Consuelo is causing me a great deal of anxiety.
Having delivered herself of this baleful bit of information, Laura Everest bent forward to manipulate her Sheffield tea-service. She poured out a cup for Campaspe Lorillard and, without asking her preferences in flavouring, dropped in two rose cubes of sugar, together with a little cream.
One lump and lemon, please, Campaspe protested, rejecting the proffered cup.
O dear, I forgot. I can't get Consuelo off my mind.
While Laura was arranging the exchange, Campaspe's eyes roved round the drawing-room, apparently appraising the Jacobean lacquer, the Chippendale chairs, and the portrait by Sir William Orpen of Laura Everest in the gown in which she had been presented at Buckingham, although years before she would have been able to make an inventory of every object in the room for an insurance inspector, so thoroughly was she acquainted with each one of them.
Ostensibly reflective, she stirred the contents of her cup. Yes, dear? she put forward at last, seemingly with no tinge of curiosity—it appeared as if she had noted that Laura was determined to talk and was not unwilling to permit her to exercise this desire—You were speaking of Consuelo.
I just can't think what the world's coming to, Laura continued. When we were young girls I don't think we ever raised problems for our parents.
Don't be ridiculous, Laura. You're only thirty six yourself at this minute.
You know very well what I mean, Campaspe. Consuelo is ten.
The only sign of impatience Campaspe betrayed was a nervous tapping of her foot on the rug.
She's too young to be really young, she remarked cryptically.
That's just it, Campaspe: she's ages older than I am. Were we like that?
Like what, Laura?
Laura gave no indication that she had heard this query. She lifted a spray of freesia from a green glass vase on the tea-table and held it to her nostrils as she murmured, It's just too awful!
What has she done?
It isn't that she's done anything, at least not yet, at least not much of anything. It is, Laura wailed, the things she thinks, the things she says.
You might let her talk with Basil. He hasn't a single idea in his head that couldn't be found in a novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I think I'll have a langue de chat.
Now Campaspe, Laura pleaded, passing the plate, don't tease me. I'm really quite serious.
I'm not teasing you, Laura.
You are too absurd, Campaspe. Besides, I don't think she'd want to listen to Basil. He's much too young for her. She prefers men of forty, men of the world. She was completely fascinated by Paul Moody the other day. I really don't like to have him come here any more.
What are her ideas?
It's not one thing. It's just everything she says and thinks. Indeed, I'm certain she thinks even worse things than she says. You know how careful I've always been. I've engaged the best governesses, the very best. Miss Pinchon is particularly to be relied upon. Eugenia, Laura concluded sadly, isn't a bit like Consuelo.
For the moment Campaspe gave up any idea of proceeding further along this direct line; she opened, rather, an oblique attack. Speaking of Paul, she began, I'm worried about him. I've never really worried about him before because he has always managed somehow to light on his feet, no matter how many storeys high the window from which he was tossed, but Vera seems too much for him.
I never considered that marriage proper, Laura announced severely. She's much older than he is—over twice his age, I should think—and it's perfectly obvious that he married her for her money. I knew it would turn out badly. It was certain to.
It hasn't turned out so badly in one way, Campaspe averred reflectively, as she began to count the coins in a Russian leather purse she had extracted from her hand-bag. He's been well taken care of. The late Mr. Whittaker's house is quite handsome in its sombre fashion, and Paul understands the art of arranging a dinner. Even Vera knows how to do that. But he's getting seedy, rusty . . . brain-fag, or the kind of fag that Paul would have instead of brain-fag. Why, I asked him to supper the other night, a very dull supper for some stupid professors, and he actually came. It discouraged me. The next thing we know Paul will go gaga.
It's his conscience, Laura asseverated sternly, getting the better of him. He knows that he has done wrong and he can get no more pleasure out of life. No one, she asserted categorically, can marry a fat, middle-aged woman for her money and remain happy.
You may be right, Laura. Campaspe yawned. What time is it getting to be?
Laura consulted her wrist. Around six. My watch is slow or fast, I forget which. Do you really want to know?
Approximately. I've got to . . .
Mrs. Moody, the maid announced.
Dear Vera, Laura rose to greet her caller.
Dear Laura, and Campaspe!
Vera, what a pleasure!
The stout woman, swathed in broadtail, waddled in, and settled herself in a deep arm-chair. I've just come from the matinée. She spoke in a squeaky, ineffectual voice, which seemed oddly at variance with her vast exterior. The odour of Tabac Blond pervaded the atmosphere.
Laura handed her a cup of tea, into which she had dropped one lump of sugar and a slice of lemon.
Fata Morgana . . . Laura, you know I take cream and two lumps.
O, I'm sorry. Of course, you do. Was it a good play?
Horrible. Not in the least like life. A middle-aged woman makes love to a boy. I detest sex abnormalities. A ridiculous situation, I think.
Absurd! Campaspe commented.
Laura was silent.
And do you know, Gareth Johns's new novel is based on the same disgusting subject? . . . Vera inspected the tray of sweets . . . I think I'll have two of these amandines de Provence. Are they fattening? I don't want to get fat . . . A perfectly idiotic affair between a boy and a middle-aged woman living together in Paris. Stupid! What are we coming to?
Stupid, perhaps, Campaspe remarked, but not entirely untrue to life. It's his own story, or part of it.
You know him!
The Countess Nattatorrini, whom he deserted years ago, is a friend of mine. O, it all happened in the late nineties. She's seventy-seven now.
Seventy-seven! gasped Vera, almost choking over her tea. How revolting!
She wasn't seventy-seven when she lived with Gareth, you must remember.
How old was she then? Laura was able to get out. It was impossible for her to become reconciled to the fact that Vera Moody, who weighed two-hundred and fifty pounds and had certainly passed her fifty-fifth birthday, had chosen this subject for conversation.
About fifty, I think, Campaspe replied, staring directly at Vera.
Well, all the more, if it did happen, he ought to keep still about it, was Vera's decision. It's very unusual, very.
She lifted an amandine in her chubby fingers to her lips. There was almost an air of cannibalism about Vera eating, Campaspe thought.
I saw Florizel Hammond at the theatre, Mrs. Moody went on. He was telling me about Frederic Richards. It seems that he charges twice as much to paint a brunette as he does to paint a blonde, brunettes are so distasteful to him.
What's Paulet doing? Campaspe yawned again. She was beginning to wonder whether her hour had been wasted.
As her husband's name was pronounced, Vera sat up very straight, carefully placed her cup of tea on a nearby pear-wood table, and gave every evidence in the expressive working of her features of the liveliest excitement. Paul, she announced—she was shriller even than usual—had the most extraordinary experience yesterday with a boiler-mender.
Did he beat Paulet up? Campaspe demanded.
No. It was stranger than that. He asked the man to dine with him.
Alert at last, Campaspe inquired, Did the fellow accept the invitation?
Yes, he did, and they had a curious conversation, but Paul can't remember a word of it, and then the man disappeared. Paul blames me for that. . . . Vera was almost crying now. Her words were pronounced in a whimper. . . . He complains that I telephoned at the wrong moment and interrupted them, but how could I know, Campaspe, that Paul was dining with a boiler-mender? I'm sure he has no right to blame me. I . . .
Where did he meet him? Campaspe broke in.
In the basement. He was fixing the furnace. He had fixed it, as a matter of fact. Paul found him reading the Persian poets . . .
The Persian poets! Campaspe echoed.
In the basement! What is the world coming to? Laura shook her head deprecatingly.
and standing on his head, Vera completed her sentence, goggling about her wildly. What do you make of it?
The sound of a child's voice in the hall interrupted the possibility of making anything of it for the present.
O, Consuelo has returned from the matinée! Laura cried. Her Aunt Jessie offered to take her. It is so difficult to select a suitable play for a child to see nowadays that I just told Jessie to take her to whatever the. Theatre Guild was doing. They always present nice, clean plays, I've heard.
Why, Laura, she's only ten! Vera ejaculated.
Campaspe laughed outright.
What is the matter, Vera? Laura demanded. What are they playing at the Garrick?
Campaspe supplied the necessary information: Fata Morgana.
For her entrance Consuelo chose the moment that Laura had selected to exhibit her anguish. Opening the ivory-enamelled folding doors, the child paused for an instant on the threshold, long enough for her mother's callers to take in the exquisite picture. Long, curly, golden hair framed a pale and wistful face in which elusive, pansy-blue eyes were the most prominent feature. Consuelo was wrapped in a cloak of sable which did not quite reach her socks, permitting an inch or two of slender, bare leg to show. On her head she wore a sable toque and she carried a cluster of green orchids.
Maman, the child inquired, do I intrude?
Not at all, dear. Come in. You know Mrs. Lorillard and Mrs. Moody.
Indeed, yes, the child responded gravely. How do you do? And how is Mr. Moody? We had such a long talk the other afternoon.
Mr. Moody is quite well, thank you, my dear, Vera replied, in the gushing tone she always adopted when addressing children and kittens.
Consuelo turned away from her and seated herself very precisely in a great Louis XVI needle-point arm-chair. It is very warm here, she remarked.
Why don't you take off your cloak, Consuelo? Laura suggested. Where did you get those orchids?
The child did not remove her cloak. Aunt Jessie bought them for me, she replied. At least she asked me what I wanted her to buy for me, and I selected orchids. I do not care for candy, do you, Mrs. Lorillard?
Not particularly, was that lady's response. I'm sure I prefer orchids.
So do I, Consuelo averred placidly; they're so expensive, expensive and aristocratic. I adore the aristocratic gesture. I read somewhere recently that Ludwig, the mad King of Bavaria, would not permit a dentist to contaminate his palace. When he was forced to have a tooth extracted, the dentist stood in the royal garden and the monarch stuck his head out of the window. . . . Maman, you might give me acup of tea. Three lumps, you know, and no cream or lemon.
Laura's hand trembled as she lifted the pot.
So you tell her? Campaspe smiled.
Don't you, Mrs. Lorillard? You know maman never remembers anything, that is anything like that, do you, maman? I tell papa that she does not retain.
Mrs. Everest was too much upset for her lips to form words. She handed her harassing daughter her cup of tea, flavoured according to specifications, and Consuelo, after taking a sip, and emitting an involuntary, Um, it's good! turned again to Mrs. Lorillard, completely shutting out Mrs. Moody, who sat on the other side of the child.
Do tell me, please, she urged, a good book to read. I run through everything so quickly.
What have you been reading lately? Campaspe demanded.
O, everything in papa's library and maman's library, and the books Aunt Jessie gives me, and a few others besides, that I pick up here and there. You know papa never reads—Aunt Jessie once told me that he started The Old Wives' Tale the day after he and maman were married, and I'm sure he hasn't finished it yet—but he buys lots of books because he likes to have his library filled up, and so I climb about in there until I dig out something amusing.
Consuelo, you know mama has told you not to read too much. Laura flushed. Fortunately, for the child's taste, she explained, her father buys only the best books.
Consuelo did not appear to be particularly aware of this inconsiderate interruption. You were asking me, Mrs. Lorillard, she remarked, what I had been reading. It would take me an hour to make out the catalogue. I'd better limit myself to telling you what I like best of the books I have read recently.
Do, Campaspe urged.
Well, first, I think, the Memoirs of William Hickey, and after that, Antic Hay . . .
Laura settled back in her chair more comfortably. I am relieved, she said, to learn that you are reading memoirs, Consuelo dear. They are always so solid. Don't you think it wonderful, Campaspe, Consuelo reading memoirs at her age? Now, you and I . . .
I do, indeed, Campaspe responded. Then, turning again to the child, What do you think of the period, Consuelo?
Well, Hickey was all right and I liked the parties, and it was enjoyable and old-fashioned and homey. I think life has changed a great deal since the eighteenth century. We seem to drink more now, at least in America. And do you believe, Mrs. Lorillard, that a play like Fata Morgana would have been possible then? A splendid, cynical play, with a touch of romance under it. Why, it's almost sentimental in spots! It was so sweet and naïve of that boy to carry on so about that lovely lady, and you know perfectly well when she leaves him crying over his books to return to Buda-Pesth with her husband that he will join her before the month is up. As for me, I couldn't bear to see them separated even for a moment.
And what did daughter do after the play? Laura demanded, in an effort to create some kind of diversion.
O, I forgot! Consuelo continued consistently to address Campaspe. I had such a beautiful experience. It happened at the florist's. A perfect darling of a young man waited on me. He was as handsome as . . . as . . . as a Peri. When I told him I wanted orchids he pronounced them just the flowers for me, and he quoted one of the Persian poets . . .
The Persian poets! Vera exclaimed.
Yes, a philosopher-poet named Al-Ghazzali, and that started us going and I think I should have been there yet, but Aunt Jessie was so impatient. She really dragged me away. He was such a nice young man, and so handsome and so intelligent and he had such a curious philosophy of life.
What was his philosophy of life? Campaspe demanded eagerly.
The child's expression was vague. I had to sense that, she explained. He didn't, you see, exactly tell me. I'd rather talk to you about it some day when we're alone. Maman wouldn't understand, and it would bore her.
A sudden memory transfused the wistfulness in the child's white face with a radiant variety of delight. Her nostrils twitched like the fins of a goldfish as she groped about in her hand-bag. He gave me his card, she explained. She brought it forth triumphantly at last and handed it to Campaspe. That lady, no longer in doubt about the value of the manner in which she had been passing her time, read thereon:
Gunnar O'Grady
Acrobat