Some Do Not … · Part I · Chapter 1 5 (3/4)

To the gloating, cruel tones that had asked:

“You know what that means?” Macmaster had answered clearly, but with the snappy intonation of a reproving Don:

“Of course I know what it means. It’s no discovery!” That was exactly the right note. Tietjens⁠—and Mrs. Duchemin too⁠—could hear Mr. Duchemin, invisible behind his rampart of blue spikes and silver, give the answering snuffle of a reproved schoolboy. A hard-faced, small man, in grey tweed that buttoned, collar-like, tight round his throat, standing behind the invisible chair, gazed straight forward into infinity.

Tietjens said to himself:

“By God! Parry! the Bermondsey light middleweight! He’s there to carry Duchemin off if he becomes violent!”

During the quick look that Tietjens took round the table Mrs. Duchemin gave, sinking lower in her chair, a short gasp of utter relief. Whatever Macmaster was going to think of her, he thought now. He knew the worst! It was settled, for good or ill. In a minute she would look round at him.

Tietjens said:

“It’s all right, Macmaster will be splendid. We had a friend up at Cambridge with your husband’s tendencies, and Macmaster could get him through any social occasion.⁠ ⁠… Besides, we’re all gentlefolk here!”

He had seen the Rev. Horsley and Mrs. Wannop both interested in their plates. Of Miss Wannop he was not so certain. He had caught, bent obviously on himself, from large, blue eyes, a glance that was evidently appealing. He said to himself: “She must be in the secret. She’s appealing to me not to show emotion and upset the applecart! It is a shame that she should be here: a girl!” and into his answering glance he threw the message: “It’s all right as far as this end of the table is concerned.”

But Mrs. Duchemin had felt come into herself a little stiffening of morale. Macmaster by now knew the worst; Duchemin was quoting snuffingly to him the hot licentiousness of the Trimalchion of Petronius; snuffing into Macmaster’s ear. She caught the phrase: Festinans, puer callide.⁠ ⁠… Duchemin, holding her wrist with the painful force of the maniac, had translated it to her over and over again.⁠ ⁠… No doubt that, too, this hateful man beside her would have guessed!

She said: “Of course we should be all gentlefolk here. One naturally arranges that.⁠ ⁠…”

Tietjens began to say:

“Ah! But it isn’t so easy to arrange nowadays. All sorts of bounders get into all sorts of holies of holies!”

Mrs. Duchemin turned her back on him right in the middle of his sentence. She devoured Macmaster’s face with her eyes, in an infinite sense of calm.

Macmaster four minutes before had been the only one to see the entrance, from a small panelled door that had behind it another of green baize, of the Rev. Mr. Duchemin, and following him a man whom Macmaster, too, recognised at once as Parry, the ex-prize fighter. It flashed through his mind at once that this was an extraordinary conjunction. It flashed through his mind, too, that it was extraordinary that anyone so ecstatically handsome as Mrs. Duchemin’s husband should not have earned high preferment in a church always hungry for male beauty. Mr. Duchemin was extremely tall, with a slight stoop of the proper clerical type. His face was of alabaster; his grey hair, parted in the middle, fell brilliantly on his high brows; his glance was quick, penetrating, austere; his nose very hooked and chiselled. He was the exact man to adorn a lofty and gorgeous fane, as Mrs. Duchemin was the exact woman to consecrate an episcopal drawing-room. With his great wealth, scholarship and tradition.⁠ ⁠… “Why then,” went through Macmasters mind in a swift pinprick of suspicion, “isn’t he at least a dean?”

Mr. Duchemin had walked swiftly to his chair which Parry, as swiftly walking behind him, drew out. His master slipped into it with a graceful, sideways motion. He shook his head at grey Miss Fox who had moved a hand towards an ivory urn-tap. There was a glass of water beside his plate, and round it his long, very white fingers closed. He stole a quick glance at Macmaster and then looked at him steadily with laughingly glittering eyes. He said: “Good morning, doctor,” and then, drowning Macmaster’s quiet protest: “Yes! Yes! The stethoscope meticulously packed into the top-hat and the shining hat left in the hall.”

The prizefighter, in tight box-cloth leggings, tight whipcord breeches, and a short tight jacket that buttoned up at the collar to his chin⁠—the exact stud-groom of a man of property, gave a quick glance of recognition to Macmaster and then to Mr. Duchemin’s back another quick look, raising his eyebrows. Macmaster, who knew him very well because he had given Tietjens boxing lessons at Cambridge, could almost hear him say: “A queer change this, sir! Keep your eyes on him a second!” and, with the quick, light tiptoe of the pugilist he slipped away to the sideboard. Macmaster stole a quick glance on his own account at Mrs. Duchemin. She had her back to him, being deep in conversation with Tietjens. His heart jumped a little when, looking back again, he saw Mr. Duchemin, half raised to his feet, peering round the fortifications of silver. But he sank down again in his chair, and surveying Macmaster with an expression of cunning singular on his ascetic features, exclaimed:

“And your friend? Another medical man! All with stethoscope complete. It takes, of course, two medical man to certify⁠ ⁠…”

He stopped and with an expression of sudden, distorted rage, pushed aside the arm of Parry, who was sliding a plate of sole-fillets on to the table beneath his nose.

“Take away,” he was beginning to exclaim thunderously, “these conducements to the filthy lusts of⁠ ⁠…” But with another cunning and apprehensive look at Macmaster, he said: “Yes! yes! Parry! That’s right. Yes! Sole! A touch of kidney to follow. Another! Yes! Grapefruit! With sherry!” He had adopted an old Oxford voice, spread his napkin over his knees and hastily placed in his mouth a morsel of fish.

Macmaster with a patient and distinct intonation said that he must be permitted to introduce himself. He was Macmaster, Mr. Duchemin’s correspondent on the subject of his little monograph. Mr. Duchemin looked at him, hard, with an awakened attention that gradually lost suspicion and became gloatingly joyful:

“Ah, yes, Macmaster!” he said. “Macmaster. A budding critic. A little of a hedonist perhaps? And yes⁠ ⁠… you wired that you were coming. Two friends! Not medical men! Friends!” He moved his face closer to Macmaster and said:

“How tired you look! Worn! Worn!”

Macmaster was about to say that he was rather hard-worked when, in a harsh, high cackle close to his face, there came the Latin words. Mrs. Duchemin⁠—and Tietjens!⁠—had heard. He knew then what he was up against. He took another look at the prizefighter; moved his head to one side to catch a momentary view of the gigantic Mr. Horsley, whose size took on a new meaning. Then he settled down in his chair and ate a kidney. The physical force present was no doubt enough to suppress Mr. Duchemin should he become violent. And trained! It was one of the curious, minor coincidences of life that, at Cambridge, he had once thought of hiring this very Parry to follow round his dear friend Sim. Sim, the most brilliant of sardonic ironists, sane, decent and ordinarily a little prudish on the surface, had been subject to just such temporary lapses as Mr. Duchemin. On society occasions he would stand up and shout or sit down and whisper the most unthinkable indecencies. Macmaster, who had loved him very much, had run round with Sim as often as he could, and had thus gained skill in dealing with these manifestations.⁠ ⁠… He felt suddenly a certain pleasure! He thought he might gain prestige in the eyes of Mrs. Duchemin if he dealt quietly and efficiently with this situation. It might even lead to an intimacy. He asked nothing better!

He knew that Mrs. Duchemin had turned towards him: he could feel her listening and observing him; it was as if her glance was warm on his cheek. But he did not look round; he had to keep his eyes on the gloating face of her husband. Mr. Duchemin was quoting Petronius, leaning towards his guest. Macmaster consumed kidneys stiffly.

He said:

“That isn’t the amended version of the iambics. Willamovitz Möllendorf that we used⁠ ⁠…”

To interrupt him Mr. Duchemin put his thin hand courteously on Macmaster’s arm. It had a great cornelian seal set in red gold on the third finger. He went on, reciting in ecstasy; his head a little on one side as if he were listening to invisible choristers. Macmaster really disliked the Oxford intonation of Latin. He looked for a short moment at Mrs. Duchemin; her eyes were upon him; large, shadowy, full of gratitude. He saw, too, that they were welling over with wetness.

He looked quickly back at Duchemin. And suddenly it came to him; she was suffering! She was probably suffering intensely. It had not occurred to him that she would suffer⁠—partly because he was without nerves himself, partly because he had conceived of Mrs. Duchemin as firstly feeling admiration for himself. Now it seemed to him abominable that she should suffer.

Mrs. Duchemin was in an agony. Macmaster had looked at her intently and looked away! She read into his glance contempt for her situation, and anger that he should have been placed in such a position. In her pain she stretched out her hand and touched his arm.

Macmaster was aware of her touch; his mind seemed filled with sweetness. But he kept his head obstinately averted. For her sake he did not dare to look away from the maniacal face. A crisis was coming. Mr. Duchemin had arrived at the English translation. He placed his hands on the tablecloth in preparation for rising; he was going to stand on his feet and shout obscenities wildly to the other guests. It was the exact moment.

Macmaster made his voice dry and penetrating to say:

“ ‘Youth of tepid loves’ is a lamentable rendering of puer callide! It’s lamentably antiquated⁠ ⁠…”

Duchemin chewed and said:

“What? What? What’s that?”

“It’s just like Oxford to use an eighteenth century crib. I suppose that’s Whiston and Ditton? Something like that⁠ ⁠…” He observed Duchemin, brought out of his impulse, to be wavering⁠—as if he were coming awake in a strange place! He added:

“Anyhow it’s wretched schoolboy smut. Fifth form. Or not even that. Have some galantine. I’m going to. Your sole’s cold.”

Mr. Duchemin looked down at his plate.

“Yes! Yes!” he muttered. “Yes! With sugar and vinegar sauce!” The prizefighter slipped away to the sideboard, an admirable quiet fellow; as unobtrusive as a burying beetle. Macmaster said:

“You were about to tell me something for my little monograph. What became of Maggie⁠ ⁠… Maggie Simpson. The Scots girl who was model for Alla Finestra del Cielo?”

Mr. Duchemin looked at Macmaster with sane, muddled, rather exhausted eyes:

“Alla Finestra!” he exclaimed: “Oh yes! I’ve got the watercolour. I saw her sitting for it and bought it on the spot.⁠ ⁠…” He looked again at his plate, started at sight of the galantine and began to eat ravenously: “A beautiful girl!” he said. “Very long necked⁠ ⁠… She wasn’t of course⁠ ⁠… eh⁠ ⁠… respectable! She’s living yet, I think. Very old. I saw her two years ago. She had a lot of pictures. Relics of course!⁠ ⁠… In the Whitechapel Road she lived. She was naturally of that class.⁠ ⁠…” He went muttering on, his head over his plate. Macmaster considered that the fit was over. He was irresistibly impelled to turn to Mrs. Duchemin; her face was rigid, stiff. He said swiftly:

“If he’ll eat a little: get his stomach filled⁠ ⁠… It calls the blood down from the head.⁠ ⁠…”

She said:

“Oh, forgive! It’s dreadful for you! Myself I will never forgive!”

He said:

“No! No!⁠ ⁠… Why; it’s what I’m for!”

A deep emotion brought her whole white face to life.

“Oh, you good man!” she said in her profound tones, and they remained gazing at each other.

Suddenly, from behind Macmaster’s back, Mr. Duchemin shouted:

“I say he made a settlement on her, duma casta et sola, of course. Whilst she remained chaste and alone!”

Mr. Duchemin, suddenly feeling the absence of the powerful will that had seemed to overweigh his own like a great force in the darkness, was on his feet, panting and delighted:

“Chaste!” He shouted. “Chaste, you observe! What a world of suggestion in the word⁠ ⁠…” He surveyed the opulent broadness of his tablecloth; it spread out before his eyes as if it had been a great expanse of meadow in which he could gallop, relaxing his limbs after long captivity. He shouted three obscene words and went on in his Oxford Movement voice: “But chastity⁠ ⁠…”

Mrs. Wannop suddenly said:

“Oh!” and looked at her daughter, whose face grew slowly crimson as she continued to peel a peach. Mrs. Wannop turned to Mr. Horsley beside her and said:

“You write, too, I believe, Mr. Horsley. No doubt something more learned than my poor readers would care for⁠ ⁠…” Mr. Horsley had been preparing, according to his instructions from Mrs. Duchemin, to shout a description of an article he had been writing about the Mosella of Ausonius, but as he was slow in starting the lady got in first. She talked on serenely about the tastes of the large public. Tietjens leaned across to Miss Wannop and, holding in his right hand a half-peeled fig, said to her as loudly as he could:

“I’ve got a message for you from Mr. Waterhouse. He says if you’ll⁠ ⁠…”

The completely deaf Miss Fox⁠—who had had her training by writing⁠—remarked diagonally to Mrs. Duchemin:

“I think we shall have thunder today. Have you remarked the number of minute insects.⁠ ⁠…”

“When my revered preceptor,” Mr. Duchemin thundered on, “drove away in the carriage on his wedding day he said to his bride: ‘We will live like the blessed angels!’ How sublime! I, too, after my nuptials⁠ ⁠…”

Mrs. Duchemin suddenly screamed:

“Oh⁠ ⁠… no!”

As if checked for a moment in their stride all the others paused⁠—for a breath. Then they continued talking with polite animation and listening with minute attention. To Tietjens that seemed the highest achievement and justification of English manners!

Parry, the prizefighter, had twice caught his master by the arm and shouted that breakfast was getting cold. He said now to Macmaster that he and the Rev. Horsley could get Mr. Duchemin away, but there’d be a hell of a fight. Macmaster whispered: “Wait!” and, turning to Mrs. Duchemin he said: “I can stop him. Shall I?” She said:

“Yes! Yes! Anything!” He observed tears; isolated upon her cheeks, a thing he had never seen. With caution and with hot rage he whispered into the prizefighter’s hairy ear that was held down to him:

“Punch him in the kidney. With your thumb. As hard as you can without breaking your thumb⁠ ⁠…”

Mr. Duchemin had just declaimed:

“I, too, after my nuptials⁠ ⁠…” He began to wave his arms, pausing and looking from unlistening face to unlistening face. Mrs. Duchemin had just screamed.

Mr. Duchemin thought that the arrow of God struck him. He imagined himself an unworthy messenger. In such pain as he had never conceived of he fell into his chair and sat huddled up, a darkness covering his eyes.

“He won’t get up again,” Macmaster whispered to the appreciative pugilist. “He’ll want to. But he’ll be afraid to.”

He said to Mrs. Duchemin:

“Dearest lady! It’s all over. I assure you of that. It’s a scientific nerve counterirritant.”

Mrs. Duchemin said:

“Forgive!” with one deep sob: “You can never respect⁠ ⁠…” She felt her eyes explore his face as the wretch in a cell explores the face of his executioner for a sign of pardon. Her heart stayed still: her breath suspended itself.⁠ ⁠…

Then complete heaven began. Upon her left palm she felt cool fingers beneath the cloth. This man knew always the exact right action! Upon the fingers, cool, like spikenard and ambrosia, her fingers closed themselves.