The Dangerous Years (6 page)

“I'll walk round the Gardens, then,” she said, without considering further. “I remember the pond behind the Palace and the picture gallery. Could I go into the gallery, if I find the Gardens too cold in spite of the sunshine?”

He did not know if the gallery was open. She decided he was not interested in the arts. He escorted her to the gate, then returned over the road. Before he disappeared into a doorway some yards along, he stopped, turned and
raised his hat, waving it gallantly, and smiling. The impression of this boyish gesture remained with Mary as she walked into the Gardens, and wandered round by the palissade of pear trees, past one statue after another, most of them commemorating French poets.

The Gardens were neither lonely nor desolate that December morning, for the sunshine glittered on the bare twigs of the regimented trees, and the paths were noisy with children and dogs. Mary noticed also more than one pair of lovers, publicly enjoying their preliminary ecstasies, or the gentle aftermath of passion, intimate together in spite of overcoats and scarves. The shouts of the children, the silence of the lovers, made Mary aware of her solitude, though she had borne it for fifteen years bravely enough, capitalising it, indeed, to enrich her own character. Joan had gone off on her own business, this first morning of their escape to Paris, and the shared confidence of mother and daughter at a time of distress had proved to be very small; hardly more than an outburst of anger from the young woman. But what she had told her mother was disturbing enough; and the following obstinacy of silence even more disturbing. Could it really be true that the marriage, after four years, was in fact no marriage? Why then had Joan not said something earlier? And could this be true of John, who was so affectionate, and so dutiful? Mary would not have believed that a son-in-law could be more acceptable than this good man; so sane, so healthy, so considerate. Nor had Joan possessed the appearance or manner of a suffering and cheated woman. Oh, how furtive, how secretive people can be, said Mary to herself, hurrying past the transports of an almost middleaged couple sitting on a bench, under the outstretched overcoat of the man.

This reflection brought her thoughts back to Colonel Batten, and his obvious discomfiture over some business connected with the lawyers who had rung up from
England last night, and those whom he was now visiting, so unwillingly. She was convinced that he merited sympathy. The whole man proclaimed this need.

She was still thinking about him, and trying to push back the distress of Joan's affairs, when he appeared, approaching her from the gate where she had come into the Gardens, towards which she was walking after a round of the crowded paths.

“Why, how quick you have been,” she said, stopping in front of him, so that he pulled himself up with a jerk, not having seen her. “I hope nothing …” she began, alarmed by his almost shamefaced expression. He did not reply.

“I think we need some strong coffee,” he said, at length, having stopped and battled with his own lugubriousness. They resumed their walk, leaving the Gardens by the museum and following the Rue Bonaparte to St. Germain des Prés. By this time the sunshine was warm enough for them to sit outside the café of Les Deux Magots, near a coke brazier, facing the ancient church. There they stayed, sipping coffee until the sun moved round the corner of the café. The half-hour was pleasant, though Mary was burdened with her worry about Joan, and the colonel obviously had something that weighed heavily on his mind. Both were on the point of confiding in each other; both were reluctant to indulge in such self-betrayal. This mutuality of mood brought them together. From time to time they smiled, Mary vaguely, the colonel more emphatically, as though calling upon military reserves.

In spite of the personal distress, and the uncertainties that disturbed her, Mary was happier than she had been for a long time; longer than she cared to remember. The past indeed did not occupy her thoughts while she sat beside this man whom she so eagerly wanted to help.

“I'm a very practical person,” she said, suddenly, “I wish I could do something …”

She was frightened immediately after allowing these
irresponsible words to escape her lips. She expected the colonel to get up, excuse himself, and walk indignantly away. But he did not. He leaned forward, looked closely into her eyes, and spoke gruffly, overcome, or almost overcome, by emotion.

“I'm sure you are, Mrs. Winterbourne. It's mutual, I think. I believe you are in deep water. Am I right? Yes, I know I am. That is what we have in common. It has brought us together, maybe. Though perhaps there is something deeper. I hope so. May I say that, Mrs. Winterbourne? We're not young folk. There is not much time left for either of us. But what am I saying? It's not like me to …”

He stopped, he was out of his depth. He looked round wildly for the waiter, and waved his hand. Then he took up his empty coffee-cup and examined it. The waiter appeared, and he paid him.

“I think it must be getting late. Are you going back to your hotel? Our hotel?” He stumbled over that, and looked even more uncomfortable. “I mean …”

“No, Colonel Batten,” said Mary gently, “I am calling for Joan at your brother's flat. She is to meet me there before lunch. Perhaps we should go, or she will be wondering what has become of me.”

Though Joan knew the streets of Paris well, she found that her mind was obstinate toward their usual attraction. She was so gloomy that she had only to shut her eyes to be convinced that she was walking in the grey labyrinth of an inner suburb of London. Loneliness and misery, a kind of spiritual and physical degradation, overcame her. She stopped once and looked at herself in a long mirror standing in the window of an antique shop in the Rue de Seine, before reaching her first destination. “What is wrong with me,” she demanded, “that I can't hold him?” Then she reflected that this was not the right question; for she
did
hold him. There had been no shadow of infidelity. On the contrary, he took all that for granted, far too much for granted. He no more contemplated his relationship with her than a happy schoolboy stops to consider where he stands with his mother. There was almost something geological about it. Mountains do not move; at least, if they do, then the whole of humanity is in peril.

Mountains! Why did that monstrous image always recur when one was thinking about John? Maybe that was the trouble. If so, what had she to worry about? Did not most eager love affairs, after settling into marriage, end that way? No doubt; but then surely the husbands at least took what they wanted, before returning to their masculine obsessions?

Had the war upset him, that he was different? But millions of other men had been through that, and they were certainly normal enough. So the fault must be in herself. She took another look at the figure reflected from the back of the shop window, among the pieces of Buhl, the Normandy dressers, the old clocks and statuettes.

She saw a tall young woman, with an attractive if untidy head of fair hair, under a neat, if old toque with a feather which her mother had stuck in it to break the severity. Her long coat did not look too shabby, she thought; nor did it spoil her shape; a shape that had attracted several other men beside John; long legs, a fine neck, a good bust … but she turned away in disgust. Good God, she thought, isn't even sexual love something more than that? Is it shame that makes him turn away from me; am I too primitive for him? But that is all nonsense. I have never besieged him. Heaven knows I have been patient enough; waiting, always waiting for something that doesn't happen.

The problem was stale by now. It had filled her mind for four years, at first only a minor uncertainty, because she had come to marriage with no doubts about herself and her capability to make John happy. Now she was weary of it, and the burden into which it had grown. She no longer blamed herself, as she had done in the beginning, for being too ardent, for having urged John, maybe, into a marriage for which he was not particularly eager. That had been her mistake, for so innocently thinking that marriage must necessarily be impetuous. Romantic ignorance. Nature seen through the eyes of a schoolgirl. She had asked too much, and had been rebuffed. Now she knew better. In a way it almost added to her admiration for men. They, apparently, were not upset by their instincts; if it was so sordid as that, this power which the romantics, and the religionists, called love. In future, she would take men at this cooler valuation,; the value which her own husband had put upon the emotions.

Nevertheless, she took another backward glance at her reflection as she walked away from the mirror. She saw a small bust of Alexandre Dumas standing in front of it. Here was another kind of man; the bull neck, the rolling eye, the great ripe mouth. What did they signify? She shivered, overcome by dread—and something else that made her hurry on angrily, blinded by determination.

By the time she reached the bottom of the picturesque Rue de Seine, the mood was conquered, and she entered the Institut de France quite calmly, to enquire at the bureau for the distinguished novelist and doctor who was resident there. A woman somewhat older than herself entertained her most courteously, and informed her that M. Duhamel was out of Paris, at his country house, but that any letters to him would be forwarded, and that she was certain he would be willing to give any information possible. She offered Joan paper and envelope, to write so that the letter could be forwarded without delay.

Joan consulted her brief-case, and wrote a note with a list of questions. This took her only a quarter of an hour. The lady promised to send the enquiry that day, and then kept Joan chatting, about the comings and goings of the academic world, between the French and English universities. She invited her into the little private office behind, and gave her coffee. They shook hands on parting, and Joan left the Institut with more evidence of the reciprocity of women to each other, and how pleasant it was to be able to carry on one's life without the interruption of the male element.

She did not hurry. It was a pleasure not to be chased by one's own temperament. The Rue de Seine had much to show her, with its little print shops, its displays of old furniture and
objets d'art
. She crossed and recrossed from one side to the other as she made her way leisurely towards the Luxembourg Gardens. Reaching them, she decided that it was more distracting to keep to the main
road, rather than to go straight through the Gardens. So she went via the Boulevard St. Michel, feeling very much at home with the troops of students who were wandering up and down the Boulevard, between the colleges, and round the Sorbonne.

It was just before noon when she reached the flat in the Rue Boissonade. The elderly maid answered to her ring, and welcomed her smilingly, taking her coat, and inviting her to go into the sitting-room. Joan stopped at the door, however, hearing piano music. She did not recognise it, except that it was period stuff, gay and delicious. Surely, she thought, Mrs. Batten is a more expert performer than I thought she was last night. But perhaps it is the music; so light, so sparkling. She could not imagine that rather heavy woman, so placid and imperturbable, giving way with such gaiety as this, and with so dexterous a touch.

She waited at the door, her head bowed as though the better to listen through the panels. Her head; but not her heart, for this was delicious, compelling. She wanted to thank the performer; it was a gift, a reassurance. And then the music stopped. Now was the moment to offer that thanks.

She paused for a few moments, then knocked and entered, the words, “Dear Mrs. Batten” on her lips.

Mrs. Batten was not in the room. Joan saw a small child, a boy, bent over the end of the bed that protruded from behind the huge screen. He was turning swiftly, impatiently, the pages of a volume of music. A toy engine stood beside the reading desk of the piano, and the string attached to it dangled over the keys.

Joan hesitated, bewildered. The boy looked up, saw her, jerked his head nervously, and came forward.

“Good-morning,” he said, in English. “Are you one of the visitors from London who came last night?”

“I am,” said Joan, shaking his tiny hand, which was as hard and bony as a bird's claw. “I and my
mother. We have just arrived in Paris. I saw your sister, I think.”

“Yes, she always likes to meet people. Then she tells me what they are like.”

“Oh, I hope she approved of us?”

“Approved? What does that mean?” He frowned, puzzled and a little suspicious.

“I mean, I hope that she gave a good report of us. I know that she would like my mother. Everybody likes her.”

“Doesn't everybody like you, then?”

Joan was nonplussed. She could not answer. The little boy stood before her, gravely studying her from head to foot. He was an ordinary urchin, not too tidy. One hand was smeared with paint, a dab of blue. He saw Joan look at this.

“I've been painting my engine,” he said, and broke the spell by running to the piano and taking up the toy, to show it to her.

She jerked herself out of the discomfort his question had brought.

“You did that while your mother was playing to you?”

He looked puzzled.

“Mother wasn't playing. She has gone to Mass, I think. She often goes just before lunch.” He frowned, and continued. “Oh! You mean
that?
I was playing. It is a sonata by Scarlatti. I like him more than Mozart or Haydn. His music makes me laugh more. Oh, it's marvellous. Just listen to that last movement again!”

He ran back to the piano, perched himself on the stool, with the locomotive on the seat beside him, paused with his grubby hands over the keys, while he recollected the notes, then touched the keys. His feet could not reach the sustaining pedal, so the music was crisp, remote, tiny. But it was the voice of fairyland; seeming, at least to Joan's very uneducated ear, unerring in its precision. The
adapted harpsichord music of Domenico Scarlatti, foreshadowing sonata form, moulded itself exactly to the mind and fingers of the child, from whom it now poured almost embarrassingly, like water from the penis of a stone cherub on an Italian fountain. Joan found herself blushing. She could hardly bear to look at the boy as he sat, staring at his hands and becoming gradually more and more immersed in the excitement, the fever, of his own talent. The toy, which had been hastily set down on the edge of the stool, crashed to the floor. A spasm of dismay crossed his face, but on he went, returning to his own rapture. Joan crept forward and picked up the engine, standing with it in her hand, stationing herself beside the prodigy, and watching the back of his head and neck as he sat almost immobile, only his arms and hands at work. But how expressive that nape, that mop of hair, those sturdy little shoulders! She found it much less disturbing to watch him from this angle. The full face, that of an infant, but an infant transformed by a spirit which she felt had no right to be lodged there, had frightened her. The incongruity was beyond her understanding.