Edith Wharton - SSC 09 (10 page)

 
          
Yes;
I had to recognise that Mrs. Brown’s grief was as genuine as her
rival’s, that
she suffered more bleakly and bitterly. Every
turn of the strange story had been improbable and incalculable, and this new
freak of fate was the most unexpected. But since it brought a softening to my
poor friend’s affliction, and offered a new pretext for her self-devotion, I
could only hold my tongue and be thankful that the Browns were at last serving
some humaner purpose.

 
          
The
next time I returned to
Paris
the strange trio were still together, and still living in Mrs. Glenn’s
apartment. Its walls were now hung with Stephen’s paintings and sketches—among
them many unfinished attempts at a portrait of Mrs. Glenn—and the one mother
seemed as eager as the other to tell me that a well-known collector of modern
art had been so struck by their quality that there was already some talk of a
posthumous exhibition. Mrs. Brown triumphed peculiarly in the affair. It was
she who had brought the collector to see the pictures, she who had always known
that Stephen had genius; it was with the Browns’ meagre pennies that he had
been able to carry on his studies at Julian’s, long before Mrs. Glenn had
appeared. “Catherine doesn’t pretend to know much about art. Do you, my dear?
But, as I tell her, when you’re a picture yourself you don’t have to bother
about other people’s pictures. There—your hat’s crooked again! Just let me
straighten it, darling—” I saw Mrs. Glenn wince a little, as she had winced the
day at Les Calanques when Mrs. Brown, with an arch side-glance at me, had given
a more artful twist to her friend’s white hair.

 
          
It
was evident that time, in drying up the source which had nourished the two
women’s sympathy, had revived their fundamental antagonism. It was equally
clear, however, that Mrs. Brown was making every effort to keep on good terms
with Mrs. Glenn. That substantial benefits thereby accrued to her I had no
doubt; but at least she kept up in Catherine’s mind the illusion of the tie
between them.

 
          
Mrs.
Brown had certainly sorrowed for Stephen as profoundly as a woman of her kind
could sorrow; more profoundly, indeed, than I had thought possible. Even now,
when she spoke of him, her metallic voice broke, her metallic mask softened. On
the rare occasions when I found myself alone with her (and I had an idea she
saw to it that they were rare), she spoke so tenderly of Stephen, so
affectionately of Mrs. Glenn, that I could only suppose she knew nothing of my
last talk with the poor fellow. If she had, she would almost certainly have
tried to ensure my silence; unless, as I sometimes imagined, a supreme art led
her to feign unawareness. But, as always when I speculated on Mrs. Brown, I
ended up against a blank wall.

 
          
The
exhibition of Stephen’s pictures took place, and caused (I learned from Mrs.
Glenn) a little flutter in the inner circle of connoisseurs. Mrs. Glenn deluged
me with newspaper rhapsodies which she doubtless never imagined had been
bought. But presently, as a result of the show, a new difference arose between
the two women. The pictures had been sufficiently remarked for several
purchasers to present themselves, and their offers were so handsome that Mrs.
Brown thought they should be accepted. After all, Stephen would have regarded
the sale of the pictures as the best proof of his success; if they remained
hidden away at Mrs. Glenn’s
,
she, who had the custody
of his name, was obviously dooming it to obscurity. Nevertheless she persisted
in refusing. If selling her darling’s pictures was the price of glory, then she
must cherish his genius in secret. Could any one imagine that she would ever
part with a single stroke of his brush? She was his mother; no one else had a
voice in the matter. I divined that the struggle between herself and Mrs. Brown
had been not only sharp but prolonged, and marked by a painful interchange of
taunts. “If it hadn’t been for me,” Mrs. Brown argued, “the pictures would
never have existed”; and “If it hadn’t been for me,” the other retorted, “my
Stephen would never have existed.” It ended—as I had foreseen—in the adoptive
parents accepting from Mrs. Glenn a sum equivalent to the value at which they
estimated the pictures. The quarrel quieted down, and a few months later Mrs.
Glenn was remorsefully accusing herself of having been too hard on Chrissy.

 
          
So
the months passed. With their passage news came to me more rarely; but I
gathered from Mrs. Glenn’s infrequent letters that she had been ill, and from
her almost illegible writing that her poor hands were stiffening with
rheumatism. Finally, a year later, a letter announced that the doctors had
warned her against spending her winters in the damp climate of
Paris
, and that the apartment had been disposed
of, and its contents (including, of course, Stephen’s pictures) transported to
a villa at Nice. The Browns had found the villa and managed the
translation—with their usual kindness. After that there was a long silence.

 
          
It
was not until over two years later that I returned to
Europe
; and as my short holiday was taken in
winter, and I meant to spend it in
Italy
, I took steamer directly to Villefranche. I
had not announced my visit to Mrs. Glenn. I was not sure till the last moment
of being able to get off; but that was not the chief cause of my silence.
Though relations between the incongruous
trio
seemed
to have become harmonious, it was not without apprehension that I had seen Mrs.
Glenn leave
New York
with the Browns. She was old, she was tired and stricken; how long
would it be before she became a burden to her beneficiaries? This was what I
wanted to find out without giving them time to prepare themselves or their
companion for my visit. Mrs. Glenn had written that she wished very
particularly to see me, and had begged me to let her know if there were a
chance of my coming abroad; but though this increased my anxiety it
strengthened my resolve to arrive unannounced, and I merely replied that she
could count on seeing me as soon as I was able to get away.

 
          
Though
some months had since gone by I was fairly sure of finding her still at Nice,
for in the newspapers I had bought on landing I had lit on several allusions to
Mr. and Mrs. Boydon Brown. Apparently the couple had an active press-agent, for
an attentive world was daily supplied with a minute description of Mrs. “Boy”
Brown’s casino toilets, the value of the golf or pigeon-shooting cups offered
by Mr. “Boy” Brown to various fashionable sporting clubs, and the names of the
titled guests whom they entertained at the local “Lidos” and “Jardins Fleuris.”
I wondered how much the chronicling of these events was costing Mrs. Glenn, but
reminded myself that it was part of the price she had to pay for the hours of
communion over Stephen’s little socks. At any rate it proved that my old friend
was still in the neighbourhood; and the next day I set out to find her.

 
          
I
waited till the afternoon, on the chance of her being alone at the hour when
mundane affairs were most likely to engage the Browns; but when my taxi-driver
had brought me to the address I had given him I found a locked garden-gate and
a shuttered house. The sudden fear of some new calamity seized me. My first
thought was that Mrs. Glenn must have died; yet if her death had occurred
before my sailing I could hardly have failed to hear of it, and if it was more
recent I must have seen it announced in the papers I had read since landing.
Besides, if the Browns had so lately lost their benefactress they would hardly
have played such a part in the social chronicles I had been studying. There was
no particular reason why a change of address should portend tragedy; and when
at length a reluctant portress appeared in answer to my ringing she said, yes,
if it was the Americans I was after, I was right: they had moved away a week
ago. Moved—and where to? She shrugged and declared she didn’t know; but
probably not far, she thought, with the old white-haired lady so ill and
helpless.

 
          
“
Ill
and helpless—then why did they move?”

 
          
She
shrugged again. “When people don’t pay their rent, they have to move, don’t
they? When they don’t even settle with the butcher and baker before they go, or
with the laundress who was fool enough to do their washing—and it’s I who speak
to you, Monsieur!”

 
          
This
was worse than I had imagined. I produced a banknote, and in return the
victimized
concierges
admitted that
she had secured the fugitives’ new address—though they were naturally not
anxious to have it known. As I had surmised, they had taken refuge within the
kindly bounds of the principality of
Monaco
; and the taxi carried me to a small shabby
hotel in one of the steep streets above the Casino. I could imagine nothing
less in harmony with Catherine Glenn or her condition than to be ill and
unhappy in such a place. My only consolation was that now perhaps there might
be an end to the disastrous adventure. “After all,” I thought, as I looked up
at the cheerless front of the hotel, “if the catastrophe has come the Browns
can’t have any reason for hanging on to her.”

 
          
A
red-faced lady with a false front and false teeth emerged from the back-office
to receive me.

 
          
Madame Glenn—Madame Brown?
Oh, yes; they were staying at the
hotel—they were both upstairs now, she believed. Perhaps Monsieur was the
gentleman that Madame Brown was expecting? She had left word that if he came he
was to go up without being announced.

 
          
I
was inspired to say that I was that gentleman; at which the landlady rejoined
that she was sorry the lift was out of order, but that I would find the ladies
at number 5 on the third floor. Before she had finished I was half way up.

 
          
A
few steps down an unventilated corridor brought me to number 5; but I did not
have to knock, for the door was ajar—perhaps in expectation of the other
gentleman. I pushed it open, and entered a small plushy sitting-room, with
faded mimosa in ornate vases, newspapers and cigarette-ends scattered on the
dirty carpet, and a bronzed-over plaster Bayadere posturing before the
mantelpiece mirror. If my first glance took such sharp note of these details it
is because they seemed almost as much out of keeping with Catherine Glenn as
the table laden with gin and bitters, empty cock-tail glasses and disks of
sodden lemon.

 
          
It
was not the first time it had occurred to me that I was partly responsible for Mrs.
Glenn’s unhappy situation. The growing sense of that responsibility had been
one of my reasons for trying to keep an eye on her, for wanting her to feel
that in case of need she could count on me. But on the whole my conscience had
not been oppressed. The impulse which had made me exact from Stephen the
promise never to undeceive her had necessarily governed my own conduct. I had
only to recall Catherine Glenn as I had first known her to feel sure that,
after all, her life had been richer and deeper than if she had spent it,
childless and purposeless, in the solemn upholstery of her
New York
house. I had had nothing to do with her
starting on her strange quest; but I was certain that in what had followed she
had so far found more happiness than sorrow.

 
          
But now?
As I stood in that wretched tawdry room I wondered
if I had not laid too heavy a burden on my conscience in keeping the truth from
her. Suddenly I said to myself: “The time has come—whatever happens I must get
her away from these people.” But then I remembered how Stephen’s death had
drawn the two ill-assorted women together, and wondered if to destroy that tie
would not now be the crowning cruelty.

 
          
I
was still uneasily deliberating when I heard a voice behind the door opposite
the one by which I had entered. The room beyond must have been darkened, for I
had not noticed before that this door was also partly open. “Well, have you had
your nap?” a woman’s voice said irritably. “Is there anything you want before I
go out? I told you that the man who’s going to arrange for the loan is coming
for me. He’ll be here in a minute.” The voice was Mrs. Brown’s, but so
sharpened and altered that at first I had not known it. “This is how she speaks
when she thinks there’s no one listening,” I thought.

 
          
I
caught an indistinct murmur in reply; then the rattle of drawn-back
curtain-rings; then Mrs. Brown continuing: “Well, you may as well sign the
letter now. Here it is—-you’ve only got to write your name … Your glasses? I
don’t know where your glasses are—you’re always dropping your things about. I’m
sorry I can’t keep a maid to wait on you—but there’s nothing in this letter you
need be afraid of. I’ve told you before that it’s only a formality. Boy’s told
you so too, hasn’t he? I don’t suppose you mean to suggest that we’re trying to
do you out of your money, do you? We’ve got to have enough to keep going. Here,
let me hold your hand while you sign. My hand’s shaky too … it’s all this
beastly worry … Don’t you imagine you’re the only person who’s had a bad time
of it … Why, what’s the matter? Why are you pushing me away—?”