The Short Stories of Warwick Deeping

by Warwick Deeping

She sat down and looked at her husband, who was washing the remains of the lather from his face. She both loved her husband and was afraid of him—afraid that some day he might suddenly realize her as an encumbrance and wish to be free. Life would be so much easier for a man like Michael if he were free.

  For Cap d’Or did not know that Vera was Rostov’s wife. She was supposed to be his sister, and even as his sister she remained very much veiled. These unfortunate Russians were, of course, very interesting; but then Cap d’Or was predominantly feminine, and Michael danced so exquisitely. He was supposed to be a prince disguised as a lounge lizard. As a matter of fact he had been a prince.

  Rostov was wiping his face. He turned to look at his wife. She was tired. She had come back from the shop during the midday closing hour to prepare and to share déjeuner with him. And as Rostov looked at her he remembered his first interview with the polished person who managed the Cosmopolis.

  “Married?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t be married for this job. It isn’t à la mode.”

  “Very well—I’m not married. I have a sister.”

  For the Rostovs had been very hungry in those days, and hunger is a powerful persuader. And Michael loved Vera, though the how and why of it was beyond him, especially so in an age when it is becoming more and more unseemly and low-brow for a man to love anything. But Vera was gentle. Moreover, they had passed through the great tragedy together, and been hungry and frightened together, and a man may be modern and a Russian, and yet retain elements of decency.

  He said:

  “Sit still. I’m waiter to-day. I haven’t been standing in a shop.”

  And Vera knew that he had been sitting at a table writing. He wrote in French—tales, articles, plays,—in the hope of getting something accepted and of making money. He stayed at home in the mornings to write when he had no dancing lessons to give, for staying at home saved clothes, and clothes were precious.

  “What’s the menu?”

  He glanced at her quizzically as he turned down his shirt sleeves and fastened the links. Vera was different from other women, or she affected him differently. He saw so much of women; women of all ages and looks who had the right to order him to dance with them, multitudinous women, flirtatious women, sentimental women, silly women, frankly adventurous women. He had had a surfeit of women; they bored him; he was like a boy who had been compelled to eat a kilo of sweets daily in a pâtisserie shop.

  But Vera was different. She was delicate and gentle and underfed, and tired and courageous; and somehow his compassion stood over and beside her in all the flurry of a silly, pornographic, sensational, get-rich-quick world. He could not help being a cynic, but towards his wife he never felt cynical. She had reality.

  He could be playful, though the world saw him as an interestingly melancholy and rather silent man with enigmatic eyes.

  “What’s this? Herring à la maître d’hôtel!”

  He had opened the door of their dresser-cupboard. Grande déjeuner had to be as cold as the plates. Rostov spread a cloth and produced knives and forks, plates, four rolls, some butter and a wedge of cheese, a tin of herrings, two oranges, glasses. They drank water. And he had to watch his wife. Vera had a way of pretending that she was not hungry.

  “Allons! But there is something else.”

  There were occasions when Rostov dined out, and he had dined out the previous night. As a boy he had amused himself with tricks of legerdemain, and on the previous night he had managed to pocket a couple of peaches. Sometimes he pocketed the most extraordinary things, the wing of a chicken wrapped up in a rice-paper serviette, a soft milk-roll, bon-bons, apples.

  He placed the peaches in front of his wife. He laughed.

  “For madame.”

  Vera Rostov’s face quivered.

  “But one for you.”

  “But I don’t eat peaches. Oh, no. I ate peaches last night with Madame La Duchesse de Nouveau Riche. Besides, I dined so well—disgustingly well.”

  Almost he looked apologetic. He was presented with so many free meals. Women cultivated him. Vera had no free meals; it troubled him.

  He insisted on her eating. There had been occasions when he had detected her in the crime of trying to make him eat for one when there was not enough for two. Such things happen. Some women are less high-brow than the critics.

  Meanwhile, they talked, and nearly always their talk was of ways and means and of money. It had to be so. The new world was so very raw and new to them, and from being privileged people they had been driven out to join the crowd of hangers-on who coax existence from the pockets of the well-to-do. They were spongers, but without being blessed or cursed with the souls of spongers. They had known the great freedom, and always they were dreaming and scheming of escaping from the circus arena back to the boxes whence you watched other mountebanks playing tricks.

  Said Michael:

  “One day a week I should like to be able to change into a monkey. My revenge—yes. Think of a very active and malicious monkey turned loose in the Cosmopolis, and snatching wigs and jewellery, and throwing soft pulpy things into fat faces! My dear, it’s a dream.”

  She was more practical. She had had to learn to make her own clothes.

  “Michael, where are we going when the season ends here?”

  When he was most worried he would appear most frivolous.

  “Why, of course, we go to a place where a season is beginning.”

  “But where? The shop closes on April 15. It ceases to pay after the middle of April.”

  “And so does my hotel. Well, there is Paris, London, New York, all the world!”

  “But the money for travelling?”

  “Some of these nice people should give us a free ride in their automobiles. And then, when we arrive in Paris or London——”

  They looked at each other across the table, and in the eyes of each fear stood veiled. What a life! Always to have to hurry with worried, smiling faces at the heels of those wealthy patrons; to have to truckle to a world that had once been theirs! Yes; like half-starved dogs sniffing and fawning at a butcher’s knees.

  Said the woman:

  “Sometimes, Michael, I wish that we had been born peasants.”

  He forced himself to be ironical and gay.

  “Oh, no; not that dullness. Life has forced us to conduct an experiment. And, after all, what an adventure! I speak four languages. Some of these people shall be persuaded to give us a lift.”

  “Your women, my dear?”

  “My lady patrons, my devoted dowagers, my Novembers who will fox-trot like April.”

  Vera was peeling one of her peaches. Her eyes were ashamed.

  “Michael, it’s horrible.”

  For a moment his face looked fierce.

  “Yes; I’m a sort of parasite, a dancing monkey. There are times when I could cut throats and appropriate purses. What a pity that there are no seas left for pirates. Only ballrooms and cabarets. That peach looks good. Yes; I stole it,” and he laughed.

  At one o’clock Vera went back to her shop in the Rue du Gare, and Michael prepared for the business of the day. He had a dancing lesson to give at three o’clock to a young American widow, with much money. She was interested in Rostov, she had been having dancing lessons from him for a month, and always she was trying to make him talk intimately to her of himself and his past. At four o’clock there was the thé dansant at the Cosmopolis, and Rostov had to be in attendance and dance with any of the hotel guests who wished him to dance with them. A Mrs. De Quincy Evans was giving a tea-party, and with one of her cosmetic smiles she had ordered Rostov to be in attendance. Mrs. De Quincy Evans was a character. She had occupied one of the most expensive suites at the Cosmopolis; she was one of those immensely wealthy women who wander about Southern Europe and North Africa. You found her at the St. George at Algiers, or at the Semiramis at Cairo, or at the Cosmopolis at Cap d’Or. Always she was dressed to the last finger-nail; no one knew her age, not ev
en her French maid who daily reconstructed Mrs. Evans’ face. She was like Rome, the Eternal City, for ever renewed in the midst of its ruins.

  Lately Mrs. De Quincy Evans had rented a villa on the cape. She appeared every night at the Cosmopolis, glittering as though she carried half the contents of a Parisian jewellery shop. The manservant who sat beside her chauffeur was supposed to be a private detective. Rumour had it that she had bought up half the precious stones that had been smuggled by wretched refugees out of Russia.

  Rostov appeared in the vast lounge of the Cosmopolis punctually at four. He was a young man at whom people looked. He had a dark aloofness and dignity; he was very well dressed; he could stand quite still and be stared at without appearing conscious of these stares. No one supposed that he emerged from a fourth floor room in a back street, and that he had a wife who served in a shop.

  Gustave, the head-waiter, floated up to Rostov with fat, oily movements. Gustave hated Rostov because Rostov was Russian and so much French money had been swallowed up in Russia, and because Rostov would not allow him to be conversational and familiar.

  “That’s your old woman’s table.”

  Gustave had one of those rubber noses that wrinkle up like a dog’s. He had the Frenchman’s malicious, icy smirk.

  “How much does she pay you to go out to dinner with her?”

  Rostov stood very straight with his weight on his heels, and looked over the top of Gustave’s head.

  But Mrs. De Quincy Evans was arriving; she was always arriving, because her arrivals were so sensational and lengthy. If she stayed but for a moment it was a mere pause in the rhythm of her comings and goings. She was a large woman, with a glowing head and a face that was perennially peached. Her bosom suggested a velvet cushion for the display of ropes of diamonds and pearls; she could carry half a metre of precious stones round her stout neck. She bubbled and frothed. She was as festive and sly as a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. She ogled, she smiled, she undulated; she was always moving her hands which were covered with rings. She called all the waiters by their Christian names. She patted men’s sleeves.

  Rostov bowed to her very gravely, and she gave him a jocund glance, and with all her party in tow was met by the urbane Gustave.

  “I have reserved madame her table.”

  Rostov followed the party, trying not to feel like a monkey at the end of a string. The party consisted of a middle-aged woman, two girls, a young old man with an eye-glass, a youth with no chin. Mrs. De Quincy Evans settled her party; she took a long time about it; she was like a fussy, bland hen; she talked all the time.

  Rostov remained poised. Mrs. De Quincy Evans’ face reminded him of those two peaches which he had purloined and taken home for Vera. The peaches had belonged to Mrs. Evans. He had been dining at her villa.

  Oh, that dinner! He was always rather hungry. The thought and the smell of food were eternally present in his consciousness. Odours, savoury smells, waterings of the mouth. What a body one was! And soon he would be looking at the great trays of pâtisserie carried round by the waiters, and wishing that he could carry a bagful home to Vera. He liked sweet cakes, and so did Vera; but Vera ate nothing between their cold déjeuner and a much macaronied supper.

  “Michael!”

  Mrs. De Quincy Evans’ hand was waving him to a chair.

  “People—this is Michael. Michael—my people.”

  He bowed gravely to the party, and with compressed lips sat down. He wondered whether Mrs. Evans realized that she spoke to him as she would have spoken to a pet dog, a Pom, or a Peke. “Pou-pou, lie down,” or “Pou-pou, sit up and beg.” He had to submit to being petted and teased and scolded and fondled.

  Michael sat down beside the middle-aged woman who looked at him rather as though he were a strange beast. She had one of those English faces that have the appearance of having been left out too long in the frost. Obviously she did not know what to say to Rostov; and he was equally mute. But Mrs. De Quincy Evans talked for the whole party.

  “Yes; really I did. I put two hundred francs on thirteen, and thirteen turned up. Ah! here’s the tea. Michael, what’s that lazy orchestra doing? Go and tell them to play. These girls are dying to dance.”

  The orchestra struck up without Rostov’s intervention, and having got on his feet he made his bow to the middle-aged lady.

  “Will madame dance?”

  Almost she looked as shocked as though he had asked her to go to bed with him.

  “I don’t dance.”

  He raised his eyebrows gallantly over her brusquerie, and tried on the girls.

  “I’d love to; but I’m awfully shy of pros.”

  They danced. Rostov was an artist, and yet he managed to dance with an air of polite detachment. Meanwhile, the chinless youth sat and despised him. “This Russian fellah——” The chinless one could not understand how any girl could bring herself to dance with a hired outsider.

  Mrs. Evans talked. The severe lady watched and disapproved. Between his duties Rostov stood and drank tea, and looked Byronic, and managed to snatch one sugary cake. He had other people to dance with: old women and young women; ladies who were his pupils; girls who wanted to flirt with him. Pestilent business! Always he had the feeling that the men—including the waiters—looked at him askance, as at a sort of poodle.

  But all such afternoons came to an end, and Mrs. De Quincy Evans’ party dispersed; but she herself remained, smoking a cigarette, and retaining Rostov beside her. His association with Mrs. Evans was beginning to cause comment, and he knew it, and was irritated by it. But what could he do? Other things may have to be swallowed when you are hungry, but Mrs. De Quincy Evans was a considerable mouthful, and as he stood beside her chair and met her cosmetic smile he began to wonder what her game was. Certainly she was a woman who refused to grow old, but did her refusal include the commandeering of youth?

  Was she——? But such reflections caused Rostov to feel a little stirring of nausea. The world was sufficiently raw and sordid without the admittance of such nudities. He preferred to think of Mrs. Evans as a good-natured and rather officious woman who wanted to be kind, and liked to parade her kindness.

  She was taking something from her bag.

  “Good boy, Michael.”

  He saw the hundred-franc note laid on the table. It was for him—the poodle, the good dog—and he both wanted it and loathed it. She might do these things in a different way.

  Mrs. Evans looked up at him archly.

  “I shall be round here to-night. Come and have supper with me, my dear, afterwards.”

  Rostov was aware of Gustave watching them with pallid cynicism. Damn Gustave!

  “Madame is too kind.”

  “Oh, nonsense. I like being kind. You will come.”

  Rostov turned up the collar of his overcoat as he left the hotel. It was a poor overcoat, cheaply in the fashion, and after dancing in an overheated hotel one had to be careful, for this Riviera climate was treacherous. One of his many fears was a dread of being ill; he could not afford to be ill. He walked fast in the direction of his back street quarter; he climbed the four flights of steps; he opened the door and saw his wife laying the table for their evening meal, bread, potage, and macaroni. Vera looked tired and paler than usual; her movements had a languor.

  Rostov noticed this. Another of his fears was for his wife’s health. She had suffered rather terribly during those days of bloodshed.

  “Tired, Vera?”

  “Only one of my headaches.”

  “Lie down. I’ll look after the restaurant.”

  “No; I can manage. Go and change.”

  Rostov had to dress and return to the Cosmopolis by half-past eight, where he would have to dance and appear gay and debonair till midnight. He got through so many white shirts, and the blanchisseuse was a brigand and exacted blackmail for tearing your shirts to pieces. At twelve o’clock Mrs. De Quincy Evans would carry him off in her car, and he would eat, and in return for his food he would be expected to be gall
ant and amusing.

  He went into the bedroom to change. Confound the old woman! Why couldn’t she let him come to bed in peace? but must, with her carefully-manicured fingers, tease the fibres of his youth.

  He said:

  “I have to go out to supper with the woman from whom I stole the peaches. Very boring. I think I shall tell her I’m married.”

  Vera’s voice replied from the other room.

  “Poor Michael.”

  “Oh, one has to put up with it. She gave me a hundred-franc note after the show to-day. I performed with her party. I’ll put the note on your dressing-table. Buy yourself something.”

  “Housekeeping, my dear. And some of it can go into the money-box.”

  “I leave it to you.”

  That particular evening proved to be just like other evenings so far as Rostov was concerned, but Mrs. De Quincy Evans was different. She exhaled a perfume of property; and her smiles and intimacies suggested that Rostov was part of her property. She carried him off at midnight; in the car she patted his hand.

  “You work very hard, my dear, too hard.”

  She was wearing a rope of pearls and a collection of exquisite rings, old rings picked up during her travels. Rostov had noticed them; they filled him at times with a savage bitterness; he believed that many of them were Russian rings wrung from hungry unfortunates. They arrived. Supper was laid, iced soup, a delicately dressed lobster, béchamel of chicken, a savoury, fruit. There was champagne; also a box of cigars. Mrs. Evans dismissed the manservant. Her peach-coloured face had a suave, persuasive expression.

  And Rostov was conscious of something in the air. There was a part of him that began to bristle. Even the cigar she offered him was a ten-franc bribe. And for what?

  “My dear, have you noticed my rings?”

  Oh, yes; he had noticed her rings.

  “Madame has exquisite taste.”

  She nodded.

  “It is my hobby. And at the same time I help people. Is it not true, my dear, that the Riviera is full of your unfortunate people?”

  “Very true.”

  “And sometimes they need money, and they go to some Jew with a ring or a brooch or a necklace, and they have to take what the wretch will give. Even you—my dear—probably cherish some treasure.”