Valerie French (1923)

by Dornford Yates

  Anthony sat up in bed, his brain whirling.

  Here was a man, he judged, some thirty years old, intelligent, healthy, and soon to be very strong, without a care in the world ... without a care.... Actually in the prime of life, he had been miraculously flicked back to the threshold. He had been given that for which Piety and Wit knew that it was idle to ask. The Moving Finger had been lured back to cancel thirty pages.

  Sirs, let us take this fortunate point of view, and, doing what Lyveden cannot do for himself, set it under a microscope. Two things stand out at once— a curious egoism, for one, a sense of relief, for another. Philosophy never wrought these. That relatives might be frantic, because he was out of their ken, never occurs to the man. Why? The bare idea of security has made him throw up his hat. Why? The reasons are plain. Lyveden's experience is at work— behind the veil. Again let us do as he cannot, and raise that veil. There is the truth, gentlemen, as clear as crystal. An orphan from birth, Anthony has no relations and next to no friends. As for his cares, he has of late been opposing a very sea of troubles....

  I have no wish, sirs, to labour this matter, but we are dealing with a man's mind now— always stuff of importance, but in this tale the very headstone of the corner. Here, once for all, if you will, let us examine its state, and then— the lesson over— pass out of the latticed chamber to look at the bowling-green. Brains are all very well, but the turf at the back of the inn is a very masterpiece. But then Nature has slaved at this diaper for more than three hundred years.

  That Lyveden had lost his memory is a loose statement. He had lost part of it only. For him, his personal past was blotted out. He could remember nothing that he had ever done or ever suffered. He could remember no acquaintance, local or personal, animate or inanimate, which he had ever had. With these important exceptions, his memory was pretty sound. What general knowledge he had possessed was, more or less, at his disposal. Names that were household words he well remembered, and their associations also: only— from those associations were excluded himself and all his works. Oxford, for instance, he knew for a seat of learning. He could name most of its colleges. He recalled the look of the place— hazily. Whether he had been schooled within its grey walls he had no idea. The fact that he could name but five of the colleges of Cambridge, and could not picture the town, suggested that he had favoured Oxford, but that was all. Again, he was clear that there had been a great war— most recently. Its cause, progress, and result, he perfectly remembered— particularly its progress. He dared not swear that he had soldiered. Later, his detailed recollection of the fighting suggested that he had served with the guns on more than one front, but that was all. He could not remember that he had ever dressed for dinner, but he knew that this thing was done....

  Here we are coming to Instinct. Lyveden's instinct was as sound as a bell. As such, it was a buckler worth having, for while a baby's instinct is above rubies, that of a man of thirty, who knows his world, cannot well be appraised. Moreover, between Experience and Instinct there is a positive liaison....

  The moment that Anthony Lyveden found his necessity virtuous, he became almost debonair. Curiosity would have been inconvenient— spoiled everything. But he was not curious. He had no desire to remember. If it was so ordained, he was quite ready to remember. Indeed, he was eager to see whether the faculty of recognition had gone the way of his memory. Until he recognized something, this question would remain unanswered. It occurred to him that he might be recognized ... accosted. Then he would learn about himself. Without doubt, a rare entertainment awaited him.... Anthony began to like his reincarnation better than ever.

  It was later upon that same morning that he addressed the Sealyham. The two were seated beside that elegant green, waiting for the church clock to give the word for their departure. A shabby haversack had been packed, farewells had been taken, compliments exchanged. Refreshed and grateful, man and dog were going to seek their fortune.

  "It is clear, my fellow," said Lyveden, "that we cannot remain anonymous." The terrier moistened his lips. "Quite so. You see, it's not only unfashionable— it's inconvenient. That we have names already is a charming but futile reflection. Whatever they happen to be, they've served their turn. You see, I'm a brand-new broom, and you know what new brooms do.... Well, I don't know about dogs, but I have a sort of idea that a man may not be his own godfather. The cryptic phrase 'deed-poll' seems to stick out of the mud at the back of my brain. Still, we must chance that. I propose to give names to us both— nice new names." The dog rolled over upon his back, and Lyveden patted him abstractedly. "The devil of it is, what to choose. They must be slap-up names. We shan't ever get such a chance again, you know, so we may as well do ourselves proud. Let's see..." For a moment he sat, knitting his brows, and stroking the dog's rough coat. Then his face lighted up. "'Hamlet'!" he cried suddenly. "There's a name for a dog. 'Hamlet.' My son, you're lucky. That was a blinkin' brain-wave, that was. Good name to shout and everything. 'Hamlet.' Well, that's that. Now it's my turn. I think," he continued slowly, "I think I must be called 'Jonathan.' I like 'Jonathan.' I've always liked 'Jonathan.' At least, I suppose I have. At any rate, I like it now, and— — "

  Here the church clock began to strike nine leisurely....

  Two minutes later Hamlet and Jonathan emerged from the kindly shelter of The Black Goat and, passing through Broad-i'-the-Beam, set their faces in the direction of the Oxford road.

  Sitting in a very French room, overlooking an orchard, Lady Touchstone read through the letter which she had written.

  Villa Narcisse,

  Dinard.

  29th July.

  DEAR JOHN,

  Letters from you suggest that we have been corresponding. I am glad to know it. The truth is that for the last six weeks I have done what I have done in a dream.

  When Tragedy leaps from behind a curtain on to shoulders as old as mine— I feel four hundred— the effort requisite to deal at all reasonably with the event empties the brain. One's old wits fail. I cannot remember what I have said or done, or— worse still— whether I have said or done it. (I bought our tickets twice over— the same afternoon.) For the first time in my life I have a sound sympathy with those poor old people who, whenever you see them, tell you the same anecdotes. It is not their fault. Some effort has emptied their brains.

  Poor Anthony Lyveden's body was found a fortnight ago— in a terrible state. The hot weather, of course. The clothes were gone. They say the left leg was broken.... We had him buried at Girdle. It seemed the best thing to do.

  I notice I say 'we.' I should have said 'I.' The moment the news came, Valerie threw down her cards. I tell you, it was like Bridge. Up to that moment she and I had been partners, and she'd been the one that mattered. Suddenly she became 'Dummy,' and I had to play the game. She's been 'Dummy' ever since. Wonderfully sweet and gentle, unnaturally calm, apparently perfectly content. But no initiative— no energy of mind— nothing. Every plan I make is 'admirable': every suggestion 'splendid.' She 'can't imagine how I think of it all.' But ask her opinion, and she'll smile and shrug her shoulders. She just doesn't care about anything, John. The frocks her maid puts out for her Valerie puts on. If she put out odd stockings, on to her feet they'd go.

  I brought her here to get her out of herself.

  To tell you the truth, I hoped and believed she’d kick. Do you understand? I wanted a sign of life. This agreeable apathy is frightening. A raging Valerie makes me tremulous, but Valerie meek and mild is shortening my life. I tell you I feel aged....

  Well, from that point of view, Dinard was such a failure that I was quite thankful I hadn't suggested Pekin. We should have had to go. This terrible approval of one's choice is far more compelling than any criticism.

  I heard of a villa somehow, and here we are.

  I have a good maître d'hôtel, who does everything. I think he is lining his pockets for years to come, but I would not part with him for a thousand pounds.

  We eat, sleep, and are driven ab
out the Department. We watch tennis; we hear music; we attend the Casino. We discuss— more or less cheerfully— the small things in Life. The world sees a silly old fool with a devoted niece. I tell you, John, the girl is sweetness itself. Her affection brings tears to my eyes. But she is just 'Dummy.' Her character has gone.

  Pray for her. Pray for us both, because, for the moment I am, I think, indispensable.

  Affectionately,

  HARRIET TOUCHSTONE.

  P.S.— If only they had been married instead of betrothed.... I shall always say that wedlock would have been proof against that influence. Valerie's arms would have won. Of course you'll shake your head. You must pretend disapproval, because you're a priest. But you won't groan. I'll bet you don't groan.

  H.T.

  Lady Touchstone addressed the letter with a sigh.

  It was right that John Forest should know what was going on. She had told him, therefore, what she was telling herself. She did not tell him the fear which knocked at her heart daily, insistently. This was that Valerie French, that glorious, dazzling creature, had gone the way of Lot's wife.

  'She became a pillar of salt.'

  A tall, graceful pillar— stricken, yet tearless— heedless of pain or pleasure as the pitiful dead, Valerie was warranting the comparison. Desire had failed.

  Let us see for ourselves.

  Upstairs, in a lavender wrap, hairbrush in hand, Valerie sat in her chair and stared at her glass.

  An Eve stared back.

  A painter once said of Miss French that she had never been born. He was meaning, I fancy, that she had sprung, like Cytheræa, out of the loins of Nature. Indeed, she did not look a daughter of men: and if Cytheræa rose from the foam of the sea, Valerie French came stepping out of the heart of a forest one sweet September morning, twenty-six years ago.

  Nature's treasuries had been ransacked to make her lovely. The cool of the dawn lay in her fingertips; the breath of the mountains hung in her nostrils. Violets, dew, and stars went to the making of those wonderful eyes. Her skin was snowy, save where the great sun had kissed her— on either cheek; her mouth was a red, red flower. Her voice was bird's music; her dark hair, a cloud; her carriage, that of a deer. As for her form, straight, clean-limbed, lithe, its beauty was old as the hills. In a word, Valerie French threw back to Eden.

  Valerie gazed and gazed....

  After a long while—

  "Not a grey hair," she said slowly. "Not one. By rights, my hair should be white. By rights, my eyes should be staring.... They're not even strained. I ought to be thin, pale as a ghost, with great rings under my eyes.... I looked a million times worse before— before it happened.... And now, when nothing matters, when everything's gone— smashed— finished, I look my best.... I suppose it's because I can't care ... the power of caring is gone. I’d give my life to cry, but it can't be done." Her gaze fell to the table. "First, the golden bowl; then the cord— that beautiful, silver cord; then the pitcher of life; and now the wheel at the cistern.... Yes. The wheel's broken. I can't draw up any tears." She fell to brushing her hair absently. "We should have been married now, and he'd've been dressing, too. The door'd've been open, and he 'ld 've come walking in. Perhaps he'd've played with my hair.... bent back my head and kissed me ... laid his cheek against mine.... Instead, he's lying at Girdle, under the ground. No one was there to hold his head at the last ... to give him water ... tell him it wouldn't be long. Perhaps the dog was with him ... whining ... licking his face. I wonder what Patch did when— when it was all over.... I'll bet he cared, poor scrap. But I, his queen ... no. I'm not allowed. The wheel's broken."

  THREE slow-treading hours had gone by since Valerie looked at herself, and now Lady Touchstone and she were listening to an admirable orchestra rendering the duet from Cavalleria Rusticana with real emotion.

  A silence had fallen upon the frivolous crowd. Beneath the music's spell the hubbub of mirth and chatter had sunk to a murmur of talk; in turn the murmur had died; only one voice had survived, nasal and drawling.... For a moment it seared the music.... Then some one touched its owner upon the shoulder. The drawl snapped off short.

  Step by step the air climbed to the pinnacles of Glistering Grief, trailing its audience behind. The exquisite atmosphere became rarer, more difficult to endure. A merciless fellowship of wizards, the band slaved at its charm, sobering vanity, finding souls in the soulless, plucking out hearts right and left and clapping them upon sleeves. Lips began to tremble, hands to be clenched; eyes stared upon the floor.

  Lady Touchstone blinked back her tears.

  Valerie sat still, watching a moth that was busy about a lantern, and wondering where they would go when they left Dinard.

  Suddenly, six feet away, a girl broke down.

  Her chin on her fists, her elbows propped on a table, blowing furiously at a cigarette, she strove to carry it off. All the time tears coursed down her cheeks. The man beside her bent forward.... She shook him away fiercely. Her gleaming shoulders began to shake convulsively. A quivering sob fought its way out....

  The girl flung down her cigarette, buried her face in her hands, and bowed before the storm.

  Perhaps five hundred eyes saw Valerie step to her side, put an arm about her, and lead her away. She went like a lamb. Lady Touchstone followed, snivelling and praising God. The gallant came last, feeling his position and savaging a young moustache....

  As they came to the doors—

  "We'll take her home, Aunt Harriet. She says that she’d like to come."

  The car was sent for.

  As the girl took her seat—

  "Don't you come," she jerked out, addressing her squire. "Tell th' others I met some friends."

  The youth uncovered relievedly. The last thing he wanted to do was to enter that car.

  Then the door slammed, and he was left standing, headgear in hand.

  He stared at his hat before replacing it.

  "André!" he said. "André of all women!..." He sighed profoundly. "My word, what a show!" He clapped his hat on his head and sought for a drink.

  So far as that search was concerned, his lady beat him. While he was still wobbling between a vermouth, which he disliked, and a whiskey, which he mistrusted, she was seated in a salon of the Villa Narcisse, sipping a brandy-and-soda of a very fair strength.

  The liquor steadied her nerves. After a minute or two she accepted a cigarette.

  Once she began to stammer some gratitude.

  Valerie checked her at once.

  "We'll talk when you're better," she said.

  Then she turned her back and picked up a book....

  André Strongi'th'arm was English and an attractive lady. Tears, of course, will make havoc of any countenance. They could not hide, however, her exquisite complexion, nor could they alter the shape of her maddening mouth. Pearls looked dull against the white of her throat, while her auburn hair alone made her remarkable. Enough and to spare for two women was crowning her pretty head. The lights that flashed from this glory beggar description. Her fine green frock became her mightily. This was none too long, but the shape of the slim silk stockings and little shining feet turned the shortcoming into a virtue.

  Perhaps five minutes slipped by.

  Then—

  "You must think me a fool," faltered André. "A soppy, half-bred fool."

  The other closed her book and rose to her feet, smiling.

  "I don't at all," she said quickly, turning about. "As a matter of fact, I should think you could stand more than most people."

  "I can," came the reply. "You're perfectly right. That music to-night caught me bending. I'd been thinking all day ... thinking ... letting myself remember ... sticking a knife in my heart. Then that duet came along and drove it home." She snuffed out a sob with a laugh. "Serves me right," she added, "for being a fool."

  "I wish," said Valerie French, "you’d teach me to cry."

  The other stared at her.

  "What on earth for?" She gave a hard laugh. "'
Teach you to cry?' My dear, you wait.... Yes, and thank your stars. When your hour comes, you won't want any teaching."

  "It's come," said Valerie. "It came a fortnight ago."

  Miss Strongi'th'arm shook her bright head.

  "No, it hasn't," she said. "Don't think I mean to be rude, but I know what I'm talking about. You think it has, but it hasn't. I know the symptoms too well."

  "And I haven't got them?" smiled Valerie. "I know. That's just my trouble.... Supposing you're deadly ill, with a temperature of a hundred and four. All the time you look perfectly well, and the thermometer says 'normal.' Yet the fever's there— raging. Raging all the more because it's suppressed...."

  "You’d die," said André.

  "I don't," said Valerie. "I wish I could. But that's where the body's so much better off than the mind. Symptoms or none, it can take to its bed and die. The mind can't. It just carries on and on." She sat on the arm of a chair and crossed her knees. "Death and tears are denied me. What's worse, I can't even care."

  "Then why on earth worry?" said André bitterly. "My God, I wish I couldn't!"

  "I don't worry," said Valerie, taking a cigarette. "I tell you I can't. But you forget the fever ... the raging fever ... raging to be expressed. You see, the tears are there. They must be. I can't get them out."

  André Strongi'th'arm stared at this strange, quiet girl who talked of death and tears as though they were pens and ink. She began to realize that she was in the presence of one whose acquaintance with Grief was rather more intimate than she had believed.

  At length—

  "You ask me," she said slowly, "to teach you to cry. Well, I'll tell you a tale. If that doesn't make you weep, I shouldn't think anything would."