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IT is very difficult to give an all-round impression of an man. I
wonder how far I have succeeded with Edward Ashburnham. I
dare say I haven't succeeded at all. It is ever very difficult to see
how such things matter. Was it the important point about poor
Edward that he was very well built, carried himself well, was
moderate at the table and led a regular life--that he had, in fact, all
the virtues that are usually accounted English? Or have I in the
least succeeded in conveying that he was all those things and had
all those virtues? He certainly was them and had them up to the
last months of his life. They were the things that one would set
upon his tombstone. They will, indeed, be set upon his tombstone
by his widow.
And have I, I wonder, given the due impression of how his life was
portioned and his time laid out? Because, until the very last, the
amount of time taken up by his various passions was relatively
small. I have been forced to write very much about his passions,
but you have to consider--I should like to be able to make you
consider--that he rose every morning at seven, took a cold bath,
breakfasted at eight, was occupied with his regiment from nine
until one; played polo or cricket with the men when it was the
season for cricket, till tea-time. Afterwards he would occupy
himself with the letters from his land-steward or with the affairs
of his mess, till dinner-time. He would dine and pass the evening
playing cards, or playing billiards with Leonora or at social
functions of one kind or another. And the greater part of his life
was taken up by that--by far the greater part of his life. His
love-affairs, until the very end, were sandwiched in at odd
moments or took place during the social evenings, the dances and
dinners. But I guess I have made it hard for you, O silent listener,
to get that impression. Anyhow, I hope I have not given you the
idea that Edward Ashburnham was a pathological case. He wasn't.
He was just a normal man and very much of a sentimentalist. I
dare say the quality of his youth, the nature of his mother's
influence, his ignorances, the crammings that he received at the
hands of army coaches--I dare say that all these excellent
influences upon his adolescence were very bad for him. But we all
have to put up with that sort of thing and no doubt it is very bad
for all of us. Nevertheless, the outline of Edward's life was an
outline perfectly normal of the life of a hard-working, sentimental
and efficient professional man.
That question of first impressions has always bothered me a good
deal-- but quite academically. I mean that, from time to time I
have wondered whether it were or were not best to trust to one's
first impressions in dealing with people. But I never had anybody
to deal with except waiters and chambermaids and the
Ashburnhams, with whom I didn't know that I was having any
dealings. And, as far as waiters and chambermaids were
concerned, I have generally found that my first impressions were
correct enough. If my first idea of a man was that he was civil,
obliging, and attentive, he generally seemed to go on being all
those things. Once, however, at our Paris flat we had a maid who
appeared to be charming and transparently honest. She stole,
nevertheless, one of Florence's diamond rings. She did it, however,
to save her young man from going to prison. So here, as somebody
says somewhere, was a special case.
And, even in my short incursion into American business life--an
incursion that lasted during part of August and nearly the whole of
September--I found that to rely upon first impressions was the best
thing I could do. I found myself automatically docketing and
labelling each man as he was introduced to me, by the run of his
features and by the first words that he spoke. I can't, however, be
regarded as really doing business during the time that I spent in
the United States. I was just winding things up. If it hadn't been
for my idea of marrying the girl I might possibly hav looked for
something to do in my own country. For my experiences there
were vivid and amusing. It was exactly as if I had come out of a
museum into a riotous fancy-dress ball. During my life with
Florence I had almost come to forget that there were such things
as fashions or occupations or the greed of gain. I had, in fact,
forgotten that there was such a thing as a dollar and that a dollar
can be extremely desirable if you don't happen to possess one. And
I had forgotten, too, that there was such a thing as gossip that
mattered. In that particular, Philadelphia was the most amazing
place I have ever been in in my life. I was not in that city for more
than a week or ten days and I didn't there transact anything much
in the way of business; nevertheless, the number of times that I
was warned by everybody against everybody else was simply
amazing. A man I didn't know would come up behind my lounge
chair in the hotel, and, whispering cautiously beside my ear,
would warn me against some other man that I equally didn't know
but who would be standing by the bar. I don't know what they
thought I was there to do--perhaps to buy out the city's debt or get
a controlling hold of some railway interest. Or, perhaps, they
imagined that I wanted to buy a newspaper, for they were either
politicians or reporters, which, of course, comes to the same thing.
As a matter of fact, my property in Philadelphia was mostly real
estate in the old-fashioned part of the city and all I wanted to do
there was just to satisfy myself that the houses were in good repair
and the doors kept properly painted. I wanted also to see my
relations, of whom I had a few. These were mostly professional
people and they were mostly rather hard up because of the big
bank failure in 1907 or thereabouts. Still, they were very nice.
They would have been nicer still if they hadn't, all of them, had
what appeared to me to be the mania that what they called
influences were working against them. At any rate, the impression
of that city was one of old-fashioned rooms, rather English than
American in type, in which handsome but careworn ladies,
cousins of my own, talked principally about mysterious
movements that were going on against them. I never got to know
what it was all about; perhaps they thought I knew or perhaps
there weren't any movements at all. It was all very secret and
subtle and subterranean. But there was a nice young fellow called
Carter who was a sort of second-nephew of mine, twice removed.
He was handsome and dark and gentie and tall and modest. I
understand also that he was a good cricketer. He was employed by
the real-estate agents who collected my rents. It was he, therefore,
who took me over my own property and I saw a good deal of him
and of a nice girl called Mary, to whom he was engaged. At that
time I did, what I certainly shouldn't do now--I made some careful
inquiries as to his character. I discovered from his employers that
he was just all that he appeared, honest, industrious, high-spirited,
friendly and ready to do anyone a good turn. His relatives,
however, as they were mine, too--seemed to have something
darkly mysterious against him. I imagined that he must have been
mixed up in some case of graft or that he had at least betrayed
several innocent and trusting maidens. I pushed, however, that
particular mystery home and discovered it was only that he was a
Democrat. My own people were mostly Republicans. It seemed to
make it worse and more darkly mysterious to them that young
Carter was what they called a sort of a Vermont Democrat which
was the whole ticket and no mistake. But I don't know what it
means. Anyhow, I suppose that my money will go to him when I
die--I like the recollection of his friendly image and of the nice
girl he was engaged to. May Fate deal very kindly with them.
I have said just now that, in my present frame of mind, nothing
would ever make me make inquiries as to the character of any
man that I liked at first sight. (The little digression as to my
Philadelphia experiences was really meant to lead around to this.)
For who in this world can give anyone a character? Who in this
world knows anything of any other heart--or of his own? I don't
mean to say that one cannot form an average estimate of the way a
person will behave. But one cannot be certain of the way any man
will behave in every case--and until one can do that a "character"
is of no use to anyone. That, for instance, was the way with
Florence's maid in Paris. We used to trust that girl with blank
cheques for the payment of the tradesmen. For quite a time she
was so trusted by us. Then, suddenly, she stole a ring. We should
not have believed her capable of it; she would not have believed
herself capable of it. It was nothing in her character. So, perhaps, it
was with Edward Ashburnham.
Or, perhaps, it wasn't. No, I rather think it wasn't. It is difficult to
figure out. I have said that the Kilsyte case eased the immediate
tension for him and Leonora. It let him see that she was capable of
loyalty to him; it gave her her chance to show that she believed in
him. She accepted without question his statement that, in kissing
the girl, he wasn't trying to do more than administer fatherly
comfort to a weeping child. And, indeed, his own
world--including the magistrates--took that view of the case.
Whatever people say, one's world can be perfectly charitable at
times . . . But, again, as I have said, it did Edward a great deal of
harm.
That, at least, was his view of it. He assured me that, before that
case came on and was wrangled about by counsel with all sorts of
dirty-mindedness that counsel in that sort of case can impute, he
had not had the least idea that he was capable of being unfaithful
to Leonora. But, in the midst of that tumult--he says that it came
suddenly into his head whilst he was in the witness-box--in the
midst of those august ceremonies of the law there came suddenly
into his mind the recollection of the softness of the girl's body as
he had pressed her to him. And, from that moment, that girl
appeared desirable to him--and Leonora completely unattractive.
He began to indulge in day-dreams in which he approached the
nurse-maid more tactfully and carried the matter much further.
Occasionally he thought of other women in terms of wary
courtship--or, perhaps, it would be more exact to say that he
thought of them in terms of tactful comforting, ending in
absorption. That was his own view of the case. He saw himself as
the victim of the law. I don't mean to say that he saw himself as a
kind of Dreyfus. The law, practically, was quite kind to him. It
stated that in its view Captain Ashburnham had been misled by an
ill-placed desire to comfort a member of the opposite sex, and it
fined him five shilling for his want of tact, or of knowledge of the
world. But Edward maintained that it had put ideas into his head.
I don't believe it, though he certainly did. He was twenty-seven
then, and his wife was out of sympathy with him--some crash was
inevitable. There was between them a momentary rapprochement;
but it could not last. It made it, probably, all the worse that, in that
particular matter, Leonara had come so very well up to the
scratch. For, whilst Edward respected her more and was grateful
to her, it made her seem by so much the more cold in other matters
that were near his heart--his responsibilities, his career, his
tradition. It brought his despair of her up to a point of
exasperation--and it riveted on him the idea that he might find
some other woman who would give him the moral support that he
needed. He wanted to be looked upon as a sort of Lohengrin.
At that time, he says, he went about deliberately looking for some
woman who could help him. He found several--for there were
quite a number of ladies in his set who were capable of agreeing
with this handsome and fine fellow that the duties of a feudal
gentleman were feudal. He would have liked to pass his days
talking to one or other of these ladies. But there was always an
obstacle--if the lady were married there would be a husband who
claimed the greater part of her time and attention. If, on the other
hand, it were an unmarried girl, he could not see very much of her
for fear of compromising her. At that date, you understand, he had
not the least idea of seducing any one of these ladies. He wanted
only moral support at the hands of some female, because he found
men difficult to talk to about ideals. Indeed, I do not believe that
he had, at any time, any idea of making any one his mistress. That
sounds queer; but I believe it is quite true as a statement of
character.
It was, I believe, one of Leonora's priests--a man of the world--who
suggested that she should take him to Monte Carlo. He had the
idea that what Edward needed, in order to fit him for the society
of Leonora, was a touch of irresponsibility. For Edward, at that
date, had much the aspect of a prig. I mean that, if he played polo
and was an excellent dancer he did the one for the sake of keeping
himself fit and the other because it was a social duty to show
himself at dances, and, when there, to dance well. He did nothing
for fun except what he considered to be his work in life. As the
priest saw it, this must for ever estrange him from Leonora --not
because Leonora set much store by the joy of life, but because she
was out of sympathy with Edward's work. On the other hand,
Leonora did like to have a good time, now and then, and, as the
priest saw it, if Edward could be got to like having a good time
now and then, too, there would be a bond of sympathy between
them. It was a good idea, but it worked out wrongly.
It worked out, in fact, in the mistress of the Grand Duke. In anyone
less sentimental than Edward that would not have mattered. With
Edward it was fatal. For, such was his honourable nature, that for
him to enjoy a woman's favours made him feel that she had a
bond on him for life. That was the way it worked out in practice.
Psychologically it meant that he could not have a mistress without
falling violently in love with her. He was a serious person--and in
this particular case it was very expensive. The mistress of the
Grand Duke--a Spanish dancer of passionate appearance --singled
out Edward for her glances at a ball that was held in their
common hotel. Edward was tall, handsome, blond and very
wealthy as she understood--and Leonora went up to bed early. She
did not care for public dances, but she was relieved to see that
Edward appeared to be having a good time with several amiable
girls. And that was the end of Edward--for the Spanish dancer of
passionate appearance wanted one night of him for his beaux yeux.
He took her into the dark gardens and, remembering suddenly the
girl of the Kilsyte case, he kissed her. He kissed her passionately,
violently, with a sudden explosion of the passion that had been
bridled all his life--for Leonora was cold, or at any rate, well
behaved. La Dolciquita liked this reversion, and he passed the
night in her bed.
When the palpitating creature was at last asleep in his arms he
discovered that he was madly, was passionately, was
overwhelmingly in love with her. It was a passion that had arisen
like fire in dry corn. He could think of nothing else; he could live
for nothing else. But La Dolciquita was a reasonable creature
without an ounce of passion in her. She wanted a certain
satisfaction of her appetites and Edward had appealed to her the
night before. Now that was done with, and, quite coldly, she said
that she wanted money if he was to have any more of her. It was a
perfectly reasonable commercial transaction. She did not care two
buttons for Edward or for any man and he was asking her to risk a
very good situation with the Grand Duke. If Edward could put up
sufficient money to serve as a kind of insurance against accident
she was ready to like Edward for a time that would be covered, as
it were, by the policy. She was getting fifty thousand dollars a year
from her Grand Duke; Edward would have to pay a premium of
two years' hire for a month of her society. There would not be
much risk of the Grand Duke's finding it out and it was not certain
that he would give her the keys of the street if he did find out. But
there was the risk--a twenty per cent risk, as she figured it out. She
talked to Edward as if she had been a solicitor with an estate to
sell--perfectly quietly and perfectly coldly without any inflections
in her voice. She did not want to be unkind to him; but she could
see no reason for being kind to him. She was a virtuous business
woman with a mother and two sisters and her own old age to be
provided comfortably for. She did not expect more than a five
years' further run. She was twenty-four and, as she said: "We
Spanish women are horrors at thirty." Edward swore that he would
provide for her for life if she would come to him and leave off
talking so horribly; but she only shrugged one shoulder slowly and
contemptuously. He tried to convince this woman, who, as he saw
it, had surrendered to him her virtue, that he regarded it as in any
case his duty to provide for her, and to cherish her and even to love
her--for life. In return for her sacrifice he would do that. In return,
again, for his honourable love she would listen for ever to the
accounts of his estate. That was how he figured it out.
She shrugged the same shoulder with the same gesture and held
out her left hand with the elbow at her side:
"Enfin, mon ami," she said, "put in this hand the price of that tiara
at Forli's or . . ." And she turned her back on him.
Edward went mad; his world stood on its head; the palms in front
of the blue sea danced grotesque dances. You see, he believed in
the virtue, tenderness and moral support of women. He wanted
more than anything to argue with La Dolciquita; to retire with her
to an island and point out to her the damnation of her point of
view and how salvation can only be found in true love and the
feudal system. She had once been his mistress, he reflected, and
by all the moral laws she ought to have gone on being his mistress
or at the very least his sympathetic confidante. But her rooms
were closed to him; she did not appear in the hotel. Nothing:
blank silence. To break that down he had to have twenty thousand
pounds. You have heard what happened. He spent a week of
madness; he hungered; his eyes sank in; he shuddered at Leonora's
touch. I dare say that nine-tenths of what he took to be his passion
for La Dolciquita was really discomfort at the thought that he had
been unfaithful to Leonora. He felt uncommonly bad, that is to
say--oh, unbearably bad, and he took it all to be love. Poor devil,
he was incredibly naïve. He drank like a fish after Leonora was in
bed and he spread himself over the tables, and this went on for
about a fortnight. Heaven knows what would have happened; he
would have thrown away every penny that he possessed.
On the night after he had lost about forty thousand pounds and
whilst the whole hotel was whispering about it, La Dolciquita
walked composedly into his bedroom. He was too drunk to
recognize her, and she sat in his arm-chair, knitting and holding
smelling salts to her nose--for he was pretty far gone with
alcoholic poisoning--and, as soon as he was able to understand
her, she said:
"Look here, mon ami, do not go to the tables again. Take a good
sleep now and come and see me this afternoon."
He slept till the lunch-hour. By that time Leonora had heard the
news. A Mrs Colonel Whelan had told her. Mrs Colonel Whelan
seems to have been the only sensible person who was ever
connected with the Ashburnhams. She had argued it out that there
must be a woman of the harpy variety connected with Edward's
incredible behaviour and mien; and she advised Leonora to go
straight off to Town--which might have the effect of bringing
Edward to his senses--and to consult her solicitor and her spiritual
adviser. She had better go that very morning; it was no good
arguing with a man in Edward's condition.
Edward, indeed, did not know that she had gone. As soon as he
awoke he went straight to La Dolciquita's room and she stood him
his lunch in her own apartments. He fell on her neck and wept,
and she put up with it for a time. She was quite a good-natured
woman. And, when she had calmed him down with Eau de
Mélisse, she said: "Look here, my friend, how much money have
you left? Five thousand dollars? Ten?" For the rumour went that
Edward had lost two kings' ransoms a night for fourteen nights
and she imagined that he must be near the end of his resources.
The Eau de Mélisse had calmed Edward to such an extent that, for
the moment, he really had a head on his shoulders. He did nothing
more than grunt:
"And then?"
"Why," she answered, "I may just as well have the ten thousand
dollars as the tables. I will go with you to Antibes for a week for
that sum."
Edward grunted: "Five." She tried to get seven thousand five
hundred; but he stuck to his five thousand and the hotel expenses
at Antibes. The sedative carried him just as far as that and then he
collapsed again. He had to leave for Antibes at three; he could not
do without it. He left a note for Leonora saying that he had gone
off for a week with the Clinton Morleys, yachting.
He did not enjoy himself very much at Antibes. La Dolciquita
could talk of nothing with any enthusiasm except money, and she
tired him unceasingly, during every waking hour, for presents of
the most expensive description. And, at the end of a week, she just
quietly kicked him out. He hung about in Antibes for three days.
He was cured of the idea that he had any duties towards La
Dolciquita--feudal or otherwise. But his sentimentalism required
of him an attitude of Byronic gloom--as if his court had gone into
half-mourning. Then his appetite suddenly returned, and he
remembered Leonora. He found at his hotel at Monte Carlo a
telegram from Leonora, dispatched from London, saying; "Please
return as soon as convenient." He could not understand why
Leonora should have abandoned him so precipitately when she
only thought that he had gone yachting with the Clinton Morleys.
Then he discovered that she had left the hotel before he had
written the note. He had a pretty rocky journey back to town; he
was frightened out of his life--and Leonora had never seemed so
desirable to him.
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