a mooning girl, was disposed to believe this. What then could account for this oddness in Stern’s behavior? Some problems with his munitions works? Some crease in the well-ironed affairs of his bank? Or could it be—and here Maud began to feel anxious—could it be that Stern was considering some of his loans, and one loan in particular?
That loan, to a member of her own family, made Maud increasingly uneasy. She began to see a day when that debt must be written off or called in—and when that happened, what would be her lover’s reaction?
Stern always said that the lending of money was a straightforward business matter; the identity of the debtor was irrelevant. Explaining this creed, Stern could be cold. On such occasions Maud found him both alarming and exciting. On such occasions she sensed power, even a certain rapacity; she could not approve this, but she found it erotic.
This confused her. Two creeds of her own collided. Brought up to believe that all debts should be honored eventually, she also believed that a lender should show mercy. To pursue a debt to the point of ruination, Maud judged vulgar. It smacked of commerce; it was tradesman’s behavior, not the attitude of a gentleman.
As far as this particular debt was concerned, Maud had always assumed in a vague way that it would be repaid—in due course. Should the debtor experience serious difficulties—which seemed unlikely—then she herself would intervene. She would plead on the debtor’s behalf, whereupon Montague would waive the debt. Of course he would; any other course of action was unthinkable!
Certain, now, that she had hit upon the reason for Stern’s odd, preoccupied air, Maud was anxious to question him. If Stern was worried, then the matter must be pressing. It had better be discussed—and at once.
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