Читать книгу Comedies and Errors - Harland Henry - Страница 10

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And then, for three or four days, he did not see her, though he paid frequent enough visits to the feeding-place of the carp.

“I wish it would rain,” he confessed to Hilary. “I hate the derisive cheerfulness of this weather. The birds sing, and the flowers smile, and every prospect breathes sodden satisfaction; and only man is bored.”

“Yes, I own I find you dull company,” Hilary responded, “and if I thought it would brisk you up, I’d pray with all my heart for rain. But what you need, as I’ve told you a thousand times, is a love-affair with a red-haired woman.”

“Love-affairs are tedious repetitions,” said Ferdinand. “You play with your new partner precisely the same game you played with the old: the same preliminary skirmishes, the same assault, the same feints of resistance, the same surrender, the same subsequent disenchantment. They’re all the same, down to the very same scenes, words, gestures, suspicions, vows, exactions, recriminations, and final break-ups. It’s a delusion of inexperience to suppose that in changing your mistress you change the sport. It’s the same trite old book, that you’ve read and read in different editions, until you’re sick of the very mention of it. To the deuce with love-affairs. But there’s such a thing as rational conversation, with no sentimental nonsense. Now, I’ll not deny that I should rather like to have an occasional bit of rational conversation with that red-haired woman we met the other day in the park. Only, the devil of it is, she never appears.”

“And then, besides, her hair isn’t red,” added Hilary.

“I wonder how you can talk such folly,” said Ferdinand.

“C’est mon métier, Uncle. You should answer me! according to it. Her hair’s not red. What little red there’s in it, it requires strong sunlight to bring out. In shadow her hair’s a sort of dull brownish-yellow,” Hilary persisted.

“You’re colour-blind,” retorted Ferdinand. “But I won’t quarrel with you. The point is, she never appears. So how can I have my bits of rational conversation with her?”

“How, indeed?” echoed Hilary, with pathos.

“And therefore you’re invoking storm and whirlwind. But hang a horseshoe over your bed to-night, turn round three times as you extinguish your candle, and let your last thought before you fall asleep be the thought of a newt’s liver and a blind man’s dog; and it’s highly possible she will appear to-morrow.”

I don’t know whether Ferdinand Augustus accomplished the rites that Hilary prescribed, but it is certain that she did appear on the morrow: not by the pool of the carp, but in quite another region of Bellefontaine, where Ferdinand Augustus was wandering at hazard, somewhat disconsolately. There was a wide green meadow, sprinkled with buttercups and daisies; and under a great tree, at this end of it, he suddenly espied her. She was seated on the moss, stroking with one finger-tip a cockchafer that was perched upon another, and regarding the little monster with intent meditative eyes. She wore a frock the bodice part of which was all drooping creamy lace; she had thrown her hat and gloves aside; her hair was in some slight, soft disarray; her loose sleeve had fallen back, disclosing a very perfect wrist and the beginning of a smooth white arm. Altogether she made an extremely pleasing picture, sweetly, warmly feminine. Ferdinand Augustus stood still, and watched her for an instant before he spoke. Then——

“I have come to intercede with you on behalf of your carp,” he announced. “They are rending heaven with complaints of your desertion.”

She looked up, with a whimsical, languid little smile. “Are they?” she asked lightly. “I’m rather tired of carp.”

He shook his head sorrowfully. “You will permit me to admire your fine, frank disregard of their feelings.”

“Oh, they have the past to remember,” she said. “And perhaps some day I shall go back to them. For the moment I amuse myself very well with cockchafers. They’re less tumultuous. And then, carp won’t come and perch on your finger. And then, one likes a change.—Now fly away, fly away, fly away home; your house is on fire, and your children will burn,” she crooned to the cockchafer, giving it never so gentle a push. But instead of flying away, it dropped upon the moss, and thence began to stumble, clumsily, blunderingly, towards the open meadow.

“You shouldn’t have caused the poor beast such a panic,” he reproached her. “You should have broken the dreadful news gradually. As you see, your sudden blurting of it out has deprived him of the use of his faculties. Don’t believe her,” he called after the cockchafer. “She’s practising upon your credulity. Your house isn’t on fire, and your children are all safe at school.”

“Your consideration is entirely misplaced,” she assured him, with the same slight whimsical smile. “The cockchafer knows perfectly well that his house isn’t on fire, because he hasn’t got any house. Cockchafers never have houses. His apparent concern is sheer affectation. He’s an exceedingly hypocritical little cockchafer.”

“I should call him an exceedingly polite little cockchafer. Hypocrisy is the compliment courtesy owes to falsehood. He pretended to believe you. He would not have the air of doubting a lady’s word.”

“You came as the emissary of the carp,” she said, “and now you stay to defend the character of their rival.”

“To be candid, I don’t care a hang for the carp,” he confessed brazenly. “The unadorned fact is that I’m immensely glad to see you.”

She gave a little laugh, and bowed with exaggerated ceremony. “Grand merci, Monsieur; vous me faites trop d’honneur,” she murmured.

“Oh, no, not more than you deserve. I’m a just man, and I give you your due. I was boring myself into melancholy madness. The afternoon lay before me like a bumper of dust and ashes, that I must somehow empty. And then I saw you, and you dashed the goblet from my lips. Thank goodness (I said to myself), at last there’s a human soul to talk with; the very thing I was pining for, a clever and sympathetic woman.”

“You take a great deal for granted,” laughed she.

“Oh, I know you’re clever, and it pleases me to fancy that you’re sympathetic. If you’re not,” he pleaded, “don’t tell me so. Let me cherish my illusion.”

She shook her head doubtfully. “I’m a poor hand at dissembling.”

“It’s an art you should study,” said he. “If we begin by feigning an emotion, we’re as like as not to end by genuinely feeling it.”

“I’ve observed for myself,” she informed him, “that if we begin by genuinely feeling an emotion, but rigorously conceal it, we’re as like as not to end by feeling it no longer. It dies of suffocation. I’ve had that experience quite lately. There was a certain person whom I heartily despised and hated; and then, as chance would have it, I was thrown two or three times into his company; and for motives of expediency I disguised my antagonism. In the end, do you know, I found myself rather liking him?”

“Oh, women are fearfully and wonderfully made,” he said.

“And so are some men,” said she. “Could you oblige me with the name and address of a competent witch or warlock?” she added irrelevantly.

“What under the sun can you want with such an unholy thing?” he exclaimed.

“I want a hate-charm—something that I can take at night to revive my hatred of the man I was speaking of.”

“Look here,” he warned her, “I’ve not come all this distance, under a scorching sun, to stand here now and talk of another man. Cultivate a contemptuous indifference towards him. Banish him from your mind and conversation.”

“I’ll try,” she consented; “though, if you were familiar with the circumstances, you’d recognise a certain difficulty in doing that.” She reached for her gloves, and began to put one on. “Will you be so good as to tell me the time of day?”

He looked at his watch. “It’s nowhere near time for you to be moving yet.”

“You must not trifle about affairs of state,” she said. “At a definite hour I have business at the palace.”

“Oh, for that matter, so have I. But it’s half-past four. To call half-past four a definite hour would be to do a violence to the language.”

“It is earlier than I thought,” she admitted, discontinuing her operation with the glove.

He smiled approval. “Your heart is in the right place, after all. It would have been inhuman to abandon me. Oh, yes, pleasantry apart, I am in a condition of mind in which solitude spells misery. And yet I am on speaking terms with but three living people whose society I prefer to it.”

“You are indeed in sad case, then,” she compassionated him. “But why should solitude spell misery? A man of wit like you should have plenty of resources within himself.”

“Am I a man of wit?” he asked innocently.

Her eyes gleamed mischievously. “What is your opinion?”

“I don’t know,” he reflected. “Perhaps I might have been, if I had met a woman like you earlier in life.”

“At all events,” she laughed, “if you are not a man of wit, it is not for lack of courage. But why does solitude spell misery? Have you great crimes upon your conscience?”

“No, nothing so amusing. But when one is alone, one thinks; and when one thinks—that way madness lies.”

“Then do you never think when you are engaged in conversation?” She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“You should be able to judge of that by the quality of my remarks. At any rate, I feel.”

“What do you feel?”

“When I am engaged in conversation with you, I feel a general sense of agreeable stimulation; and, in addition to that, at this particular moment———But are you sure you really wish to know?” he broke off.

“Yes, tell me,” she said, with curiosity.

“Well, then, a furious desire to smoke a cigarette.”

She laughed merrily. “I am so sorry I have no cigarettes to offer you.”

“My pockets happen to be stuffed with them.”

“Then, do, please, light one.”

He produced his cigarette-case, but he seemed to hesitate about lighting a cigarette.

“Have you no matches?” she inquired.

“Yes, thank you, I have matches. I was only thinking.”

“It has become a solitude, then?” she cried.

“It is a case of conscience, it is an ethical dilemma. How do I know—the modern woman is capable of anything—how do I know that you may not yourself be a smoker? But if you are, it will give you pain to see me enjoying my cigarette, while you are without one.”

“It would be civil to begin by offering me one,” she suggested.

“That is exactly the liberty I dared not take—oh, there are limits to my boldness. But you have saved the situation.” And he offered her his cigarette-case.

She shook her head. “Thank you, I don’t smoke.” And her eyes were full of teasing laughter, so that he laughed too, as he finally applied a match-flame to his cigarette. “But you may allow me to examine your cigarette-case,” she went on. “It looks like a pretty bit of silver.” And when he had handed it to her, she exclaimed, “It is engraved with the royal arms.”

“Yes. Why not?” said he.

“Does it belong to the King?”

“It was a present from the King.”

“To you? You are a friend of the King?” she asked, with some eagerness.

“I will not deceive you,” he replied. “No, not to me. The King gave it to Hilary Clairevoix, the Constable of Bellefontaine; and Hilary, who’s a careless fellow, left it lying about in his music-room, and I came along and pocketed it. It is a pretty bit of silver, and I shall never restore it to its rightful owner if I can help it.”

“But you are a friend of the King’s?” she repeated, with insistence.

“I have not that honour. Indeed, I have never seen him. I am a friend of Hilary’s; I am his guest. He has stayed with me in England—I am an Englishman—and now I am returning his visit.”

“That is well,” said she. “If you were a friend of the King, you would be an enemy of mine.”

“Oh?” he wondered. “Why is that?”

“I hate the King,” she answered simply.

“Dear me, what a capacity you have for hating! This is the second hatred you have avowed within the hour. What has the King done to displease you?”

“You are an Englishman. Has the King’s reputation not reached England yet? He is the scandal of Europe. What has he done? But no—do not encourage me to speak of him. I should grow too heated,” she said strenuously.

“On the contrary, I pray of you, go on,” urged Ferdinand Augustus. “Your King is a character that interests me more than you can think. His reputation has indeed reached England, and I have conceived a great curiosity about him. One only hears vague rumours, to be sure, nothing specific; but one has learned to think of him as original and romantic. You know him. Tell me a lot about him.”

“Oh, I do not know him personally. That is an affliction I have as yet been spared.” Then, suddenly, “Mercy upon me, what have I said!” she cried. “I must ’knock wood,’ or the evil spirits will bring me that mischance to-morrow.” And she fervently tapped the bark of the tree beside her with her knuckles.

Ferdinand Augustus laughed. “But if you do not know him personally, why do you hate him?”

“I know him very well by reputation. I know how he lives, I know what he does and leaves undone. If you are curious about him, ask your friend Hilary. He is the King’s foster-brother. He could tell you stories,” she added meaningly.

“I have asked him. But Hilary’s lips are sealed. He depends upon the King’s protection for his fortune, and the palace-walls (I suppose he fears) have ears. But you can speak without danger. He is the scandal of Europe? There’s nothing I love like scandal. Tell me all about him.”

“You have not come all this distance, under a scorching sun, to stand here now and talk of another man,” she reminded him.

“Oh, but kings are different,” he argued. “Tell me about your King.”

“I can tell you at once,” said she, “that our King is the frankest egotist in two hemispheres. You have learned to think of him as original and romantic? No; he is simply intensely selfish and intensely silly. He is a King Do-Nothing, a Roi Fainéant, who shirks and evades all the duties and responsibilities of his position; who builds extravagant chateaux in remote parts of the country, and hides in them, alone with a few obscure companions; who will never visit his capital, never show his face to his subjects; who takes no sort of interest in public business or the welfare of his kingdom, and leaves the entire government to his ministers; who will not even hold a court, or give balls or banquets; who, in short, does nothing that a king ought to do, and might, for all the good we get of him, be a mere stranger in the land, a mere visitor, like yourself. So closely does he seclude himself that I doubt if there be a hundred people in the whole country who have ever seen him, to know him. If he travels from one place to another, it is always in the strictest incognito, and those who then chance to meet him never have any reason to suspect that he is not a private person. His very effigy on the coin of the realm is reputed to be false, resembling him in no wise. But I could go on for ever,” she said, bringing her indictment to a termination.

“Really,” said Ferdinand Augustus, “I cannot see that you have alleged anything very damaging. A Roi Fainéant? But every king of a modern constitutional state is, willy-nilly, that. He can do nothing but sign bills which he generally disapproves of, lay foundation-stones, set the fashion in hats, and bow and look pleasant as he drives through the streets. He has no power for good, and mighty little for evil. He is just a State Prisoner. It seems to me that your particular King has shown some sense in trying to escape so much as he may of the prison’s irksomeness. I should call it rare bad luck to be born a king. Either you’ve got to shirk your kingship, and then fair ladies dub you the scandal of Europe; or else you’ve got to accept it, and then you’re as happy as a man in a strait-waistcoat. And then, and then! Oh, I can think of a thousand unpleasantnesses attendant upon the condition of a king. Your King, as I understand it, has said to himself, ’Hang it all, I didn’t ask to be born a king, but since that is my misfortune, I will seek to mitigate it as much as I am able. I am, on the whole, a human being, with a human life to live, and only, probably, threescore-and-ten years in which to live it. Very good; I will live my life. I will lay no foundation-stones, nor drive about the streets bowing and looking pleasant. I will live my life, alone with the few people I find to my liking. I will take the cash and let the credit go.’ I am bound to say,” concluded Ferdinand Augustus, “that your King has done exactly what I should have done in his place.”

“You will never, at least,” said she, “defend the shameful manner in which he has behaved towards the Queen. It is for that, I hate him. It is for that, that we, the Queen’s gentlewomen, have adopted ’7’ is a weary day as a watchword. It will be a weary day until we see the King on his knees at the Queen’s feet, craving her forgiveness.”

“Oh? What has he done to the Queen?” asked Ferdinand.

“What has he done! Humiliated her as never woman was humiliated before. He married her by proxy at her father’s court; and she was conducted with great pomp and circumstance into his kingdom—to find what? That he had fled to one of his absurd castles in the north, and refused to see her! He has remained there ever since, hiding like—but there is nothing in created space to compare him to. Is it the behaviour of a gentleman, of a gallant man, not to say a king?” she cried warmly, looking up at him with shining eyes, her cheeks faintly flushed.

Ferdinand Augustus bowed. “The Queen is fortunate in her advocate. I have not heard the King’s side of the story. I can, however, imagine excuses for him. Suppose that his ministers, for reasons of policy, importuned and importuned him to marry a certain princess, until he yielded in mere fatigue. In that case, why should he be bothered further? Why should he add one to the tedious complications of existence by meeting the bride he never desired? Is it not sufficient that, by his complaisance, she should have gained the rank and title of a queen? Besides, he may be in love with another woman. Or perhaps—but who can tell? He may have twenty reasons. And anyhow, you cannot deny to the situation the merit of being highly ridiculous. A husband and wife who are not personally acquainted! It is a delicious commentary upon the whole system of marriages by proxy. You confirm my notion that your King is original.”

“He may have twenty reasons,” answered she, “but he had better have twenty terrors. It is perfectly certain that the Queen will be revenged.”

“How so?” asked Ferdinand Augustus.

“The Queen is young, high-spirited, moderately good-looking, and unspeakably incensed. Trust a young, high-spirited, and handsome woman, outraged by her husband, to know how to avenge herself. Oh, some day he will see.”

“Ah, well, he must take his chances,” Ferdinand sighed. “Perhaps he is liberal-minded enough not to care.”

“I am far from meaning the vulgar revenge you fancy,” she put in quickly. “The Queen’s revenge will be subtle and unexpected. She is no fool, and she will not rest until she has achieved it. Oh, he will see!”

“I had imagined it was the curse of royalty to be without true friends,” said Ferdinand Augustus. “The Queen has a very ardent one in you.”

“I am afraid I cannot altogether acquit myself of interested motives,” she disclaimed modestly. “I am of her Majesty’s household, and my fortunes must rise and fall with hers. But I am honestly indignant with the King.”

“The poor King! Upon my soul, he has my sympathy,” said Ferdinand.

“You are terribly ironical,” said she.

“Irony was ten thousand leagues from my intention,” he protested. “In all sincerity the object of your indignation has my sympathy. I trust you will not consider it an impertinence if I say that I already count you among the few people I have met whose good opinion is a matter to be coveted.”

She had risen while he was speaking, and now she bobbed him a little curtsey. “I will show my appreciation of yours, by taking flight before anything can happen to alter it,” she laughed, moving away.