The Captain's Dol Read online

frail flowered silk. Imagine it, that little lady! Perhaps in a

  chic little boudoir cap of punto di Milano, and this slip of frail

  flowered silk: and the man, perhaps, in his braces! Oh, merciful

  heaven, save us from other people's indiscretions. No, let us be

  sure it was in proper evening dress--twenty years ago--very low

  cut, with a full skirt gathered behind and trailing a little, and a

  little leather erection in her high-dressed hair, and all those

  jewels: pearls of course: and he in a dinner-jacket and a white

  waistcoat: probably in an hotel bedroom in Lugano or Biarritz. And

  she? Was she standing with one small hand on his shoulder?--or was

  she seated on the couch in the bedroom? Oh, dreadful thought! And

  yet it was almost inevitable, that scene. Hannele had never been

  married, but she had come quite near enough to the realization of

  the event to know that such a scene WAS practically inevitable. An

  indispensable part of any honeymoon. Him on his knees, with his

  heels up!

  And how black and tidy his hair must have been then! and no grey at

  the temples at all. Such a good-looking bridegroom. Perhaps with

  a white rose in his button-hole still. And she could see him

  kneeling there, in his new black trousers and a wing collar. And

  she could see his head bowed. And she could hear his plangent,

  musical voice saying: 'With God's help, I will make your life

  happy. I will live for that and for nothing else.' And then the

  little lady must have had tears in her eyes, and she must have

  said, rather superbly: 'Thank you, dear, I'm perfectly sure of

  it.'

  Ach! Ach! Husbands should be left to their own wives: and wives

  should be left to their own husbands. And NO stranger should ever

  be made a party to these terrible bits of connubial staging. Nay,

  thought Hannele, that scene was really true. It actually took

  place. And with the man of that scene I have been in love! With

  the devoted husband of that little lady. Oh God, oh God, how was

  it possible! Him on his knees, on his knees, with his heels up!

  Am I a perfect fool? she thought to herself. Am I really just an

  idiot, gaping with love for him? How COULD I? How could I? The

  very way he says: 'Yes, dear!' to her! The way he does what she

  tells him! The way he fidgets about the room with his hands in his

  pockets! The way he goes off when she sends him away because she

  wants to talk to me. And he knows she wants to talk to me. And he

  knows what she MIGHT have to say to me. Yet he goes off on his

  errand without a question, like a servant. 'I will do whatever you

  wish, darling.' He must have said those words time after time to

  the little lady. And fulfilled them, also. Performed all his

  pledges and his promises.

  Ach! Ach! Hannele wrung her hands to think of HERSELF being mixed

  up with him. And he had seemed to her so manly. He seemed to have

  so much silent male passion in him. And yet--the little lady! 'My

  husband has ALWAYS been PERFECTLY SWEET to me.' Think of it! On

  his knees too. And his 'Yes, dear! Certainly. Certainly.' Not

  that he was afraid of the little lady. He was just committed to

  her, as he might have been committed to gaol, or committed to

  paradise.

  Had she been dreaming, to be in love with him? Oh, she wished so

  much she had never been. She WISHED she had never given herself

  away. To him!--given herself away to him!--and so abjectly. Hung

  upon his words and his motions, and looked up to him as if he were

  Caesar. So he had seemed to her: like a mute Caesar. Like

  Germanicus. Like--she did not know what.

  How had it all happened? What had taken her in? Was it just his

  good looks? No, not really. Because they were the kind of staring

  good looks she didn't really care for. He must have had charm. He

  must have charm. Yes, he HAD charm. When it worked.

  His charm had not worked on her now for some time--never since that

  evening after his wife's arrival. Since then he had seemed to her--

  rather awful. Rather awful--stupid--an ass--a limited, rather

  vulgar person. That was what he seemed to her when his charm

  wouldn't work. A limited, rather inferior person. And in a world

  of Schiebers and profiteers and vulgar, pretentious persons, this

  was the worst thing possible. A limited, inferior, slightly

  pretentious individual! The husband of the little lady! And oh

  heaven, she was so deeply implicated with him! He had not,

  however, spoken with her in private since his wife's arrival.

  Probably he would never speak with her in private again. She hoped

  to heaven, never again. The awful thing was the past, that which

  had been between him and her. She shuddered when she thought of

  it. The husband of the little lady!

  But surely there was something to account for it! Charm, just

  charm. He had a charm. And then, oh, heaven, when the charm left

  off working! It had left off so completely at this moment, in

  Hannele's case, that her very mouth tasted salt. What DID it all

  amount to?

  What was his charm, after all? How could it have affected her?

  She began to think of him again, at his best: his presence, when

  they were alone high up in that big, lonely attic near the stars.

  His room!--the big white-washed walls, the first scent of tobacco,

  the silence, the sense of the stars being near, the telescopes, the

  cactus with fine scarlet flowers: and above all, the strange,

  remote, insidious silence of his presence, that was so congenial to

  her also. The curious way he had of turning his head to listen--to

  listen to what?--as if he heard something in the stars. The

  strange look, like destiny, in his wide-open, almost staring black

  eyes. The beautiful lines of his brow, that seemed always to have

  a certain cloud on it. The slow elegance of his straight,

  beautiful legs as he walked, and the exquisiteness of his dark,

  slender chest! Ah, she could feel the charm mounting over her

  again. She could feel the snake biting her heart. She could feel

  the arrows of desire rankling.

  But then--and she turned from her thoughts back to this last little

  tea-party in the Vier Jahreszeiten. She thought of his voice:

  'Yes, dear. Certainly. Certainly I will.' And she thought of the

  stupid, inferior look on his face. And the something of a servant-

  like way in which he went out to do his wife's bidding.

  And then the charm was gone again, as the glow of sunset goes off a

  burning city and leaves it a sordid industrial hole. So much for

  charm!

  So much for charm. She had better have stuck to her own sort of

  men. Martin, for instance, who was a gentleman and a daring

  soldier, and a queer soul and pleasant to talk to. Only he hadn't

  any MAGIC. Magic? The very word made her writhe. Magic?

  Swindle. Swindle, that was all it amounted to. Magic!

  And yet--let us not be too hasty. If the magic had REALLY been

  there, on those evenings in that great lofty attic. Had it? Ye
s.

  Yes, she was bound to admit it. There had been magic. If there

  had been magic in his presence and in his contact, the husband of

  the little lady--But the distaste was in her mouth again.

  So she started afresh, trying to keep a tight hold on the tail of

  that all-too-evanescent magic of his. Dear, it slipped so quickly

  into disillusion. Nevertheless. If it had existed it did exist.

  And if it did exist, it was worth having. You could call it an

  illusion if you liked. But an illusion which is a real experience

  is worth having. Perhaps this disillusion was a greater illusion

  than the illusion itself. Perhaps all this disillusion of the

  little lady and the husband of the little lady was falser than the

  illusion and magic of those few evenings. Perhaps the long

  disillusion of life was falser than the brief moments of real

  illusion. After all--the delicate darkness of his breast, the

  mystery that seemed to come with him as he trod slowly across the

  floor of his room, after changing his tunic--Nay, nay, if she could

  keep the illusion of his charm, she would give all disillusion to

  the devils. Nay, only let her be under the spell of his charm.

  Only let the spell be upon her. It was all she yearned for. And

  the thing she had to fight was the vulgarity of disillusion. The

  vulgarity of the little lady, the vulgarity of the husband of the

  little lady, the vulgarity of his insincerity, his 'Yes, dear.

  Certainly! Certainly!'--this was what she had to fight. He WAS

  vulgar and horrible, then. But also, the queer figure that sat

  alone on the roof watching the stars! The wonderful red flower of

  the cactus. The mystery that advanced with him as he came across

  the room after changing his tunic. The glamour and sadness of him,

  his silence, as he stooped unfastening his boots. And the strange

  gargoyle smile, fixed, when he caressed her with his hand under the

  chin! Life is all a choice. And if she chose the glamour, the

  magic, the charm, the illusion, the spell! Better death than that

  other, the husband of the little lady. When all was said and done,

  was he as much the husband of the little lady as he was that queer,

  delicate-breasted Caesar of her own knowledge? Which was he?

  No, she was NOT going to send her the doll. The little lady should

  never have the doll.

  What a doll she would make herself! Heavens, what a wizened jewel!

  VI

  Captain Hepburn still called occasionally at the house for his

  post. The maid always put his letters in a certain place in the

  hall, so that he should not have to climb the stairs.

  Among his letters--that is to say, along with another letter, for

  his correspondence was very meagre--he one day found an envelope

  with a crest. Inside this envelope two letters.

  Dear Captain Hepburn,

  I had the enclosed letter from Mrs Hepburn. I don't intend her to

  have the doll which is your portrait, so I shall not answer this

  note. Also I don't see why she should try to turn us out of the

  town. She talked to me after tea that day, and it seems she

  believes that Mitchka is your lover. I didn't say anything at all--

  except that it wasn't true. But she needn't be afraid of me. I

  don't want you to trouble yourself. But you may as well KNOW how

  things are.

  JOHANNA Z. R.

  The other letter was on his wife's well-known heavy paper, and in

  her well-known large, 'aristocratic' hand.

  My dear Countess,

  I wonder if there has been some mistake, or some misunderstanding.

  Four days ago you said you would send round that DOLL we spoke of,

  but I have seen no sign of it yet. I thought of calling at the

  studio, but did not wish to disturb the Baroness. I should be very

  much obliged if you could send the doll at once, as I do not feel

  easy while it is out of my possession. You may rely on having a

  cheque by return.

  Our old family friend, Major-General Barlow, called on me

  yesterday, and we had a most interesting conversation on our

  Tommies, and the protection of their morals here. It seems we have

  full power to send away any person or persons deemed undesirable,

  with twenty-four hours' notice to leave. But of course all this is

  done as quietly and with the intention of causing as little scandal

  as possible.

  Please let me have the doll by tomorrow, and perhaps some hint as

  to your future intentions.

  With very best wishes from one who only seeks to be your friend.

  Yours very sincerely,

  EVANGELINE HEPBURN.

  VII

  And then a dreadful thing happened: really a very dreadful thing.

  Hannele read of it in the evening newspaper of the town--the

  Abendblatt. Mitchka came rushing up with the paper at ten o'clock

  at night, just when Hannele was going to bed.

  Mrs Hepburn had fallen out of her bedroom window, from the third

  floor of the hotel, down on to the pavement below, and was killed.

  She was dressing for dinner. And apparently she had in the morning

  washed a certain little camisole, and put it on the window-sill to

  dry. She must have stood on a chair, reaching for it when she fell

  out of the window. Her husband, who was in the dressing-room,

  heard a queer little noise, a sort of choking cry, and came into

  her room to see what it was. And she wasn't there. The window was

  open, and the chair by the window. He looked round, and thought

  she had left the room for a moment, so returned to his shaving. He

  was half-shaved when one of the maids rushed in. When he looked

  out of the window down into the street he fainted, and would have

  fallen too if the maid had not pulled him in in time.

  The very next day the captain came back to his attic. Hannele did

  not know, until quite late at night when he tapped on her door.

  She knew his soft tap immediately.

  'Won't you come over for a chat?' he said.

  She paused for some moments before she answered. And then perhaps

  surprise made her agree: surprise and curiosity.

  'Yes, in a minute,' she said, closing her door in his face.

  She found him sitting quite still, not even smoking, in his quiet

  attic. He did not rise, but just glanced round with a faint smile.

  And she thought his face seemed different, more flexible. But in

  the half-light she could not tell. She sat at some little distance

  from him.

  'I suppose you've heard,' he said.

  'Yes.'

  After a long pause, he resumed:

  'Yes. It seems an impossible thing to have happened. Yet it HAS

  happened.'

  Hannele's ears were sharp. But strain them as she might, she could

  not catch the meaning of his voice.

  'A terrible thing. A VERY terrible thing,' she said.

  'Yes.'

  'Do you think she fell quite accidentally?' she said.

  'Must have done. The maid was in just a minute before, and she

  seemed as happy as possible. I suppose reaching over that broad

  window-ledge, her brain must suddenly have turned. I can't imagine

  why
she didn't call me. She could never bear even to look out of a

  high window. Turned her ill instantly if she saw a space below

  her. She used to say she couldn't really look at the moon, it made

  her feel as if she would fall down a dreadful height. She never

  dared to more than glance at it. She always had the feeling, I

  suppose, of the awful space beneath her, if she were on the moon.'

  Hannele was not listening to his words, but to his voice. There

  was something a little automatic in what he said. But then that is

  always so when people have had a shock.

  'It must have been terrible for you too,' she said.

  'Ah, yes. At the time it was awful. Awful. I felt the smash

  right inside me, you know.'

  'Awful!' she repeated.

  'But now,' he said, 'I feel very strangely happy about it. I feel

  happy about it. I feel happy for her sake, if you can understand

  that. I feel she has got out of some great tension. I feel she's

  free now for the first time in her life. She was a gentle soul,

  and an original soul, but she was like a fairy who is condemned to

  live in houses and sit on furniture and all that, don't you know.

  It was never her nature.'

  'No?' said Hannele, herself sitting in blank amazement.

  'I always felt she was born in the wrong period--or on the wrong

  planet. Like some sort of delicate creature you take out of a

  tropical forest the moment it is born, and from the first moment

  teach it to perform tricks. You know what I mean. All her life

  she performed the tricks of life, clever little monkey she was at

  it too. Beat me into fits. But her own poor little soul, a sort

  of fairy soul, those queer Irish creatures, was cooped up inside

  her all her life, tombed in. There it was, tombed in, while she

  went through all the tricks of life that you have to go through if

  you are born today.'

  'But,' stammered Hannele, 'what would she have done if she HAD been

  free?'

  'Why, don't you see, there IS nothing for her to do in the world

  today. Take her language, for instance. She never ought to have

  been speaking English. I don't know what language she ought to

  have spoken. Because if you take the Irish language, they only

  learn it back from English. They think in English, and just put

  Irish words on top. But English was never her language. It

  bubbled off her lips, so to speak. And she had no other language.

  Like a starling that you've made talk from the very beginning, and

  so it can only shout these talking noises, don't you know. It

  can't whistle its own whistling to save its life. Couldn't do it.

  It's lost it. All its own natural mode of expressing itself has

  collapsed, and it can only be artificial.'

  There was a long pause.

  'Would she have been wonderful, then, if she had been able to talk

  in some unknown language?' said Hannele jealously.

  'I don't say she would have been wonderful. As a matter of fact,

  we think a talking starling is much more wonderful than an ordinary

  starling. I don't myself, but most people do. And she would have

  been a sort of starling. And she would have had her own language

  and her own ways. As it was, poor thing, she was always arranging

  herself and fluttering and chattering inside a cage. And she never

  knew she was in the cage, any more than we know we are inside our

  own skins.'

  'But,' said Hannele, with a touch of mockery, 'how do you know you

  haven't made it all up--just to console yourself?'

  'Oh, I've thought it long ago,' he said.

  'Still,' she blurted, 'you may have invented it all--as a sort of

  consolation for--for--for your life.'

  'Yes, I may,' he said. 'But I don't think so. It was her eyes.

  Did you ever notice her eyes? I often used to catch her eyes. And

  she'd be talking away, all the language bubbling off her lips. And