  Reservoires, Versailles. How I love Versailles—the jolliest old hole on earth—(I wonder why one uses slang like this, I had written those words as an exact reflection of my thoughts—and nothing could be more inexact as a description of Versailles! It is as far from being "jolly" as a place can be—nor is it a "hole!") It is the greatest monument which the vanity of one man ever erected, and like all other superlatives it holds and interests. If the Grand Monarque squandered millions to build it, France has reaped billions from the pockets of strangers who have come to look at it. And so everything that is well done brings its good. Each statue is a personal friend of mine—and since I was a boy I have been in love with the delicious nymph with the shell at the bottom of the horse-shoe descent before you come to the tapis vert on the right hand side. She has two dimples in her back—I like to touch them—. Why did I not come here sooner? I am at peace with the world—Burton wheels me up onto the terrace every evening to watch the sunset from the top of the great steps. All the masterpieces are covered with pent houses of concrete faced with straw, but the lesser gods and goddesses must take their chance. And sitting here with peaceful families near me—old Thus custom deadens all painful recollections and so are we able to live. I wonder what Louis XIV would say if he could return and be among us? He, with all his faults being a well bred person, would probably adapt himself to circumstances, as the Duchesse does. Suzette suggested that she should come and stay the week end out here—She wants change of air she says. I have consented.—Miss Sharp does not bring her eternal block and pencil until Tuesday—when Suzette will have left. Now that I am peaceful and have forgotten my perturbations, Suzette will jolly me up—I have used the right term there!—Suzette does jolly one—! I feel I could write out here, but not about William and Mary furniture—! I could write a cynical story of the Duc de Richelieu's loves.—Armande, the present duc, tells me that he has a dispatch box filled with the love letters his ancestor received—their preservation owed to a I read all the mornings, seated in the sun—I read Plato—I want to furbish up my Greek—For no reason on earth except that it is difficult, and perhaps if I start doing difficult things I may get more will.
Suzette arrived in an entirely new set of garments—the "geste" had altered, she said, one had to have a different look, and she was sure the autumn fashions would be even more pronounced. "As you can readily understand, my friend, one cannot be dÉmodÉ, dans le metier,—especially in war time!—" Naturally I agreed with her—. "The only unfortunate part is that it obliged me to break into the sum for Georgine's education." "That is at least reparable"—I answered, and reached for my cheque-book—Suzette is such a good little sort—and clothes give her pleasure—and fancy being able to give real pleasure for a few thousand francs—pleasure, not comfort, or charity, or any respectable thing, but just pleasure! The only worry about this cheque was that Suzette was a little too affectionate after it!—I would nearly always rather only talk to her—now. She accompanied my bath chair on to the terrace. Her ridiculous little outline and high heels contradicting all ideas of balance, and yet presenting an indescribable elegance. She prattled gaily—then when no one was looking she slipped her hand into mine. "Mon cher! Mon petit chou!" she said. We had the gayest dinner in my sitting-room—. "The war was certainly nearing its close—Toinette, the friend of one of the Generals, assured her—people were thoroughly bored, and it was an excellent thing to finish it—." "But even when peace comes, never again the restaurants open all night to dance, Nicholas!—there is a sadness, my friend!" That was one of the really bad aspects of wars—the way they upset people's habits—, she told me. Even "dans le metier" things became of an uncertainty! '—One was never sure if the amant would not be killed—and it might be difficult to replace him advantageously!' "It is perhaps fortunate for you that I am wounded and an institution, Suzette!" "Thou—Nicholas!—Just as if I did not understand—I represent nothing but an agreeable passing of some moments to thee—Thou art not an Amant!—Not even a little pretense of loving me thou showest!"— "But you said you never allowed yourself to care—perhaps I have the same idea—" She shook with laughter. "An artist at love thou, Nicholas—but no lover!" "It is a nice distinction—would you like me better if I were a lover?" "We have before spoken of this, Mon ami—If you were a lover—that is, if you loved—you would be dangerous even with your one leg and your one eye—a woman could be foolish for you. There is that air of Grand seigneur—that air of—mocking—of—Mon Dieu! Something which I can't find my word for—Thou art rudement chic cheri!" I wished then that I had made the cheque larger—because there was something in her merry black eyes which told me she meant what she said—at the moment. I must be grateful to my money though after all—I could not be "rudement chic" or a "Grand seigneur" without it—Thus we get back to material things again! ——I wonder if material things could affect Miss Sharp?—One side of her certainly—or she could not have played that dance music——What can she think about all day?—certainly not my affairs, attending to them must be purely mechanical—. I know she is not stupid. She plays beautifully—she thinks—she has an air, and knowledge of the world. If I were not so afraid of losing her I would act toward her quite differently—I would chance annoying her by making her talk—but that fear holds me back. George Harcourt says that between men and women, no matter what the relation may be, one or the Suzette left last evening in the best of moods—I made the cheque larger—and now I am awaiting Miss Sharp in my sitting-room—I love this hotel—it has an air of indifference about it which is soothing, and the food is excellent.
Miss Sharp arrived about eleven to-day. Her cheeks were quite pink when she came in, and I could see she was warm with walking.—I wish I had remembered to send to the station to meet her. "Do you think we shall be able to work here?" I asked her—"we have only the rÉsumÉ chapter to do, and then the book will be finished." "Why not here as well as any other place?" "Does not environment matter to you?" "I suppose it would if I were creating it, it does not matter now." "Do you ever write—I mean write on your own?" "Sometimes." "What sort of things?" She hesitated for a moment and then said as though she regretted having to speak the truth.— "I write a journal." I could not prevent myself from replying too eagerly—. "Oh! I should like to see it!—er—I write one too!"— She was silent. I felt nervous again—. "Do you put down your impressions of people—and things?" "I suppose so—." "Why does one write a journal?—" I wanted to hear what she would answer. "One writes journals if one is lonely." "Yes, that is true. Then you are lonely?" Again she conveyed to me the impression that I had shown bad taste in asking a personal question—and I felt this to be unjust, because in justice, she would have been forced to admit that her words were a challenge. "You explain to me why one writes journals, and then when I presume upon the inference you snub me—You are not fair, Miss Sharp—" "It would be better to stick to business," was all she answered—"will you dictate, please?" I was utterly exasperated—. "No, I won't!—If you only admit by inference that you are lonely, I say it right out—I am abominably lonely this morning and I want to talk to you.—Did I "Possibly." I literally had not the pluck to ask her what she was doing there. However, she went on—. "There are still many wounded who require bandages—." That was it! of course—she was bringing bandages! "She is a splendid woman, the Duchesse, she was a friend of my mother's—" I said. Miss Sharp looked down suddenly—she had her head turned towards the window. "There are many splendid women in France—but you don't see them—the poor are too wonderful, they lose their nearest and dearest and never complain, they only say it is 'la Guerre!'." "Have you any near relations fighting?"— "Yes"— It was too stupid having to drag information out of her like this—I gave it up—and then I was haunted by the desire to know what relations they were?—If she has a father he must be at least fifty—and he must be in the English Army—why then does she seem so poor?—It can't be a brother—her's is only thirteen—would a cousin count as a near relation?—or—can she have a fiancÉ—?! The sudden idea of this caused me a nasty twinge—But no, her third finger has no ring on it.—I grew calmer again—. "I feel you have a hundred thousand interesting things to say if you would only talk!" I blurted out at last. "I am not here to talk, Sir Nicholas—I am here to do your typing." "Does that make a complete barrier?—Won't you be friends with me?" Burton came into the room at that moment—and while he was there she slipped off to her typing without answering me. Burton has arranged a place for her in his room, which is next to mine, so that I shall not be disturbed by the noise of her machine clicking. "Miss Sharp must lunch with me"—I said. Burton coughed as he answered. "Very good, Sir Nicholas." That meant that he did not approve of this arrangement—why?—Really these old servants are unsupportable. The antediluvian waiters come in to lay the table presently, and I ordered peaches and grapes and some very special chablis—I felt exultant at my having manoeuvred that Miss Sharp should eat with me! She came in when all was ready with her usual serene calm—and took her place at right angles to me. Her hands are not nearly so red to-day, and their movements when she began to eat pleased me—her wrists are tiny, and everything she does is dainty. She did not peck her food like a bird, as very slight people sometimes do—and she was entirely at ease—it was I who was nervous—. "Won't you take off your glasses," I suggested—but she declined—. "Of what use—I can see with them on." This disconcerted me. The waiter poured out the chablis carefully. She took it casually without a remark, but for an instant a cynical expression grew round her mouth—What was she thinking of?—it is impossible to tell, not seeing her eyes—but some cynical thought was certainly connected with the wine—By the direction of her head she may have been reading the label on the bottle—Does she know how much it cost and disapprove of that in war time—or what? We talked of French politics next,—that is, she answered everything I said with intelligence, and then let the subject drop immediately—Nothing could be more exasperating because I knew it was deliberate and not that she is stupid, or could not keep up the most profound conversation. She seemed to know the war situation very well—Then I began about French literature—and at the end of the meal had dragged out enough replies to my questions to know that she is an exquisitely cultivated person—Oh! what a companion she would make if only I could break down this wretched barrier of her reserve! She ate a peach—and I do hope she liked it—but she refused a cigarette when I offered her one—. "I don't smoke." "Oh, I am so sorry I did not know—" and I put out mine. "You need not do that—I don't mind other people smoking, so long as I need not do it myself." I re-lit another one—. "Do you know—I believe I shall have my new eye put in before Christmas!" I told her just before she rose from the table—and for the first time I have known her, the faintest smile came round her mouth—a kindly smile—. —"I am so very glad," she said. And all over me there crept a thrill of pleasure. After lunch I suggested the parc, and that I should dictate in some lovely cool spot. She made no objection, and immediately put on her hat—a plain dark blue straw. She walked a little behind my bath chair as we turned out of the Reservoires courtyard and began ascending the avenue in the parc, so that I could not converse with her. By the time we had reached the parterre I called to her— "Miss Sharp"— She advanced and kept beside me—. "Does not this place interest you awfully?" I hazarded. "Yes." "Do you know it well?" "Yes." "What does it say to you?" "It is ever a reminder of what to avoid." "What to avoid! but it is perfectly beautiful. Why should you want to avoid beauty?!" "I do not—it is what this was meant to stand for and what human beings failed in allowing it to do—that is the lesson." I was frightfully interested. "Tell me what you mean?" "The architects were great, the king's thought was great—but only in one way—and everyone—the whole class—forgot the real meaning of noblesse oblige, and abused their power—and so the revolution swept them away—They put false value upon everything—false values upon birth and breeding—and no value upon their consequent obligations, or upon character—." "You believe in acknowledging your obligations I know"— "Yes—I hope so—Think in that palace the immense importance which was given to etiquette and forms and ceremonies—and to a quite ridiculous false sense of honour—they could ruin their poor tradesmen and—yet—." "Yes"—I interrupted—"it was odd, wasn't it?—a gentleman was still a gentleman, never paying his tailor's bills—but ceased to be one if he cheated at cards—." Miss Sharp suddenly dropped her dark blue parasol and bent to pick it up again—and as she did she changed the conversation by remarking that there were an unusual quantity of aeroplanes buzzing from Buc. This was unlike her—I cannot think why she did so. I wanted to steer her back to the subject of Versailles and its meaning—. Burton puffed a little as we went up the rather steep slope by the Aile du Nord, and Miss Sharp put her hand on the bar and helped him to push the chair. "Is it not hateful for me being such a burden"—I could not help saying—. "It leaves you more time to think—." "Well! that is no blessing—that is the agony—thinking." "It should not be—to have time to think must be wonderful"—and she sighed unconsciously. Over me came a kind of rush of tenderness—I wanted to be strong again, and protect her and make her life easy, and give her time and love and everything in the world she could wish for—But I dared not say anything, and she hung back again a little, and once more it made the conversation difficult—and when we reached a sheltered spot by the "point du jour" I felt there was a sort of armour around her, and that it would be wiser to go straight to work and not talk further to-day. She went directly from the parc to catch her train at five o'clock—and I was wheeled back to the hotel. And now I have the evening alone before me—but the day is distinctly a step onward in the friendship line. |
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