Admiral Hornblower

by C. S. Forester

  ‘In the usual garbled Bonaparte form,’ added the Count. ‘You took a ship – the – the—’

  ‘The Witch of Endor, sir.’

  Was all this too painful or too pleasant? Memories were crowding in on him, memories of the Château de Graçay, of the escape down the Loire, of the glorious return to England; memories of Bush; and memories – honey-sweet memories – of Marie. He met her eyes, and the kindness in them was unfathomable. God! This was unendurable.

  ‘But we have not done what we should have done at the very first,’ said the Count. ‘We have not offered our felicitations, our congratulations, on the recognition your services have received from your country. You are an an English lord, and I well know how much that implies. My sincerest congratulations, milord. Nothing – nothing can ever give me greater pleasure.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Marie.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Hornblower. He bowed shyly. It was for him, too, one of the greatest pleasures in his life to see the pride and affection beaming in the old Count’s face.

  Hornblower became aware that Barbara standing by had lost the thread of the conversation. He offered her a hurried English translation, and she nodded and smiled to the Count – but the translation was a false move. It would have been better to have let Barbara blunder along with French; once he started interpreting for her the barrier of language was raised far higher, and he was put into the position of intermediary between his wife and his friends, tending to keep her at a distance.

  ‘You are enjoying life in Paris, madame?’ asked Marie.

  ‘Very much, thank you,’ said Barbara.

  It seemed to Hornblower as if the two women did not like each other. He plunged into a mention of the possibility of Barbara’s going to Vienna; Marie listened apparently in rapture at Barbara’s good fortune. Conversation became formal and stilted; Hornblower refused to allow himself to decide that this was a result of Barbara’s entry into it, and yet the conclusion formed in his inner consciousness. He wanted to chatter free and unrestrained with Marie and the Count, and somehow it could not be done with Barbara standing by. Relief actually mingled with his regret when the surge of people round them and the approach of their host meant that their group would have to break up. They exchanged addresses; they promised to call on each other, if Barbara’s probable departure for Vienna left her time enough. There was a soul-searing glimpse of sadness in Marie’s eyes as he bowed to her.

  In the carriage again, going back to their hotel, Hornblower felt a curious little glow of virtue over the fact that he had suggested that Barbara should go to Vienna without him before they had met the Graçays. Why he should derive any comfort from that knowledge was more than he could possibly imagine, but he hugged the knowledge to him. He sat in his dressing-gown talking to Barbara while Hebe went through the elaborate process of undressing her and making her hair ready for the night.

  ‘When you first told me about Arthur’s suggestion, my dear,’ he said, ‘I hardly realised all that it implied. I am so delighted. You will be England’s first lady. And very properly, too.’

  ‘You do not wish to accompany me?’ said Barbara.

  ‘I think you would be happier without me,’ said Hornblower with perfect honesty. Somehow he would spoil her pleasure, he knew, if he had to endure a succession of balls and ballets in Vienna.

  ‘And you?’ asked Barbara. ‘You will be happy at Smallbridge, you think?’

  ‘As happy as I ever can be without you, dear,’ said Hornblower, and he meant it.

  So far not a word about the Graçays had passed between them. Barbara was commendably free from the vulgar habit which had distressed him so much in his first wife of talking over the people they had just met. They were in bed together, her hands in his, before she mentioned them, and then it was suddenly, with no preliminary fencing, and very much not à propos.

  ‘Your friends the Graçays are very charming,’ she said.

  ‘Are they not all that I told you about them?’ said Hornblower, immensely relieved that in telling Barbara of his adventures he had made no attempt to skirt round that particular episode, even though he had not told her all – by no means all. Then a little clumsily he went on, ‘The Count is one of the most delightful and sweetest-natured men who ever walked.’

  ‘She is beautiful,’ said Barbara, pursuing undeflected her own train of thought. ‘Those eyes, that complexion, that hair. So often women with reddish hair and brown eyes have poor complexions.’

  ‘Hers is perfect,’ said Hornblower – it seemed the best thing to do to agree.

  ‘Why has she not married again?’ wondered Barbara. ‘She must have been married very young, and she has been a widow for some years, you say?’

  ‘Since Aspern,’ he explained. ‘In 1809. One son was killed at Austerlitz, one died in Spain, and her husband, Marcel, at Aspern.’

  ‘Nearly six years ago,’ said Barbara.

  Hornblower tried to explain; how Marie was not of blue blood herself, how whatever fortune she had would certainly revert to the Graçays on her remarriage, how their retired life gave her small chance of meeting possible husbands.

  ‘They will be moving much in good society now,’ commented Barbara, thoughtfully. And some time afterwards, à propos of nothing, she added, ‘Her mouth is too wide.’

  Later that night, with Barbara breathing quietly beside him, Hornblower thought over what Barbara had said. He did not like to think about Marie’s remarriage, which was perfectly ridiculous of him. He would almost certainly never see her again. He might call once, before he returned to England, but that would be all. Soon he would be back in Smallbridge, in his own house, with Richard, and with English servants to wait on him. Life in future might be dull and safe, but it would be happy. Barbara would not be in Vienna for always. With his wife and his son he would lead a sane, orderly, and useful life. That was a good resolution on which to close his eyes and compose himself to sleep.

  XVII

  Two months later saw Hornblower sitting in a chaise driving along through France towards Nevers and the Château of Graçay. The Congress of Vienna was still sitting, or dancing – someone had just made the remark that the Congress danced but made no progress – and Barbara was still entertaining. Little Richard spent his mornings in the schoolroom now, and there was nothing for an active man to do in Smallbridge except feel lonely. Temptation had crept up on him like an assassin. Six weeks of mooning round the house had been enough for him; six weeks of an English winter of rain and cloud, six weeks of being hovered over by butler and housekeeper and governess, six weeks of desultory riding through the lanes and of enduring the company of his bucolic neighbours. As a captain he had been a lonely man and yet a busy one, a very different thing from being a lonely man with nothing to do. Even going round to parties in Paris had been better than this.

  He had caught himself talking to Brown, harking back to old experiences, reminiscing, and that would never do. He had his dignity still to consider; no strong man could be weak enough to yearn for activity and interest. And Brown had talked eagerly about France, about the Château of Graçay, about their escape down the Loire – maybe it was Brown’s fault that Hornblower’s thoughts had turned more and more towards Graçay. As a fugitive he had found a welcome there, a home, friendship, and love. He thought about the Count – it may have been because his conscience troubled him, but undoubtedly at first it was the Count whom he thought about rather than Marie – with his courtesy and kindliness and general lovableness. With Bush dead it was likely that the Count was the man of whom Hornblower was fondest in all the world. The spiritual tie of which Hornblower had been conscious years ago was still in existence. Under the surface of his thoughts there may have been a tumultuous undercurrent of thoughts about Marie, but it was not apparent to him. All he knew was that one morning the pressure of his restlessness had become overwhelming. He fingered in his pocket the Count’s pleasant letter, received some days ago, telling him of his and his daughter
-in-law’s return to Graçay, and repeating his invitation to come and stay. Then he had shouted to Brown to pack clothes for both of them and to have horses put to the chaise.

  Two nights ago they had slept at the Sign of the Siren in Montargis; last night at the post-house at Briare. Now here they were driving along a lonely road overlooking the Loire, which ran like a grey ocean at their right hand, wide and desolate, with forlorn willows keeping a desperate foothold waist deep in the flood. Lashing rain beat down upon the leather tilt of the chaise, thundering down upon the taut material with a noise that made conversation difficult. Hornblower had Brown beside him in the chaise; the unfortunate postilion, hat drawn down over his ears to meet the collar of his cape, riding the near-side horse in front of them. Brown sat with folded arms, the model gentleman’s servant, ready to converse politely if Hornblower showed any inclination to do so, keeping a discreet silence until addressed. He had managed every detail of the journey remarkably well – not that it would be difficult to manage any journey in France for an English milord. Every post-house keeper, however insolent in his office, was reduced to instant deference at the mention of Hornblower’s rank.

  Hornblower felt Brown stiffen beside him, and then peer forward through the driving rain.

  ‘The Bec d’Allier,’ said Brown, without being spoken to first.

  Hornblower could see where the grey Allier joined the grey Loire at an acute angle – all this country was under moderate floods. There was something a little odd about having a coxswain who spoke French with the facility and good accent of Brown, who must have made (of course Hornblower knew he had) the best use of his months of living below stairs at Graçay when they had been escaped prisoners of war together – they and Bush. Hornblower could feel a mounting excitement in Brown, comparable with his own, and that was hard to explain in Brown’s case. There was no reason for Brown to feel the same sort of homesickness for Graçay that Hornblower felt.

  ‘Do you remember coming down here?’ asked Hornblower.

  ‘Aye, my lord, that I do,’ said Brown.

  It was down the Loire that they had made their historic escape from France, a long, curiously happy voyage to Nantes, to England, and to fame. Graçay could only be a few miles ahead now; Brown was leaning forward expectantly in the chaise. There it was, the grey pepper-pot turrets only just visible in the distance against the grey sky through the rain. A flag flying from the flagstaff made a tiny darker spot above the château. The Count was there. Marie was there. The postilion shook up his depressed horses into a smarter trot, and the château came nearer and nearer; the unbelievable moment was at hand. All the way from Smallbridge, from the time when Hornblower had decided to start, it had seemed as if it was quite impossible that they were going to Graçay. Hornblower had seemed to himself like a child crying for the moon, for their goal was so desirable as to seem necessarily unattainable. Yet here they were, reining up at the gates, and here the gates were opening and they were trotting forward into the so-well-remembered courtyard. Here was old Felix the butler hurrying out into the rain to welcome them, and over there by the kitchens stood a group of serving-women, fat Jeanne the cook among them. And here, beside the chaise, at the head of the far stone steps sheltered from the rain by the projecting roof overhead, were the Count and Marie. It was a homecoming.

  Hornblower scrambled down awkwardly from the chaise. He stooped to kiss Marie’s hand; he went into the Count’s arms and laid cheek to cheek to the manner born. The Count was patting his shoulder.

  ‘Welcome. Welcome.’

  There was no pleasure on earth comparable with this sensation of being looked for and of feeling that his arrival was causing pleasure. Here was the well-remembered drawing-room with the old gilt Louis-Seize chairs. The Count’s wrinkled old face was mobile with delight, and Marie was smiling. This man had broken her heart once, and she was ready to let him break it all over again – she knew he would – because she loved him. All Hornblower was conscious of was her smile, welcoming and – and – was it maternal? There was a proud sadness in that smile, like that perhaps of a mother watching her son grown up now and soon to be lost to her. It was only a fleeting feeling that Hornblower had; his powers of observation were negatived immediately by his own wave of personal feeling. He wanted to take Marie to him, to feel her rich flesh in the circle of his arms, to forget his troubles and doubts and disillusionments in the intoxication of her embrace; just as four years ago he had found oblivion there, selfishly.

  ‘A more cheerful arrival than your last, milord,’ said the Count.

  Hornblower’s last arrival had been as a fugitive, carrying the wounded Bush, and hunted by Bonaparte’s gendarmes.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Hornblower. Then he realised how formally the Count had addressed him. ‘Must I be “milord” to you, sir? It seems—’

  They all smiled together.

  ‘I shall call you ’Oratio, then, if you will permit me,’ said the Count. ‘I feel the greatness of the honour of such intimacy.’

  Hornblower looked towards Marie.

  ‘’Oratio,’ she said. ‘’Oratio.’

  She had called him that before in little broken tones when they had been alone together. Just to hear her say it again sent a wave of passionate emotion through Hornblower’s body. He was filled with love – the sort of love of which he was capable. He was not conscious yet of any wickedness about his action in coming thus to torment Marie again. He had been overborne by his own wild longing – and perhaps in his excuse it could also be pleaded that his silly modesty made him incapable of realising how much a woman could love him. Here came Felix with wine; the Count raised his glass.

  ‘To your happy return, ’Oratio,’ he said.

  The simple words called up a momentary pageant in Hornblower’s memory, a sort of procession of returns, like the procession of kings in Macbeth’s imagination. A sailor’s life was a chain of departures and homecomings. Homecomings to Maria now dead and gone, homecomings to Barbara – and now this homecoming to Marie. It was not well to think of Barbara while he was with Marie; he had thought of Marie while he was with Barbara.

  ‘I suppose Brown has made himself comfortable, Felix?’ he asked. A good master always sees after the well-being of his servant – but this question was also intended to change his own train of thought.

  ‘Yes, milord,’ said Felix. ‘Brown has made himself at home.’

  Felix’s face was devoid of expression, his voice devoid of tone. Were they too much so? Was there some subtle implication about Brown of which Hornblower should be aware? It was curious. Yet Brown was still the model servant when Hornblower found him in his room on withdrawing there to make ready for dinner. The portmanteaux and dressing-case were unpacked, the black dress-coat – London’s latest fashion – was laid out with the shirt and cravat. A cheerful fire burned in the bedroom grate.

  ‘Are you glad to be here again, Brown?’

  ‘Very glad indeed, my lord.’

  An accomplished linguist indeed was Brown – he could speak with fluency the language of the servant, the language of the lower deck, the language of the country lanes and of the London alleys, and French besides. It was faintly irritating that he never mixed them up, thought Hornblower, tying his cravat.

  In the upper hall Hornblower met Marie, about to descend to dinner like himself. They both of them stood stock still for a moment, as though each of them was the last person in the world the other expected to see. Then Hornblower bowed and offered his arm, and Marie curtsied and took it. The hand she laid on his arm was trembling, and the touch of it sent a wave of warmth against him as though he were passing by an open furnace foor.

  ‘My darling! My love!’ whispered Hornblower, driven almost beyond his self-control.

  The hand on his arm fluttered, but Marie continued unfaltering to walk on down the stair.

  Dinner was a cheerful function, for fat Jeanne the cook had surpassed herself, and the Count was in his best form, droll and serious in t
urns, witty and well informed. They discussed the policy of the Bourbon Government, wondered about the decisions being reached at the Congress of Vienna, and spared a few passing thoughts for Bonaparte in Elba.

  ‘Before we left Paris,’ remarked the Count, ‘there was talk that he was too dangerous a neighbour there. It was being suggested that he should be transferred to a safer place – your island of St Helena in the South Atlantic was named in that connection.’

  ‘Perhaps that would be better,’ agreed Hornblower.

  ‘Europe will be in a ferment as long as that man can be the centre of intrigues,’ said Marie. ‘Why should he be allowed to unsettle us all?’

  ‘The Tsar is sentimental, and was his friend,’ explained the Count with a shrug. ‘The Emperor of Austria is, after all, his father-in-law.’

  ‘Should they indulge their preferences at the expense of France – of civilisation?’ asked Marie, bitterly.

  Women always seemed to be more hotly partisan than men.

  ‘I don’t think Bonaparte constitutes a very active danger,’ said Hornbower, complacently.

  As the Count sipped his coffee after dinner his eyes wandered longingly towards the card-table.

  ‘Have you lost your old skill at whist, ’Oratio?’ he asked. ‘There are only the three of us, but I thought we might make use of a dummy. In some ways – heretical though the opinion may appear – I feel that the game with a dummy is the more scientific.’

  Nobody mentioned how Bush used to play with them, but they all thought of him. They cut and shuffled and dealt, cut and shuffled and dealt. There was some truth in what the Count said about whist with a dummy being more scientific; certainly it allowed for a closer calculation of chances. The Count played with all his old verve, Marie seemingly with all her old solid skill, and Hornblower sought to display his usual scientific precision. Yet something was not quite right. Dummy whist was somehow unsettling – perhaps it was because the need for changing seats as the deal passed broke the continuity of the play. There was no question of simply losing oneself in the game, as Hornblower usually could do. He was vastly conscious of Marie, now beside him, now opposite him, and twice he made minor slips in play. At the end of the second rubber Marie folded her hands on her lap.