Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  The darkness descended and closed round her. Perhaps she was wrong about the nothingness from which she came, and the nothingness into which she would go. Perhaps some ingenious artificer had designed all this, and how must he laugh to see the hearts into which he had put the capability of suffering, ache and rebel at his contrivances. Some day he would get tired of his sport, and throw away the plaything that had diverted the tedium of eternity; but for the time it must amuse him to give his puppets the power of loving, so that he might listen to their squealings when he took away what he had encouraged them to love. No decent mother would let her child get fond of a toy with the intention of taking it away, but the artificer of the world laughed at the mother’s misplaced compassion.

  Suddenly Helen felt herself pulled up by a rein external to herself. She was imagining things that her reason, at the least, was incapable of believing. She had allowed herself to do that out of sheer bitterness of heart; but it led to a conclusion that was unthinkable in its horror. She shook herself free from what must be a dream, and woke again to the lesser midnight of the nothingness from which she had come, and the nothingness which before many years would softly close round her again.

  It was here she had knelt, saying good-bye to Robin, wishing him “good luck with his honour,” and here that he had said that he and she had never loved each other so much as “to-day. Then he had gone out of that door without looking back, telling her that he would not do so. Step by step, minute by minute, she went through again the hours he had spent here then.

  Up till the last moment they had said to each other nothing that mattered; the day had been spent as if there had been a hundred other such days to follow. And yet through the idle talk and the laughter and the nonsense had come to him, even as to her, the clear knowledge that they had never loved each other so much. Then he had gone out of the door without looking back, and she, blind fool, had let him go. Why had she not gone up with him to London, and had a few more hours of him? She would gladly give all that remained to her now if he would only stand for one second by the door again, and look back at her, a little dim-eyed, and with mouth that quivered, so that she could see him once more with her mortal eyes, and hear him speak to her just one word. A minute of the world that once held Robin was surely worth more than anything in the world which held him no longer....

  It was a surprise to herself when, without warning, the sobs gathered in her throat, and she gave herself up to an abandonment of desperate tears. Not since she had known that Robin was dead had she even wanted to cry. While Grote was with her, all she had desired was to give him of her courage, and when he had gone, the fatigue of that braced effort or the withdrawal from it of the love that had wanted it, had caused the reaction which denied all that she had held on to then, and all that had previously inspired her. But now she had none for whom she must be strong, and her heart was sick with its own bitterness.

  She had tried everything: she had been eager for her own happiness, and had failed; she had been busy for others; she had been brave for others; she had been bitter, and she had loved. Now, watering her desolation, and her bitterness and her love alike, came her tears. Like a moving thunder-shower they passed over her own desolation, her own bitterness, her own bravery, but over the field where her love rose in springing crop, like the blades of winter wheat, they lingered and poured themselves out, salt no longer, but with an amazing sweetness. She had no self-pity left in her, no compassion for her own sorrow: these would have made a saltness in her weeping, but none was there. She wept at first for the sorrow of her bereaved love, the natural salt tears; but what was it that made the sweetness, if it was not the joy of finding that love was still alive?

  All her life she had been a friend to love. She had made friends too easily, but among all those tremulous times was there ever an occasion when her love had been quite alone, awaking no response of some kind? There had always been two in order to enable love to exist. They might differ in their kinds, there might be passive love, content to receive, active love content to give, low love content to get, high love content — ... content to be. But wherever love existed at all, there were two concerned in it. One might even reject, disdain, make mock, but he must be there. He might refuse to put his signature which made the contract valid, but the space for his signing must be there: the contract, though it should never come into effect, must have a space for two names. Otherwise, it could never have been drawn up.

  Her thoughts swarmed to these conclusions, and before she knew that she had spoken, she heard her voice say “Robin.”

  It was not to the memory of him that she had spoken when she said that. She had thought over the blessed days, and, in especial, the last thrice-blessed day of all, and she had said good-bye to them, for they were over. Gaze as she might at that door, never would Robin be outlined against it, as he left her without turning his head; on the arm of the chair where he had sat, never again could she feel his warm, smooth fingers grasping hers, as she wished him the good luck of his honour. But she had not spoken to the memories of what was irrecoverable: she had spoken to someone who remembered, even as she remembered, who loved even as she loved. She had not spoken to the past: she had spoken to the present, giving him the contract for him to sign yet once more. And if, with mortal eye, she had seen him by the door, turning back, though he had said he would not, to smile at her again, she would not have thought it strange. Nor would she have thought it to be a wraith, a phantom projected from her own longing to see him. It would have been just Robin; very likely he would have a smile and a ridiculous joke about Miss Diphtheria for her. Why not? Must he lose his human characteristics because a chance shell discharged not with regard to him had stiffened and stifled him? What had that shell to do with Robin? How could it conceivably lessen the might of love, or put love among the things that had been and were no longer?

  Something dearly-loved, his laughing eyes, his mouth, his knee which she had kissed and covered up, the body of him that was born of her body, his blood and his bone, blood of her blood, and bone of her bone, were somewhere buried in France, shattered and torn to fragments, or perhaps pierced by some little pencil-mark of a wound that had left him fallen backwards where a moment before he had stood eager and alert.

  She hoped it had been like that, for she loved his beauty, and shrank from thinking of its violent disfigurement. Some day, perhaps, she would know how the supreme moment came to him; but it was no vital part of him that was concerned in that. That was secondary compared with something else that grew out of the darkness and glowed before her.

  All this last month, after he had gone to France, she had felt his presence with her, and had told herself that it was their love, the reallest thing she knew, which had given her that certainty. That certainty was with her still, and it arose from no memory of their love, but from the love itself, which existed now. There were two to that contract still, Robin and herself.

  * * * * *

  There began to be a stir of movement in the quiet house, and she started up, wondering if some emergency had arisen for which her help might be needed.... Then she saw that there was light coming through her curtains, and, looking out, knew that the late winter dawn was beginning to break....

  She had to be up early that morning, for she had some arrears of work to do, left over from yesterday, and it did not seem worth while to go to bed for an hour. Presently there came a tap at the door from her bedroom, and Simpson looked in, her old face puckered and puzzled to find her sitting there.

  “Eh, Miss Helen,” she said, “and you’ve not been to bed all night! You’ve been sitting up and grieving—”

  And then Simpson could not go on.

  Helen got up and kissed her.

  “Yes, darling old Sim,” she said, “I’ve been grieving. And then I think — I think I’ve been rejoicing. I’ve found Robin again, Sim.”

  Presently Simpson spoke again.

  “And you’ll go to bed now, dear, won’t you?” she said
. “You’ll take a rest to-day.”

  “No, indeed, I won’t. But I’ll take my cup of tea if you will bring it in here. And then will you make me a hot bath? Really hot, Sim, so that I scream when I move.”

  Simpson patted and stroked her hand a moment longer, smiling through her tears. “You were always one for a bath fit to boil you, Miss Helen,” she said.

  It had rained in the night, and the lawn shone with the moisture as the sun rose. In the sky was “the bright shining after rain.”

  THE END

  DODO WONDERS

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER I

  DODO DE SENECTUTE

  Dodo was so much interested in what she had herself been saying, that having just lit one cigarette, she lit another at it, and now contemplated the two with a dazed expression. She was talking to Edith Arbuthnot, who had just returned from a musical tour in Germany, where she had conducted a dozen concerts consisting entirely of her own music with flaring success. She had been urged by her agent to give half a dozen more, the glory of which, he guaranteed, would completely eclipse that of the first series, but instead she had come back to England. She did not quite know why she had done so: her husband Bertie had sent the most cordial message to say that he and their daughter Madge were getting on quite excellently without her — indeed that seemed rather unduly stressed — but ... here she was. The statement of this, to be enlarged on no doubt later, had violently switched the talk on to a discussion on free will.

  Edith, it may be remarked, had arrived at her house in town only to find that her husband and daughter had already gone away for Whitsuntide, and being unable to support the idea of a Sunday alone in London, had sent off a telegram to Dodo, whom she knew to be at Winston, announcing her advent, and had arrived before it. On the other hand, her luggage had not arrived at all, and for the present she was dressed in a tea-gown of Dodo’s, and a pair of Lord Chesterford’s tennis-shoes which fitted her perfectly.

  “I wonder,” said Dodo. “We talk glibly about free will and we haven’t the slightest conception what we really mean by it. Look at these two cigarettes! I am going to throw one away in a moment, and smoke the other, but there is no earthly reason why I should throw this away rather than that, or that than this: they are both precisely alike. I think I can do as I choose, but I can’t. Whatever I shall do, has been written in the Book of Fate; something comes in — I don’t know what it is — which will direct my choice. I say to myself, ‘I choose to smoke cigarette A and throw away cigarette B,’ but all the time it has been already determined. So in order to score off the Book of Fate, I say that I will do precisely the opposite, and do it. Upon which Fate points with its horny finger to its dreadful book, and there it has all been written down since the beginning of the world if not before. Don’t let us talk about free will any more, for it makes one’s brain turn round like a Dancing Dervish, but continue to nurse our illusion on the subject. You could have stayed in Germany, but you chose not to. There!”

  Edith had not nearly finished telling Dodo about these concerts, in fact, she had barely begun, when the uncomfortable doctrine of free will usurped Dodo’s attention and wonder.

  “The first concert, as I think I told you, was at Leipsic,” she said. “It was really colossal. You don’t know what an artistic triumph means to an artist.”

  “No, dear; tell me,” said Dodo, still looking at her cigarettes.

  “Then you must allow me to speak. It was crammed, of course, and the air was thick with jealousy and hostility. They hated me and my music, and everything about me, because I was English. Only, they couldn’t keep away. They had to come in order to hate me keenly at close quarters. I’m beginning to think that is rather characteristic of the Germans; they are far the most intense nation there is. First I played — —”

  “I thought you conducted,” said Dodo.

  “Yes; we call that playing. That is the usual term. First I played the ‘Dodo’ symphony. I composed one movement of it here, I remember — the scherzo. Well, at the end of the first movement, about three people clapped their hands once, and there was dead silence again. At the end of the second there was a roar. They couldn’t help it. Then they recollected themselves again, having forgotten for a moment how much they hated me, and the roar stopped like turning a tap off. You could have heard a pin drop.”

  “Did it?” asked Dodo.

  “No: I dropped my baton, which sounded like a clap of thunder. Then came the scherzo, and from that moment they were Balaams. They had come to curse and they were obliged to bless. What happened to their free will then?”

  “Yes, I know about Balaam,” said Dodo, “he comes in the Bible. Darling, how delicious for you. I see quite well what you mean by an artistic triumph: it’s to make people delight in you in spite of themselves. I’ve often done it.”

  Dodo had resolved the other problem of free will that concerned the cigarettes by smoking them alternately. It seemed very unlikely that Fate had thought of that. They were both finished now, and she got up to pour out tea.

  “If I could envy anybody,” she said, “which I am absolutely incapable of doing, I should envy you, Edith. You have always gone on doing all your life precisely what you meant to do. You’ve got a strong character, as strong as this tea, which has been standing. But all my remarkable feats have been those which I didn’t mean to do. They just came along and got done. I always meant to marry Jack, but I didn’t do it until I had married two other people first. Sugar? That’s how I go on, you know, doing things on the spur of the moment, and trusting that they will come right afterwards, because I haven’t really meant them at all. And yet, ‘orrible to relate, by degrees, by degrees as the years go on, we paint the pictures of ourselves which are the only authentic ones, since we have painted every bit of them ourselves. Everything I do adds another touch to mine, and at the end I shall get glanders or cancer or thrush, and just the moment before I die I shall take the brush for the last time and paint on it ‘Dodo fecit.’ Oh, my dear, what will the angels think of it, and what will our aspirations and our aims and our struggles think of it? We’ve gone on aspiring and perspiring and admiring and conspiring, and then it’s all over. Strawberries! They’re the first I’ve seen this year; let us eat them up before Jack comes. Sometimes I wish I was a canary or any other silly thing that doesn’t think and try and fail. All the same, I shouldn’t really like to be a bird. Imagine having black eyes like buttons, and a horny mouth with no teeth, and scaly legs. Groundsel, too! I would sooner be a cannibal than eat groundsel. And I couldn’t possibly live in a cage; nor could I endure anybody throwing a piece of green baize over me when he thought I had talked enough. Fancy, if you could ring the bell now this moment, and say to the footman, ‘Bring me her ladyship’s baize!’ It would take away all spontaneousness from my conversation. I should be afraid of saying anything for fear of being baized, and every one would think I was getting old and anæmic. I won’t be a canary after all!”

  Edith shouted with laughter.

  “A mind like yours is such a relief after living with orderly German minds for a month,” she said. “You always were a holiday. But why these morbid imaginings!”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. I think it’s the effect of seeing you again after a long interval, and hearing you mention the time when you composed that scherzo. It’s so long ago, and we were so young, and so exactly like what we are now. Does it ever strike you that we are growing up? Slowly, but surely, darling, we are growing up. I’m fifty-five: at least, I’m really only fifty-four, but I add one year to my age instead of taking off two, like most people, so that when the next birthday comes, I’m already used to being it, if
you follow me, and so there’s no shock.”

  “Shock? I adore getting older,” said Edith. “It will be glorious being eighty. I wish I hadn’t got to wait so long. Every year adds to one’s perceptions and one’s wisdom.”

  Dodo considered this.

  “Yes, I daresay it is so up to a point,” she said, “though I seem to have seen women of eighty whose relations tell me that darling granny has preserved all her faculties, and is particularly bright this morning. Then the door opens and in comes darling granny in her bath-chair, with her head shaking a little with palsy, and what I should call deaf and blind and crippled. My name is shouted at her, and she grins and picks at her shawl. Oh, my dear! But I daresay she is quite happy, which is what matters most, and it isn’t that which I’m afraid of in getting old!”

  “But you’re not afraid of dying?” asked Edith incredulously.

  “Good gracious, no. I’m never afraid of certainties; I’m only afraid of contingencies like missing a train. What I am afraid of in getting old is continuing to feel hopelessly young. I look in vain for signs that I realise I’m fifty-five. I tell myself I’m fifty-five — —”

  “Four,” said Edith; “I’m six.”

  “And that I was young last century and not this century,” continued Dodo without pause. “We’re both Victorians, Edith, and all sorts of people have reigned since then. But I don’t feel Victorian. I like the fox-trot, and going in an aeroplane, and modern pictures which look equally delicious upside down, and modern poetry which doesn’t scan or rhyme or mean anything, and sitting up all night. And yet all the time I’m a grandmother, and even that doesn’t make any impression on me. Nadine’s got three children, you know, and look at Nadine herself. She’s thirty, the darling, and she’s stately — the person who sees everybody in the Park walking briskly and looking lovely, always says that Nadine is stately. I read his remarks in the paper for that reason, and cut that piece out and sent to Nadine. But am I a proper mother for a stately daughter? That dreadful thought occurs to Nadine sometimes, I am sure. Would you guess I had a stately daughter?”