The Drowning People

by Richard Mason

  I liked Louise; I enjoyed her easy uncalculated charm, the precision of her sentences, the irony of her observations. And I talked easily enough, distracted only by the crucifix she wore. It was unusual: small; delicately made; beautiful. But the face of its Christ caught so truly a note of human anguish that I was uncomfortable looking at it, and I was fascinated by my own discomfort. Again and again my eyes returned to it; and my hostess, seeing where I looked, asked me whether I would like to touch it.

  I nodded, smiling.

  “There is an interesting story attached to this,” she said as she undid the clasp of its silver chain and put the cross in my hand.

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes. It was the reward given to an ancestress of my husband.”

  I saw Eric frown slightly and make an effort to hide his irritation. “What had she done to deserve it?” I asked.

  “She was a spy at the Congress of Vienna,” Louise replied smiling. “She took the secrets of the foreign negotiators with her feminine wiles and her reward was this cross, among other things. She was a great lady. Another Louise like me.”

  “She was a whore, Maman,” said Eric quietly, “as you should know.”

  There was an unearthly silence.

  Louise gave no outward sign of having heard her son. Calmly, deliberately, she took the crucifix back from me, threaded it through its chain, and hung it once more around her neck. Then quietly, she said, “I want you never to speak to me again like that Eric. Am I understood?” and began once more to eat. The clash of her cutlery was, for a moment, unnaturally loud on the china of her plate; then she controlled it. And turning to me once more she began to speak again, laughing and smiling as though nothing had happened.

  For the rest of the meal Eric did not say a word; and an hour of strained conversation with Louise, who paid no attention to her son’s silence, passed very slowly for me. When our dessert plates and coffee cups had been cleared and the waiter had brought the bill, Eric still showed no signs of movement or of speech. So I thanked Madame de Vaugirard, a little awkwardly, for a lovely dinner and she rose.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you at last, James.” During the course of the evening she had elegantly appropriated the use of my Christian name. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow afternoon at the sale.”

  “Likewise,” I said, meaning it.

  Eric got up now from the table and kissed his mother on both cheeks. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out. I shook hands with Louise, who smiled again as though nothing had happened, and followed him. Outside the restaurant we walked together in silence, my friend setting a furious pace, for ten minutes or more. We were walking along the river, heading for the Charles Bridge and the tram that would take us home; our breath turned to smoke in the icy air of approaching winter. Block after block of cobbled streets and darkened buildings passed; the floodlights illuminating the castle on the hill above us went out; I registered that it must be midnight. Still Eric did not speak; and as it became increasingly obvious that he had no intention of doing so I turned to him and asked him what was wrong.

  “Do not bother yourself about it, James,” he said, an ominous note in his voice which I had never heard before.

  We walked on in silence.

  “I think you might tell me,” I said at last, doing my best to stem a rising tide of irritation. “Don’t you think I’m entitled to some sort of explanation?” More silence followed, broken only by the quick regular tap of Eric’s step on the hard pavement and the flow of the river. “Have you any idea how awkward it was for me in there?” I asked finally, exasperated.

  My friend turned to me, eyes flashing. “So it is I who am at fault is it?” he exploded. “My mother’s hypocrisy earns her nothing but praise. It is I who try to puncture it, I who try to be honest, who gets the blame. Even from you.”

  I was lost. “I don’t see how the manner in which your ancestors obtained state secrets is a test of how honest you are. And what do you mean by your mother’s hypocrisy? You’re not making any sense.”

  “My mother pretends to be a good Catholic,” he replied tersely. “She talks endlessly of the sacrament of marriage, about what sex is good and what is wicked. But she praises prostitution, so long as it is done for the glory of France.”

  I heard to my alarm that his voice was shaking. Uncomfortable now, my irritation evaporating, I said nothing. Eric sensed my discomfort.

  “Do not bother yourself, James,” he said. “You will not understand.” His pace increased. The silence was tense and I waited for it to snap as I knew that it must. When he spoke again his words were quick, almost hoarse. “You will never understand, James. You will never understand what I mean because you will never leave the safety of your nice, civilized shell. You will never risk yourself or let others risk themselves with you.”

  Lost and bewildered by his vehemence I considered defense and justification; for a moment even, I was angry again. And I might have spoken had we not seen our tram rattling down the street towards our stop and run to meet it; but we did. And in silence we went home and to our respective beds without exchanging a further word.

  The next day, the day of the sale, dawned cloudy and patchy rain fell in short bursts on the crowds which thronged the entrance to First Auctioneers, Ltd. Eric and I arrived together at five in the afternoon, an hour before the gavel went up, still not speaking. We found Louise, already in the care of a gleaming Mr. Tomin, sitting in the middle of the first row. Her chair, and the two on either side of her which she indicated to us, had large cards on them on which someone, in painstaking copper plate, had written RéSERVé. She betrayed no signs of unease with her son; and it was as if the tension of the evening before had never existed.

  “Dear James,” she said to me after she and Eric had exchanged their customary twin kisses, “Monsieur Tomin seems to think that the sale will be a great success. My family feels indebted to you.”

  “Really there is no need.”

  “And before it begins and everything gets too—how to say?—frantic,” she smiled at me, “I wish to make you a little present.” She took the crucifix from her neck and put it in the palm of my hand, which she closed over it “You were admiring this last night. I wish that you would keep it. Christ has watched over the many generations who have worn it.”

  I, conscious of Eric’s eyes on me, did not know what to say and began to mumble something about not possibly being able…

  “But I insist,” she said. “You are my son’s friend and therefore mine. If Eric does not think it fit that I should wear this, then I should like you to have it.” And with the air of giving a benediction she clasped my left hand and Eric’s right and squeezed them tightly in hers. “And now,” she said to Mr. Tomin, who was awaiting her signal, “we are ready.”

  And he in his turn signaled to a flunky who went ceremoniously to the double doors of the bidding room and threw them open with a flourish. In streamed a long line of people, Princess Amelia amongst them, who made their way with much excited chatter to the rows of gilt and velvet chairs. Gradually they filled them; and the auctioneer was just mounting to the podium and beginning his opening address, the crowd was just hushing itself and the doors closing, when in slipped a figure with short, shining blond hair and excited green eyes. Ella slipped into a seat in the last row; Eric saw me look at her; his mother smiled approvingly as I put the crucifix into my pocket; and the sale began.

  The bidding started cautiously, the crowd at first unmoved by the frantic shrieks of the auctioneer. A few of the less prestigious lots went for just under their catalog estimates; a table, some porcelain, a writing desk which had stood in Madame Mocsáry’s hall. Seeing the furniture we had come to know so well go under the gavel, lot by lot, made me nostalgic for lost times in that eclectic apartment; and my resentment gave way to tenderness for the person I had shared them with. I looked past Louise at Eric and smiled at him. His eyes met mine; and after a moment’s hesitation he smiled back
.

  Ella came up to me as the crowds were dispersing and took my hand.

  “You were too lovely the other day,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d’ve done without you.”

  “How are things with your parents now?” I asked.

  “Better. But this must be the last of my little escapades. From now on it’s sanity all the way.” She looked up at me and smiled.

  “Are they here now?” I was anxious to meet Alexander and Pamela properly, on the new terms of my intimacy with their daughter.

  “No,” she whispered. “Can you believe it? I told them I’d run away because I was never allowed a moment alone. So they’ve let me come by myself.”

  I can see her shining eyes looking up at mine, can feel her small hand and the tightness of its grip. “That’s brave of them,” I said, grinning.

  She kicked me playfully. “Don’t be rude or I shan’t say what I’ve come to ask you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Well…” She smiled. “Daddy and Pamela have to go home to London the day after tomorrow, but they don’t want to take me for obvious reasons. The fuss still hasn’t died down, you see.” She paused. “The world must have its pound of flesh, I suppose. What was it Oscar Wilde said? Something about there being only one thing worse than being talked about and that’s not being talked about.”

  “Something like that,” I said smiling, pleased by her good humor.

  “Well that’s how I’ve decided to view it all.” She reached into her bag for a cigarette. “But that’s not what I wanted to speak to you about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t look at me archly that like, Jamie.”

  “But you’re a free woman now,” I leaned down and whispered into her ear. “I want to claim you.”

  She put her arms around my waist. “Then why don’t you come and stay with me for a few weeks until Christmas? Daddy and Pamela don’t want me to be alone. And we’ve got a lovely place in France I want you to see. I’m going tomorrow.”

  “I’d love to,” I said simply; then I thought of Eric and our argument. I didn’t want to leave him without clearing the air, and I suspected that his temper would take a few days to settle. “But I’m not sure I can leave Eric at such short notice.”

  At that moment he joined us. “Ella,” he said stiffly, “what a delight.” And he kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Just the person I wanted to see,” she said. “My father and stepmother are going back to London soon and giving me the use of a place we have in France. I want you and James to come and stay, just for a few weeks until Christmas.” She smiled at me as she said this, and I warmed to her for thus including my friend.

  “That would be wonderful,” Eric replied, in a tone so polite I could not judge the sincerity of what he said. “But I am afraid that I cannot.”

  “But you must,” she went on. “James has said he won’t go if you don’t, and I can’t be left all on my lonesome in some godforsaken house in the middle of nowhere.”

  Eric looked at me; I looked at Ella; then I looked at him. His dark eyes met mine steadily, almost questioningly. I thought him still angry about the previous night. And anxious to let him see that I had forgotten and forgiven, I put my arm around his shoulders. “I’ve got used to having you around,” I said, smiling. “You’ve got to come.” His eyes held mine a moment longer.

  “Go on, Eric,” Ella said.

  “Yes, do.” This from me.

  There was a pause while—had we but known it—all our fates hung in the balance.

  “Very well,” he said finally, “I’ll come.”

  CHAPTER 19

  ERIC AND I TRAVELED TO FRANCE ALONE, Ella having left Prague with her parents some days before us; and we said sad good-byes to people and to places that neither of us would ever forget. At the Café Florian we listened sadly to the drunken reminiscences and loud debates which would continue, we knew, whether or not we stayed to hear them; alone for the last time at Sokolska 21 we had Blanca to tea and thanked her for all she had done; on our last afternoon we drank coffee with Mr. Kierczinsky in his elaborately appointed office as we handed over the keys to Madame Mocsáry’s now empty apartment.

  In my last few hours in the city I took my leave of Eduard Mendl, who sent me on my way with a piece of “lucky resin” which I have to this day.

  “I have enjoyed teaching you,” he told me gravely as we parted. “And I do not say that to all my pupils. With dedication you may go far.” As I put my violin in its case he told me that he had enjoyed my concerts with Eric, also. “They give me hope for you both,” he said. “And it pleases an old musician like me to see the rapport which you two have together.”

  I thanked him warmly.

  “God bless you James,” he said as we shook hands.

  And I left his splendid rooms with words of praise ringing in my ears, thinking with pleasure of the excitement of travel, of bags packed and couchettes booked, of Ella waiting for me in France. I remember leaving the Conservatory; remember bounding down its steps in the cold sunlight of that early winter day. I was happy and carefree, brimming with ambition, full of vain hope and wild plans, of … But what use is all this now? What point am I trying to prove? Does it matter so much that I have at last learned humility?

  Our last days in Prague were good ones. Neither Eric nor I referred again to the dinner with Louise or to the argument which had followed it; and he, it seemed to me, made as conscious an effort to forget both as I did. Easy relations were reestablished between us and our journey to France was lighthearted and happy, full of laughter and jokes and the telling of our first Czech anecdotes. We arrived at the border in the early morning of a misty, cloud-covered day; and bleary-eyed with sleep we endured an hour of waiting on a freezing railway platform—inevitably extended to three by an unexplained delay—and then caught two slow, connecting trains in haphazard succession. Eric had been responsible for choosing our route, and he had not chosen well; but his company was too amusing for me to be long irritated by his incompetence with timetables (“Only dull people are good with trains,” he told me) and we arrived at our destination in the late afternoon, grubby but high-spirited.

  Ella did not come to meet us at the station; instead she sent the housekeeper’s son with a note addressed to me in the jagged brown letters which I had come to know so well.

  Darling James, it began,

  As you will have noticed the day is very cold and I have been instructed not to brave the drive or the weather. (Daddy and Pamela have put the village doctor in attendance, you see, just in case I should do something silly. He’s very overprotective.) So I’ve sent Jacques to collect you and I hope you don’t mind. Be sure to give him a tip—it’s important to get people on your side in this country.

  Can’t wait to see you.

  E

  I read this in the car as we drove from the station; and I listened absently as Eric and Jacques spoke to each other at intervals in polite French. As the countryside rattled past and we slowed, approached and passed through a pair of dilapidated stone gateposts I thought excitedly that Ella would soon be in my arms. I remember my excitement then, the impatience with which I waited as we rattled down a long uneven drive towards the house, an ancient block of faded stone dotted by cracked blue shutters. It surprised me that such a house should belong to the Harcourts and that it should be left in such an obvious state of disrepair; certainly the splendors of 23 Chester Square had led me to expect something grander than this, something less desolate.

  I saw Ella as we rounded the final curve in the drive. She was waiting for us on the narrow flight of cracked stairs which led to the front door, a fragile figure in pale blue cashmere with ruffled hair and glowing cheeks. I flushed with pleasure as I saw her and looked at Eric to smile too, but he was staring ahead and did not see me. I remember that now. But as the car came to a halt I gave no thought to the firm set of his mouth or to the tension in his shoulders, supposing—if I supposed anything at
all—that our long journey had tired him. It had not tired me. As soon as Jacques had braked I was out of the car and Ella was in my arms and I was holding her and swinging her off the steps and she was laughing and pressing herself against me and pulling my shoulders tight to hers. I remember the fine bones of her neck, the delicate arch of her nose, the strands of hair flying about her face as we moved together. Even now the sweet thrill of our reunion on that cold day makes my heart race. And I know with a certainty which will sustain me that our love was not evil, that its end was not inevitable, that Eric’s death and even Sarah’s could have been avoided had either of us been older or stronger or wiser than we were. But we were not; and I ache now for that lovely smiling girl and for the lost passion of the time before my guilt.

  It’s ironic, you know: that my tears tonight and all this week will not be for my dead wife but for the lost love of her cousin; that Sarah’s bloodied body has less power to move me than Ella’s sweetly acrid smell of soap and cigarettes, forgotten for so long but now remembered. As I held her in the icy wind I filled my lungs with it. She was laughing wildly when I let her go and she pushed me playfully away as she offered a rosy cheek to Eric.

  “Leave your bags here,” Ella said to us, smiling, as she led the way into a low dark hall, cheerless despite the vase of flowers on its central table. “You should see the house before you unpack.”

  And so we saw the house; and as she led us through it I thought that her vitality was out of place in its somber corridors and drafty rooms; that the click of her heels on its flagstones should be heard in lighter, younger air than that to be found between the unloved walls of that decaying house. Recollection is curious. I never went back to it after Eric’s death, and that was almost fifty years ago; but every detail of Les Varrèges—for that is what the house was called—is etched in my mind still. I can trace the patterns of its thick walls, the sequence of its few large rooms; I can recall the number of doors in its low-ceilinged hall, the musty odor of wood smoke and dusty rugs which hung heavy in its air. I remember its fireplaces, large enough for a small person to stand upright in; its pockmarked wooden beams made from the timber of sixteenth-century warships and blackened by centuries of soot; the layout of its guest wing, a nineteenth-century addition; the plan of its gardens.