Yet, the father’s rather oblique remark, made when he was drunk, and uttered with the detachment and harshness of male egotism, encouraged the daughter to expect of life some ultimate revelation. Years after, when his stature was even further diminished in her memory, her mind would venture in foxy fashion, or more blunderingly worm-like, in search of a concealed truth. If fellowship with Himmelfarb and Mrs Godbold, and perhaps her brief communion with a certain blackfellow, would confirm rather than expound a mystery, the reason could be that, in the last light, illumination is synonymous with blinding.
In the meantime, life at Xanadu was disturbed less by transcendental problems than the economic and social ones which come to those who enjoy nerves and invested income. The Hares never talked about money. To Mrs Hare that would have been an act in the poorest taste. To her husband, on the other hand, money was something he did not care to think about, but which he hoped fervently would still be there. He was not unlike a traveller walking into a landscape which may prove mirage. Fortunate in his inheritance from the wine-merchant father and commercial uncles, and in the devotion of an individual just stupid enough to be honest, just intelligent enough to be practical, who managed his late father’s business, Norbert was pretty certain that his landscape was an actual one. But it unnerved him to discuss it, and if drink or insomnia forced him to consider his financial future, he would buy reality off by writing to his London agent to order a fireplace in Parian marble, or a Bonington, which, he was assured, would soon be coming up for sale. In that way he was fortified.
In that way they continued to live at Xanadu, and soon it became clear the daughter of the house was a young girl. They put up her hair, and the nape of her neck was greenish and unfreckled where the red hair had lain. She was no prettier, however, and unnaturally small.
The mother began to sigh a good deal, and remarked:
“It is time we thought about doing something for our poor Mary.”
But immediately wondered whether her suggestion might not have sounded vulgar.
The father could not feel the situation deserved his interest.
“If anything is to happen it will happen.” He yawned, and showed his rather handsome, pointed teeth. “How does it happen to at least ninety per cent of the unlikely human race? How did it happen to us?”
“We grew fond of each other,” his wife ventured, and blushed.
The husband laughed out loud.
And the wife preferred not to hear.
Not long after, Mrs Hare displayed excitement and her husband cynical interest when it was announced that Eustace Cleugh intended to undertake a tour of the world, in the course of which he would visit his relations in New South Wales. Except that he was a member of an English branch of Urquhart Smiths, not a lot was known about Mr Cleugh, but blank sheets are always whitest. Mrs Hare had heard that her Cousin Eustace was awfully nice, neither young, nor yet middle-aged, comfortably off, and that his mother’s brother had married the Honourable Lavinia Lethbridge, a daughter of Lord Trumpington.
“What does Mr Cleugh do for a living?” Mary asked her mother.
“I don’t exactly know,” replied the latter. “I expect he just lives.”
So it all sounded most desirable.
Eustace Cleugh, when he arrived, was not surprised at a lot of what he heard and saw, for as an Englishman and an Urquhart Smith, he had preconceived notions of what he must expect from colonial life in general and the Norbert Hares in particular.
“Breeding is ninety per cent luck, whatever the experts and Urquhart Smiths may tell you,” Mr Hare announced the first night at dinner. “And when I say luck, I mean bad luck, of course.”
“There are so many rewarding topics!” his wife complained, looking at her cherry stones.
Mary Hare stared at her cousin. An absence of interested upbringing had at least left her with a thorough training in observation, and although she looked deeper than was commonly considered decent, she often made discoveries. Now she confirmed that this man was, in fact, as her mother had forewarned, neither young, nor yet middle-aged. To Mary Hare it seemed probable that Mr Cleugh had always been about thirty-five. As she herself was of indeterminate age, she hoped they might become friends. But how was she to go about it? In the first place, he was of her father’s sex. In the second, his beautifully kept, slightly droopy moustache, and the long bones of his folded fan-like hands, appeared unaware of anything beyond the person of Eustace Cleugh. Perhaps if he had been a dog – say, an elegant Italian greyhound – she might have won him over by many infallible means.
But as that was not the case, she could only offer him an almond.
Which he accepted with an unfolding of hands. Now also he began to unfold his mind, and to offer to the audience in general – everything that Eustace spoke was offered to a general, rather than to a particular, audience – an account of a journey he had made with a friend through Central and Northern Italy.
“After a short interlude at Ravenna,” Mr Cleugh picked his way, “not in itself of interest, but there are the mosaics, and the zuppa di pesce – and they are essential, aren’t they?—we went on to Padua, where the Botanic Gardens are said to be the oldest in Europe. They are not, I must admit, particularly large, or fine, as gardens go, but we found them to be of peculiarly subtle horticultural interest.”
Mrs Hare made the little social noises that one made. But her husband had begun to blink, repeatedly, and hard.
“In Padua, poor Aubrey Puckeridge was struck down by some ailment we were never able to diagnose, part tummy, part fever, in what turned out to be – our guidebook had sadly misinformed us – a most primitive albergo.”
Mrs Hare made the same, only slightly more appreciative noises.
“And did he die?” asked Norbert.
“Well, no,” replied Eustace Cleugh. “I hope I did not imply. I intended only to suggest that poor Aubrey was awfully indisposed.”
“Oh,” said Mr Hare. “I thought perhaps the fellow died.”
Eustace Cleugh noticed that his cousin’s husband had been drinking a good deal of his own poisonous wine.
Mary Hare was fascinated by Mr Cleugh’s story, not so much by the narrative as how it issued out of his face. She put it together in piles of dead leaves, but neatly, and matched, like bank-notes. It made her sad, too. So many of the things she told died on coming to the surface, when their life, to say nothing of their after life in her mind, could be such a shining one. She wondered whether Mr Cleugh realized how dead his own words were, and if he was suffering for it. There were, after all, many things he and she had in common, if they could first overcome the strangeness of their separate existences, and crack the codes of human intercourse.
“When he got better, and left that primitive albergo?” she asked, for a start, offering him her assistance.
But Eustace Cleugh no longer felt inclined.
He had only glanced at his cousin’s ugly child, and promised himself that, during his visit, he would look as little as possible in that direction. Her short, stumpy hands were particularly repulsive, and the flare of hair that had not yet submitted to the tyranny of pins. He shuddered inside himself. Even while concentrating on the pattern of his dessert plate, he was conscious of how shockingly the girl was put together. It was almost as though the presence of any kind of physical monstrosity was a personal insult to Mr Cleugh.
“I expect Cousin Eustace is tired.” Mrs Hare was making his excuses. “My own arrival in a strange house exhausts me beyond anything.”
Eustace, of course, turned a smile on the company, because his manners were perfect, and became murmurous in protest.
But he did retire early, and not to the bachelors’ quarters because, said Mrs Hare, he was a member of the family.
Mary soon realized that her life would remain unchanged by their cousin’s being with them, because she did not see so very much of him; he was always either reading or writing – his tastes appeared studious – smoking or thinking,
or walking in the bush to study the flora of Australia.
Once she suggested:
“If you like, I shall come with you. I shall take you to places that probably no one else has seen. Only you mustn’t mind crawling and scrambling. And sometimes there are snakes.”
He could smile very obligingly. He said:
“That is a good idea. Yes. Why have we not thought of it before? Yes. Some day. When there is more time.”
Because there were also social engagements: gentlemen were brought, who told him about their sheep, and ladies, who wished to be told about Home, some mythical land that existed largely in their imaginations. A lot of this did at last surprise the visitor, for it had never occurred to him that sheep could be taken seriously, and together with his English acquaintances, he had always considered that, of all civilizations, real and imagined, only the Italian was worthy of consideration.
All the time Mrs Hare remained aware that something must be done for Mary, and so it was decided to give the ball. This was such an undertaking in itself that it did not occur to her how her daughter might be affected by it.
The latter did venture:
“Do you think Cousin Eustace cares about dancing? He is far too polite to say whether he does or not.”
But already, mentally, the mother was at the dressmaker’s. She was calculating how many oyster patties, and wondering whether in the final hour the maids would obey her orders.
Even on the night, everyone was inclined to ignore Mary Hare. Those who were kind enough thought to respect her feelings by not noticing her appearance, but those who were cruel hoped to spare their own by refusing to see what could only upset them.
She appeared dressed in a silvery white, because she was a young girl, and this was to be the moment of her triumph, or sacrifice. She stood about, touching the papery stuff of her skirt with disbelieving hands, wearing jewels which her mother had brought from her own box: a little brooch in knots of pearls, and pearl dog-collar which the mother herself no longer wore, and which had lost much of its lustre from lying on velvet instead of on living flesh.
So there she was, dressed to kill, as one young fellow remarked, only it was Mary who was killed, by her own pearl dog-collar.
Certainly it was rather tight. She was always inclined to be red, however, in patches, according to weather and emotion, to say nothing of rough. Her hands caught in the splendid stuff of her silvery dress, and she was reminded of the many awkwardnesses of behaviour of which she had been guilty. Perhaps the most grotesque detail of her whole appearance, those who discussed it remembered afterwards, was a little bunch of ridiculous flowers that she had pinned half-wilting at her waist: frail fuchsia, and rank geranium, and pinks, and camomile – all stuffed together, and trembling, and falling. It did certainly look peculiar, and most unsuccessful, but she had not been able to resist one touch of what she knew by heart.
The evening developed, in gusts of music and tinkling of glass. The ugly, forgotten girl should have felt miserable, but was preserved finally from unhappiness by the wonder of it, by the long shadows and the pools of light, by the extraordinary, revealing faces of men and women, by receiving a glass of lemonade, off a silver salver, from a servant who pretended not to recognize, in their own house.
There were a great many important guests: landowners, professional men and their wives – only those who were rich, hence socially acceptable. And house guests. The bachelors’ quarters were full of young men down from the country, with high spirits, good teeth, and brick-red skins.
And the dancing. And the dancing.
Mary Hare, without aspiring, loved to watch from some familiar corner, protected by mahogany or gilt, in cave of chalcedony or malachite, peering out. From there the dancers could be seen riding the swell of music (the best that Sydney could provide) in the full arrogance of their intentions. Or, suddenly, they would lose control, whirled around by the unsuspected eddies. But willingly. As they leaned bade inside the slippery funnels of the music, they would have allowed themselves to be sucked down, the laughter and the conversation trembling on their transparent teeth.
There was, in particular, the girl Helen Antill, whom some considered, in spite of her beauty and assurance – extravagant. Miss Antill wore a dress embroidered with little mirrors, oriental it could have been, which reflected the lights, and even, occasionally, a human feature. She carried, moreover a fan, curiously set in a piece of irregular coral resembling a hand. The fan was of peacocks’ feathers. Most unlucky.
But Miss Antill could not have been perturbed.
Mary Hare, watching, thought she might have loved something like this, just as she fell spontaneously in love with the smooth limbs of certain trees, the texture of marble, and long, immaculate legs of thoroughbred horses spanking at their exercise. Even Mrs Hare became carried away by Miss Antill’s performance, and although she had at first suffered qualms on seeing the effect her guest would have upon those others present, admiration overcame her protective instincts as a mother, and she began to move quickly through her house, searching and frowning, her grey mist of chiffon trailing like an obsession after her.
“Where is Cousin Eustace?” she asked cursorily of Mary.
“It is some time since I noticed him,” replied her daughter, and as she diverted her attention, realized how strange it was that she should be addressing her own mother.
Mrs Hare frowned again. At the point of sacrificing a daughter, she continued to expect that the latter should do her duty.
“You should see to it that he is not alone. When there is nobody else, you should keep him company. In fact, any young girl of serious intentions makes sure that hers is the company he wants.” Then Mrs Hare sighed, realizing the difficulty of most situations. “Men do not know what they want without a little guiding.”
“But I should hate to guide someone,” replied Mary.
“The way you say it you make it sound like drag!” despaired the mother. “I meant to imply that a slight touch on the elbow works wonders.”
“Cousin Eustace hates to be touched.”
Mrs Hare preferred to interrupt a conversation that had become so physical. She would bear her cross, and in becoming thus a martyr, she was convinced that only she herself was aware of the source of her martyrdom.
So she continued the search for her relative, strengthened by her disappointments, and the vision of Miss Antill in her successful dress.
Eustace Cleugh had, in fact, performed most nobly almost all that had been expected of him that night. He had appeared to listen attentively to all those statistics with which the graziers had provided him. He had lent a sympathetic ear to graziers’ wives, condemned to use up their lives on Australian soil, removed from all those material advantages which their sensibility, not to say spirituality, required. He had danced, how he had danced with the daughters. At least, his body had accepted the dictatorship of music, and his face had not let him down. But now he had gone upstairs, into the study of his cousin Norbert Hare, to nurse his numbness, and to look through an album of engravings of German churches in the Gothic style.
Here his Cousin Eleanor found him.
“Eustace,” she exclaimed, “I cannot imagine how you have allowed yourself to overlook Miss Antill. Such an exquisite dancer, and a lovely girl. I cannot rest until I see you lead her out.”
And she took him by the wrist, guiding, as she was convinced.
Eustace Cleugh was far too well brought up to wrench himself free of gentle compulsion. All he said was:
“Yes, Miss Antill is very lovely.”
So Mary Hare watched their cousin brought downstairs. She watched him move out across the treacherous floor. That he was brought, and that he no more than moved, was something which perhaps only Mary noticed, but she, of course, spent so much of her time observing timid behaviour: of birds, for instance. Now here was her cousin, Eustace Cleugh, netted by the music and Miss Antill. How the mirrors in the dress flashed and reflected. Eustace did not st
ruggle, but revolved most correctly, holding his partner; Mary alone saw how he was held. Almost the colour of nougat, his face asked the expected questions: about theatrical entertainments, the races and the weather. In the short space of his visit, he had grown surprisingly well informed on matters of local importance.
But Miss Antill seemed to remain unconvinced. As they revolved and revolved, the phrases into which she bit could have tasted peculiar. She could not quite believe in some thing, some failure – was it her own? Or could the bird have died before the kill? They continued, however, to revolve. As Miss Antill clutched her partner’s expensive cloth and the travesty of experience, she could have been flickering, although it was attributed by almost her entire audience to the clash between light and mirrors. Such splendour as hers did not encounter uncertainties.
Then there was a pause in the music, and Mr Cleugh did behave very oddly, everybody agreed. He simply excused himself, wiped his face with a horribly white handkerchief, and walked away. It was in the end far less humiliating for Miss Antill, in spite of the slight she had suffered, for practically the whole population of the bachelors’ quarters rushed upon her, to say nothing of several susceptible solicitors and elderly, unsuspected graziers.
Eustace Cleugh disappeared in the direction of the terrace. One or two ladies just noticed in the confusion of movement that dotty Mary went, or rushed rather, after him, dropping wilted flowers as she ran, but everybody was too distracted by the scene they had just witnessed to envisage further developments of an incomprehensible nature. Besides, they had been taught firmly to suppress, like wind in company, the rise of unreason in their minds.
Eustace was on the terrace Mary found, not quite in darkness, for the lights of the house cast a certain glow, tarnished but comforting.
“Oh,” she began, “I shall go away if you would rather.”
Though she would have hated to be sent.
Riders In the Chariot Page 4
