Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (597 page)

And my brother was asking him if he had looked up the boat-trains!.... I suppose it was comic.

For the Professor was bewildered that my brother imagined him capable of having omitted long ago to settle how he would get out of the country. He had had all that settled and pigeonholed for a fortnight or so, so that he might devote an undisturbed mind to his Elizabethan manuscripts and to the expression of his emotions. He thought that every reasonable man got his time-table settled for fortnights in advance: and then expressed his emotions. He said:

“But I have my car. I ordered it twelve days ago. I drive to Harwich and take it on board. That, too, is arranged. It was the first thing I thought of when there seemed danger of war. The train will be filled with soldiers. I have seen mobilisations: I have been in them — as a recruit.”

My brother never had. He exclaimed:

“Then what are we talking about?”

The Professor hesitated. His mind was still, I suppose, seeking automatically for words in which to express his emotions. Suddenly he said:

“I want to ask Mr. Jessop: Do I take George Heimann back with me — to fetch his father?” He added, as if modestly: “You do not of course know who his father is. He is a great English Lord. Disgraced in some political intrigue.”

My brother and I exclaimed together:

“You
know
that?”

He said that some Prussian Prince on a visit to him had seen the children and recognised them. The Prince had been very intimate with the uncle — when they were both in exile in France. The Prince had been a very violent young man, but was now “reconciled.” He was of opinion that the uncle was their father. An English Lord: “Avec un Spleen!”

I exclaimed:

“But what reason can he have...

“
For concealing his name from the children?” the Professor asked. “ Ah! that is the Spleen, the Prince says. He does not wish them to know
de son vivant
that he is a disgraced man. He could not so well look in the children’s eyes. That is perhaps selfishness. But then again, he wishes his son to carve out a name for himself; then the memory of his father’s disgrace — it was about money — a very small sum of money. The memory of his father’s disgrace might stay his carving out a career.... Or
à la fin
the children may be illegitimate, and he may not wish them to know that!” The Professor went on:

“That Mr. Heimann... the boy has a letter from him about which he wishes to consult his Mr. Jessop.”

I said:

“George? Does he know about his — his probable parentage?”

The Professor answered:

“I think not. Or perhaps he does.
C’est un jeune homme bien silencieux.
His sister torments him too much.”

My brother said:

“You do not know what she has to put up with!”

“She is not reasonable!” the Professor answered. “For myself I hold that the young should respect the wills of their parents.”

His time-table was apparently made out to the minutest detail. And he was a good fellow. For he seemed to have bought that car just to make it easy for George to get his uncle-father away. He and George were to leave Harwich at eight that night. By one the next day they should be in Zell if the car ran up to the warranty of its makers — which it appeared to do. By nine the same night the boy might be back at the Dutch frontier with his uncle-father. As for the automobile: they might leave it in any ditch.

“It is a small price to pay that boy,” the Professor finished, earnestly, “ for that matchless translation of my poem — All this depends on what Mr. Jessop advises!”

There was something princely about that fellow. Of course I agreed to his plan.

My brother, starting off like an impatient horse in a cart at any prospect of action, got the Professor out of the room with an intimate hand under the German’s elbow... to “look at the chickens” whilst I talked to George Heimann. But they would remain within call. They went out, the Professor saying, in his immense voice:

“So much kindness of heart! And is it to be imagined that the devils who rule us....”

I never saw him again. Two very tall men, they were; well over six feet high. They’re both dead, of course.

George Heimann was dreadfully pale. He was of a pale complexion; but now his face was all white triangles. He burst out:

“Clarice told me over the telephone this morning that I shall have to prove that I am not a German spy.” I said, irritably (my nerves were already quivering):

“Nonsense! You are melodramatic! I don’t believe she begins to believe that you are a German spy.”

He said:

“No, no! Not to prove it to her. She says that people that attended the performance at that Night Club when we gave all those German songs — they say I shall have to prove it.”

I groaned. It was to serve me that he had gone to that Night Club. I said: “I daresay you will have to prove it. It will not be difficult for you.”

He answered:

“To prove it to people like that will be dreadfully difficult. Clarice wants me to make a dash to Germany.” I said:

“It appears to be your duty to fetch your uncle. He is said to be in indifferent health.”

He said:

“
You
agree!”

He drew out a great white handkerchief and dragged it painfully across his wet forehead; he panted two or three times, in deep breaths.

“I’m not bearing it very well,” he said. “It’s the alternations. And the talk. The Jeaffresons have been on the ‘phone. For hours.” He looked at me with the lamentable eyes of an animal that doubts your intentions. He said: “You don’t, for instance, suspect me of being a spy?

I said:

“I! who am responsible for your having no papers! He said:

“That’s handsome. That’s very generous!” He began again: “ It’s all difficult. I want to go. Clarice wants me to go...

I said: ‘‘ Then in God’s name, go. It is your plain duty! “ He had in his hands several grey-blue sheets of notepaper, at which he looked down. I said:

“You want me to see that? What is it?”

“A letter from my father. My father is Earl Marsden, an English peer, formerly a member of the British Cabinet.” I said:

“Does he tell you that in his letter?”

He answered:

“No. His letter is about what to do if there is war. On no account — on no account in the world to go to him.

I have known who he was for two years: from the books he lent me. I should have been blind if I had not known.” I could not read that letter: not consecutively. My mind would not stick to the longer sentences. But I still see the blue-grey sheets of note-paper, covered very loosely with a sprawling, masculine hand, the writing all one thickness of pen-marking. Looking at those large words was like hearing a hurried, harsh voice. It ran something like:

“You must speak violently against this infamy. I am not well. Neuritis. But I would rather you stayed in England: even if you have to harangue mobs at street corners. This population is mad. But with Fear.... Outside the Elisabethenkirche the ground seemed to be covered with snow. The slips of the extra-editions with the murder of the Archduke. I had only been in the church ten minutes. There had not been a soul in the Marktplatz. They imagine that they will all be murdered by hordes of Serbians whom they are taught to regard as yellow. Mongols!.... You must go to Grey from me...

The boy was in a desperate hurry that I should get the letter read. I could not read it. It was the letter of a madman — of a man mad with pain, perhaps. I remember jottings:

“I have ordered my agents, Messrs—” — the name was unknown to me. I think they were Scottish bankers—”to pay weekly: —

To your account - - £15 To Marie Elizabeth’s - £10

Miss J. - - - - - £20 (to be carefully accounted for against your household expenses, her salary, etc. Lady A. P. G. tells me you have been shabby. Forgive!
The above has been done. Also
: You may draw on your own cheque up to pounds two hundred for legal expenses in defeating that fellow Podd. Not for other purposes. If you need money for
political
purposes warn me: but get estimates from Sir Arthur. I will take his word.”

And then, heavily underlined, were the words:

“My darling! If this horrible war materialises you must apply for a commission in the Irish Guards. Your family have always been in the Irish Guards. I was for some years. It is your right. But I pray that it may never....”

And directly after that were great sprawing letters in which the pen-lines were interrupted. They gave more idea of pain fought against than anything I have ever seen:

“If I can get through this night I will.... God bless...

Those eleven words, written almost diagonally, occupied the whole of the last sheet, except that at the bottom, in regular, very small letters, written possibly at another time, were the directions:

“You must write to:

In case of my death, but no War:

Rechtsanwalt Dr. Polk, Zell, Hanover.

If War, and you cannot communicate with me:

M. le Notaire Guy Flamenc, Ys-près-Armentières, France.”

I said:

“I cannot read all this. I agree that it is the letter of a father to his son. What are these addresses?”

The boy said:

“No. I know you are ill. They are the addresses of lawyers where my father says his papers are. In case of the war.”

It seems that Mr. Heimann — I was unable to think of him by any other name — had written what he called a statement and placed it in the hands of a German solicitor. I had missed that passage in the letter. I commented:

“Your father seems determined that you should not know your birth-status unless he is dead first. Why?”

The boy said:

“He had in early life a — a reverse. He is no doubt over-sensitive about it. He has a violent, brooding nature. He thinks it would be too painful to me — to have to talk about it. And it would. I could not bear to go dwelling on the thought that we — Heimanns, Marsdens, what does it matter? — had ever.... Oh, been in the papers! Besides, he does not wish my political career to be deranged. Quite practically. By the memory of his disgrace! It might possibly stop people voting for me. Besides, it would be, he thinks, a great mental drag on me.”

I said:

“Do you think that is common sense? I admit it might prejudice your chances in an election. But yourself: would you be troubled?”

He answered:

“I believe so. My father knows me. He is a wise, far-seeing man. He knows that if I should stand up upon a platform with the consciousness that the people below knew that I was.... oh, the son of an unfortunate man — well, I could not speak!”

He added:

“By Jove! how right he is. It embarrasses me: it goes on embarrassing me to speak to
you.
Now you know. How do I know what sort of a lame dog you are not thinking me?”

I said:

“Have you even the ghost of a document?”

He answered: he was looking at me with the immense slightly owl-like eyes of youth: