Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  She paused a moment, and then went on in her croaking voice.

  “Girls fascinate me,” she said. “It is to them that there belongs the moulding of the world.

  Foolish people say that the young men are the stuff of the next generation, but who makes the young men? Why, the girls! Just while this foolish war is going on men are managing the world, which they do by killing each other, but presently it will be over and they will kill pheasants instead and let us women direct everything again. It is we who twirl them round our fingers, so cleverly that they think they are doing the twirling. I have twirled many in my time, and sent them all to the devil, God be with them! So I ought to know. But it is far more interesting to twirl a girl. Power! I adore power, and it is we women who have the power, if we would only concentrate on that, and let men have the glory when the thing is done. Then we Russians live in fairy tales: the moment an idea becomes practical we care no more about it. Let the servants work it out. We wash our hands and get a new idea.”

  “But how uncomfortable!” said Florence. “That is why Russia is so terrible. Bolshevism! All that upset! That is what comes of ideas. I don’t think I like ideas.”

  “And what has ever come to the world except through ideas? All action begins in thought. The greatest thinkers are those who are least practical Already they live in heaven or hell. I do nothing, but I think, and so I am for ever either in heaven or hell, and it matters not which so long as I am not of the tawdry world, where every one does something. It is better to be the dynamo than the electric bell. The great wind from the north! Or would you rather be the clothes hung up to dry in the back garden?”

  “My dear, how shocking you are,” said Mrs. Courthope. “Are you a Bolshevist?”

  “Of course. For what is the aim’ of Bolshevism? The millennium, no less; though I dare say when it comes we shall not care about it. The root of happiness is to go on doing new things, tasting new flavours in life. A perpetual revolution! That’s what I want from the world. Get something new always. Celia is new.”

  “She was a chameleon just now, taking colour from her surroundings,” remarked Florence.

  “Certainly, and she will remain a chameleon still. That is where she is a type: she will absorb new ideas. She has no bias, no morals, no heart. I can see that at a glance. That is the sort of person who will absorb new ideas and perhaps make them. It’s a tired old world, and here is our inn. But take her away from your accomplished Philip.”

  Philip was immensely himself when he called at the Pump Hotel next morning in answer to a, request from his wife that he should come to see her. She had thought out precisely what she wanted, but did not for that reason render herself any less allusive in getting at it.

  “Charming of you to come!” she said. “The party last night now! Why do we not all live at Merriby? What a wonderful circle you have made! Circle! So round, so complete! And centres!

  Perfect centres! Now I want to have a talk with you.”

  Philip had no certain conjecture as to what the subject of this interview was to be. It did not strike him as probable that his wife merely wanted to see him from a general desire for his society, and guessed that it had something to do with Celia. He was full of complacence about the brilliance of his party last night: it would be rather a revelation to Florence to see how much in the world Merriby was, and with how masterly a hand he ruled its gaieties. Perhaps she was going to stand godmother to a little tour for him and Celia: that would be pleasant, and he put on his most agreeable French attitude.

  “A votre service, madame,” he said. “And how can I assist your desires?”

  Fragments of Olga’s philosophies floated in Mrs. Courthope’s head and mingled with her own considerable tact.

  “A conquest, my dear,” she said. “You have achieved a perfect-conquest. Dear Olga talked about nothing but you and Celia all the way home last night. So Russian, so enthusiastic!”

  “I am honoured; I am charmed,” he said, “that our little efforts at entertainment are appreciated. For ourselves, we do not find society at Merriby disagreeable. We do not feel ourselves dull or out of the world.”

  “Dull? Out of the world?” said she. “I shall think you are fishing for compliments! That delightful Major Dent? Evan Lamington and all the rest of them! Celia too! I see your hand there. You have done wonders with Celia. A girl’s education should always be conducted by a clever man.” He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands palms outward.

  “Celia is a good little girl,” he said. “She observes, perhaps she instinctively copies. She has seen but little of the world, it is true—”

  She laid her hand on his knee a moment.

  “You are marvellous!” she said. “You have hit it! Celia has seen but little of the world! How terse, how true! I see we are agreed: she ought to see more.”

  This looked promisingly like a tour.

  “That, unfortunately, is out of my power,” he said. “As you know, my father left me with a pittance, and your bounty does not enable you daughter and me to do more than live becomingly here. Certainly Celia should see more of the world, if I were in a position to let her do so.”

  “I am sure of it, my dear. I see we are quite at one. Celia is growing up. Marriage, you know! Who in the world is she to marry if she always stops in Merriby? Somebody in a bath-chair! Gout: so crippling! Or a doctor? Out of the question. She must see more of the world. But this would be an impossible expense to you. It is for me to show it her. Not a duty only, but a pleasure. So nice when they are identical!”

  “Do you mean that you want her to come up to you in London?” he asked.

  “My dear, you are never wrong.”

  “But for how long?” he asked. “A week’s visit? A fortnight’s visit?”

  “No, I should like her to live with me till she is happily married. Marriage! So wonderful when it is happy!”

  He got up.

  “I entirely refuse my consent to any such scheme,” he said. “All these years you have planted Celia on me; now, when she has become an attractive girl, you propose to carry her off. I call that the most astounding piece of coolness. There is no use in continuing this conversation.”

  “Oh, you must not say that, Philip!” she exclaimed. “Let us be calm and sensible, and consider it. Calm! We agreed that Celia ought to see more of the world. Now, when the chance comes, you go back on what we agreed.”

  “Certainly. I had no idea anything of the sort was in your mind. Besides, I do not for a moment think that Celia would wish to do as you propose.” Quite suddenly for both of them the years of their voluntary separation peeled off them, and, as by the raising of a dropped curtain, they found themselves as they had been eighteen years before, each of them violently twanging the nerves of the other, each irritated and exasperated. The transformation was of the most unexpected kind: last night, no possibility was farther from Florence’s mind than that her husband could conceivably affect her for good or ill, for tranquillity in his regard or for disturbance, while Philip, by the same short measure of past hours, would not have imagined it possible that she should be capable of rousing him to any emotion beyond that of gratification at her envious dismay when she beheld what a jewel of social success she had paid to get rid of. Now their wills were in clash of conflict again, and the incompatibility between them, which had been the cause of their parting eighteen years ago, and had since then lain dormant, shot up, flowering miraculously like some aloe planted in a rock crevice, and completely usurped all controls of habit. All her good nature and kindliness, which had been so useful an instrument to her, were snatched away from her by the sense of opposition to him, once so familiar to her, while he, accustomed to the ways of an infinitesimal autocrat, regurgitated with ancient resentment.

  “It remains to be seen if Celia wishes to do as I propose,” said she.

  “Ah! Perhaps you have meddled with Celia already!” he answered.

  “I have done nothing of the kind, though it is c
haracteristic of you to suggest it. I see you have not ceased to judge other people by your own standards.”

  He lit a cigarette at the flint and steel.

  “Pardon, madame,” he said. “I permit myself to remind you that if you are not intentionally offensive you are unintentionally so.”

  “I am completely intentional, but let us get back to the point. You have said that Celia should see more of the world—”

  “And less of her father,” he gabbled.

  “One implies the other. You are so rude to interrupt. I give Celia an opportunity of seeing the world, and you instantly refuse it on her behalf.”

  “Quite so. I reiterate my refusal.”

  As suddenly as she had lost her temper, Florence recalled it. A sense of humour aided her, a sense of how ridiculous she must look if she looked at all like him, abetted her. His face had got red: his eyes bulged, he gabbled more confusedly than ever.

  “My dear, the Zoological Gardens!” she said. “There were two seals quarrelling. They sat close to each other, just like you and me, and made faces! Such silly faces, so stupid, so unimpressive! Regent’s Park! Don’t let us be like the poor things in Regent’s Park. Cages! So dreadful to be in a cage!”

  “You are pleased to be humorous,” said he.

  “Of course. Life without humour would be terrible. Let us smile and keep our tempers, and listen to each other. So good to listen: I learn by listening, though I forget when I talk. So puzzling to talk! So much more useful to listen and to consider.”

  “Excuse me,” said he. “I have considered, and have made up my mind. You agreed that I should take Celia with me, and you paid me for getting out of your life. That was our bargain. I have stuck to it, and I intend to stick to it. Bon jour, madame.” She did not move from her chair.

  “Oh, but this will never do,” she said. “You are so impatient. You have not heard the whole of my benevolent scheme. Poor Philip! Did you think you were to be left out? Not at all How unkind of you to think I should be unkind!”

  She hesitated a moment: though she felt no real doubt in her own mind that he would accept the proposal she was now about to make, she felt a certain reluctance to draw across his nose the rather shameful fly which he would certainly jump at. But she could disguise the hook, and deck it with deceptive hackles....

  “We have both one end in view,” she said, “as we agreed so pleasantly before I lost my temper. Celia’s good, Celia’s chance in life: isn’t that it? Life! So short, so serious! A doctor now, as I said, or a bath-chair! Too terrible! If you would come to London with her, how different! But then, there is Merriby to consider. You couldn’t leave your Merriby. What would every one do without you? Major Dent, all these nice people we saw last night. Such dears! But then Celia. If Celia left you, you would, of course, alter your scheme of life. A first-rate housekeeper, for instance. You would naturally entertain much more to console you for the loss of companionship. Only natural, only proper! Celia’s going would not be an economy to you, but quite the reverse. Of course I should meet such expenses for you. A butler now, with whiskers, as well as your parlour-maid. Lawn tennis in the winter, an en-tout-cas court. A motor. All the necessary luxuries. Of course Celia’s willingness to come with me is the first thing: we both know that. But if Celia knew that you wished to give her more knowledge of the world, that you thought it was for her good to come with me, I am sure that would weigh with her. We must consult Celia by all means. Calm consultations! So fruitful! I think I had better suggest it to Celia, and then she will say she must talk to you about it. A round sum now, Philip, not to make up to you for all you lose, but to enable you to adapt yourself to your loss. Bachelor-parties, butler, all that sort of thing. But Celia’s good, and Celia’s consent first of all. So happy and calm now. Consultations! And five hundred pounds a year in addition. Foreign travel: you and Major Dent!” He sat down again in a Shakespearean attitude, with his finger on his forehead.

  “Let us leave the money question out altogether,” he said. “There is no thought of that. But now you put it to me about Celia, I begin to understand. Aimer c’est tout comprendre, n’est ce pas? More opportunities for her: a wider range. Education, too. Her French is far from perfect. I have taught her all she knows, and even I am rather rusty. And she will not begin her London life disadvantageously, for I suppose there are a few people of note in London who have not been to Merriby, and any one who comes to Merriby is at home at ‘Chez-moi’”

  He got up and began pacing up and down the room thoughtfully, twirling his moustache into the use of the unpopular monarch.

  “I yield,” he said with wonderful magnanimity. “I place myself in your hands completely. You shall do as you like with Celia and me. You shall have your own way in every respect. I withdraw all I have said! All!”

  The excessive repetition of his complete surrender satisfied Florence as to his attitude towards the financial question.

  The financial question came momentarily to the front again an hour afterwards, when Mrs. Courthope, in “consultation” with Celia, put the scheme before her, and endorsed it with her father’s approval.

  “Daddy wants me to go?” asked the girl.

  “Yes, indeed, dear,” said she. “Ask him. Get his opinion first-hand. First-hand now! So unlike books from a library.”

  Celia fingered the pearls that had already been given her. They were quite adorable, but they seemed vaguely tainted with the idea of bribe. Still, they were adorable. Then she looked up.

  “I am a little surprised that Daddy wants me to go,” she said. “I can’t quite understand that. I thought he liked my being with him. It is all very well to talk about my advantage, my good, which appeals to him so strongly. But that doesn’t quite convince me. You are quite satisfied, but then you don’t know him nowadays so well as I do. Is he a little tired of me? What a pity! And supposing you get a little tired of me? Bang, bang, go the battledores. That is nice for them, but there is the shuttlecock.”

  “You darling! But so queer, so morbid! Where do you get such ideas from? Indeed, he is not tired of you: he had to listen to me a long time before he was convinced.”

  Celia put her head a little on one side, smiling inscrutably.

  “I wonder what convinced him,” she said. “Anyhow, if Daddy does not want me, I shall like to go with you. But, after all, it is just as puzzling to know why you want me as why Daddy doesn’t.”

  “My dear, your good, a larger life, all the things: these are his reasons. You are rather cynical.”

  “No: I am only rather curious. I can’t help wondering if you tipped him. I don’t say that: I only wonder it.”

  Already Florence had felt a little ashamed of having taken advantage of her husband’s essential heartlessness. She had guessed well enough, from her previous knowledge of him, that he had no such quality of affection for Celia as rendered her irreplaceable in his life. His egoism, his profound vanity were more potent factors in his emotional apparatus, and he had gladly accepted an offer that conduced to their gratification, administered under the honourable lure of Celia’s good. Now it was shame for him rather than for her own part in the transaction that made her so much dislike the thought that Celia guessed (or at best wondered) in what guise her own good had been presented to her father. But before she could decide whether she was capable of so firm a denial of Celia’s suspicions as to convince the girl that they were ill-founded, Celia put an end to her embarrassment. Those fine eyebrows arched themselves a little more, and the comers of her mouth rose in sympathy. “You mustn’t think I mind that,” she said in that soft, husky voice that so emphatically contradicted the whimsical, amused face. “I am never hurt at what people do. They do what they like best: it is their own affair. I do the same. If I did not like the idea of coming to live with you, I should not go, for I suppose Daddy would not turn me out, however good it was for me. As it is, I know all about Merriby, and the ridiculous people here. You saw for yourself last night how ridiculous they are.
I shall like some new people and a new milieu. I particularly hope that you and I will like each other: that is very important.”

  Florence looked at her with interest beaming from every line of her plain, intelligent face.

  “But, my dear, you are too wonderful,” she said. “I believe you are quite heartless. So rare! Most girls have rows of hearts, to be given away with the greatest profusion. Not room for them on their sleeves, for sleeves are so short this year. But that is the new fashion that everybody should be devoted to everybody else! So comfortable with a little backbiting by way of salt. Darling, I always wanted a daughter, and to think that it only occurred to me last week that I had got one. Such a good plan. I have an excellent temper. A bath-room to yourself, of course, next your bedroom and a sitting-room. Great welcome. But you must get some enthusiasms. The days pass so pleasantly in enthusiasm. Poetry! A lot of them write poetry, and read it to each other, and say, ‘How wonderful!’ all hand in hand, and the rest go to the war. And marriage too! It will be delicious showing you life, and seeing you open. I never gave a tip to better purpose. Dear me, now I have let it all out! That’s what comes of talking!”

  Though Celia in this connection had said that she was never hurt, she found as she walked back to “Chez-moi” that she was not quite certain of that. From her knowledge of her father, she could reconstruct sufficiently clearly to satisfy her own sense of probability the way in which the bargain had been struck. She knew quite well that her father liked her companionship: he grumbled if she went out to dinner, leaving him to a solitary evening. On the whole he would sooner have her with him than not. She had never rated his affection for her as an ardent quality, but, such as it was, she had imagined that it was of some fibre more spiritually potent than the stuff that tips are made of. It was perhaps more a blow to her own self-esteem than to her esteem of him to find that this was not so. He did not want her: at least he was willing to take in exchange some money equivalent. Celia made up her mind that, when she knew her mother better, she would ask her at what figure she had been rated: her self-esteem would be comforted if it was a high one. She wished now she had not promised to make no allusion to this matter when she and her father had their talk. If you had been put up to auction, it was naturally interesting to know at what figure the hammer fell.