In her own room Campaspe could always find repose and a satisfactory background for the variety of reflection which was her only serious form of self-indulgence. On this winter morning reclining on her chaise longue of white horse-hair, edged with vermilion, before the cheer of her grate-fire, she was unaware, apparently, for the heavy turquoise-blue curtains were drawn across the windows and the room was artificially illuminated, that slivers of sleet flung themselves across the street, like silver ribbons scattered by merry-makers at a carnival, and that heavy, low-hanging clouds masked the sky, giving it the appearance of a vast cathedral dome, painted by some cinquecento artist, of which the colours had dimmed and dulled in the passage of the years. Campaspe, indeed, engaged in plucking her eyebrows in this little chamber which retained only the pictures and bric-a-brac and bibelots to which she was warmly attached or newly drawn or entirely oblivious, was as isolated as Tut-Ankh-Amen in the sealed seclusion of his tomb, with the important distinction that, unlike the mummified emperor, she was alertly sentient, her agile mind hopping from one theme to another, as a bird might hop from branch to branch on a favourite tree.
To Campaspe, then, with the rich resources of her imagination constantly at her command, there existed slight possibility of dulness. There might spread before her fallow periods in which nothing, of the many external actions and accidents that served to capture her willing attention, occurred, but it was during these periods that she took occasion to put her mental house in order, to shake out of her brain whatever lingering superstitions or inhibitions had come to her like trailing clouds of responsibility out of the dark backward and abysm of time.
She was aware of a distinct sensation that she had returned to a New York which was a little different from the New York to which she had become accustomed during the years immediately succeeding the war. People were tiring of one another, tiring of themselves, tiring of doing the same thing. Deeds of violence were prevalent, vicious tongues more active: the world had nerves again, nerves and problems, a state of affairs which she had once been simple enough to believe the war had exhausted for all time. It was curious to find even placid Laura facing a problem, and Campaspe wondered, half-amused, if Laura would consult a psychanalyst regarding her enigma, as was the current fashion, rather than a priest. Laura, who had always played so safe, had, it appeared, hatched an ugly duckling, morally ugly, at any rate from Laura's limited point of view. Campaspe considered what she herself would do with Consuelo, and with no difficulty extracted the answer from her consciousness: she would do nothing at all. With her there would have been no problem in connection with the rearing of an unusual daughter; she would have reared her as she had brought up her own two conventional and conservative sons, by permitting her, within limits prescribed by Campaspe's own comfort, to bring up herself. This, the musing lady assured herself, Laura would never do, and so the duckling eventually, she shrewdly guessed, would cackle or bleat, or whatever ducklings did, out of Laura's jurisdiction. The duckling, already, it would seem, had developed sufficient initiative to pick up a paragon in a flower-shop. God knows, Campaspe added to herself, what train of amusing circumstances might have followed had we rediscovered him. The unsuccessful outcome of that adventure, however, did not present itself to her in retrospect as entirely unfortunate. Basil, for one thing, would have proved a disturbing presence, disturbing in his passive acceptance of whatever might have occurred, and now Basil, after his few necessary days in town, had been packed off to school again. In spite of this reasonable resignation in regard to the inevitable, Campaspe could not deny that her failure to encounter O'Grady had annoyed her considerably at the time, but she realized vividly, in compensation, that sooner or later he would certainly stray across her path in a manner potentially more amusing than that which the atmosphere of a flower-shop might be depended upon to provide.
Paul was an even more alluring subject for study than Laura, for Laura, after all, only presented the eternally recurring spectacle of tradition confronted by change, but Campaspe could conceive no adequate reason why Paul should not have settled back into his own comfortable, pagan self after his marriage with the extremely rich, if somewhat pinguid, Vera Whittaker. She could only explain his recent moods by recourse to her theory of nerves, and it had not occurred to her before now that Paul was a prey tonerves. He did not, to be sure, seem exactly irritable—that state was reserved for the fair Vera—but he did seem more intense, more bored, and less, Campaspe judged, interesting, unless, perchance, this boiler-mender had produced some subtle metamorphosis in Paul which would again give him at least the validity of a mural decoration to repay the onlooker's casual glance, if, indeed, not the closer inspection of the collector on the lookout for a true Orcagna.
At this point in her meditation Campaspe's eye roved to the wall opposite, a wall on which were hanging three new pictures by a young Jew, Issachar Ber Rybbak, in which she recognized a kind of inspiration which aroused her appreciation more abundantly than any other paintings had succeeded in doing since she had first seen the work of Chagall. There was a breadth of design, a sombre humour, a disquieting power of observation tinged with fancy, in these representations of goats lying in tortured streets, these lusty rabbis making merry with wine on Simchath Torah, these withering crones knitting in the picturesque surroundings created by a perfect bad taste, which captured and held her complete attention, and which compelled the expression, to herself at any rate, of her increasingly gratified admiration. They were, she was happy to admit, possessing them, as good as anything of the kind could ever be. . . .
Her eyes did not stray from the canvases for some time. At last, however, she turned to the table beside her and idly sought the morning post. There was, certainly, no letter from Fannie. Since she had married Manfred Cohen, Mrs. Lorillard's mother's penchant for wandering had increased. She and her husband, as a matter of fact, were at present enjoying a leisurely journey around the world. Postcards occasionally arrived from Benares or Luxor or Pekin, but they had no more to announce than, I hope you are as happy as I am, or some kindred sentiment. Today there was not even a postcard. To offset this lack there was a letter from Edith Dale, who seemed content to remain indefinitely in the rambling, Spanish house she had built for herself on a plateau in New Mexico, and an envelope addressed in a hand which Campaspe did not immediately recognize. For the moment, she passed these by to open a third envelope which she suspected of containing an advertisement, a species of printed epistle which she was seldom able to resist in the matter of precedence. Tearing open the flap, therefore, she drew out a card from Mrs. Humphry Pollanger, inviting her to attend an evening entertainment given in honour of Gareth Johns, the American novelist who, after an extended sojourn in Europe, had recently returned to his native land. A reinspection of the envelope exhibited a characteristic idiosyncrasy of Mrs. Pollanger, her use of the black and grey seven cent stamp with its portrait of McKinley, because of its dignity and sobriety and the further important fact that it harmonized with the mauve of her stationery, a certain clue to the identity of the sender which Campaspe had missed in her first glance. Opening the other letter from an as yet unidentified correspondent, she was amazed to discover that it was signed Ella Nattatorrini. Campaspe smiled as she noted the coincidence of the juxtaposed envelopes, recalling the events which had occurred in a suite at the Hotel Bristol in the Place Vendeme, on an afternoon ever so long ago, when she had thoroughly learned the meaning of that stock phrase, "dissolved in tears." The Countess, indeed, improving on Niobe's original performance, had shrieked while the process was in accomplishment. The long, sordid story—or at least as much of it as Ella cared to remember, which was considerable—had been retailed, and Campaspe found it simple to bring it back to mind now, in its general effect, if not in its details, although, at the time, it had not seemed to be anything more than the usual history of love and disillusion, complicated, to be sure, with an unbelievable amount of repetition. At this point in her reverie she found it expedient to consult the Countess's note, discovering therein that Madame Nattatorrini, after an absence of twenty-seven years, was returning to America, a strange decision, Campaspe reflected, for a woman who must be seventy-six or seventy-seven to make. The letter, the first Campaspe had ever received from the Countess, was formal in style and scrawled in that dispiriting chirography which betokens the palsied hand of the aged.
This, then, was the Nemesis of the Greeks, acting again in modern times: the Countess and Gareth were to meet, figuratively speaking, at least, in New York, after the lapse of twenty-seven years, after, moreover, the publication of Gareth Johns's latest novel, Two on the Seine, which, like Il Fuoco, tore away the veils from the soul of a silly woman in her middle years with an unrequited passion for a young boy. Considering these matters, Campaspe assured herself that her fallow period was at an end, if, indeed, it could be said ever really to have begun. . . .
She lifted Edith Dale's letter. It was very long and she skimmed a page or two before the lines held her attention. Then: Magdalen Roberts has hit upon a certain secret we all know and is going to teach it for large sums of money. Her little tract is called. The Importance of the Façade. Have you seen it? She writes in a learned way of the basic principle of facial integrity—in which she proposes to give instruction, though she admits it will be expensive, but worth the money. In fact, she is going to show her students how to make faces! Of course, any meditative person like you or me learns from our own insides how to make our faces. We're the kind who find out all our secrets. A few others know this trick. I once knew a man who was as dissipated and drunkridden as it was possible to be, but he cared for just one thing more than drink and that was his beautiful face. He put his attention on it and kept it intact. He knew how to renew it daily from the source—and how to wipe off every blemish. One would see him coming to lunch around the corner of the house—unaware of observers—and the ghastly reaction of drink pressure criss-crossed his face and everything sagged and puffed, but once in the door, the creator had wiped off every trace and the Greek mask prevailed. We can all do this if we learn how and want to badly enough. And furthermore we can do it when we want to—and when we don't want to our faces go hang with their lines of least resistance—but we can assume them again at any moment. We can be twenty at one hour and sixty the next. And all this Magdalen Roberts is going to tell for money: the gentle art of making faces! . . . Campaspe smiled as she skipped a page or two. . . . Edith appeared to be writing about that strange, Spanish sect of flagilants, the Penitentes. She stood in the Church of the Marada. We peeked into an inner chapel, so the letter continued, and caught a glimpse of the delightful place—white-washed walls so splotched with recent blood-splashing that they gave a dark impression—a little wagon with solid wooden wheels on which was seated a life-sized skeleton, laughing, bearing bow and arrow, the arrow poised, the bow drawn. On the floor were great heaps of shiny chains, that the Penitentes rattle as they sing and whip, and the curious instrument to drown the howls, which gives out a terrific sound like a Chinese rattle. We . . .
The telephone tinkled. Campaspe, after some argument with the telephone company, had contrived to have an English instrument installed, so that it was possible for her to grasp both receiver and transmitter in one hand without altering her half-recumbent position. Paulet was on the wire, Paulet in great excitement, Paulet with news, Paulet with the desire to lunch with her. Paulet in this mood was almost a forgotten experience for Campaspe. To her expert intelligence it was quite evident that he had rediscovered his furnace-man, although he had not said so.
The purple glass fruit-plates, containing oranges preserved in grenadine, rested on the maple board before Paul had done with the relation of his incredible history. As she listened to the peroration Campaspe automatically made a pretence of cutting into the dyed rind of the pungent fruit. Her eyes, however, did not stray from the face of her companion.
He wound up with a query. What, if any, do you make of it, 'paspe?
Mrs. Lorillard supported her chin on her right palm and appeared to meditate. What was really running through her mind was something like this: In completely esoteric situations it is wise to reject obvious explanations, at any rate wise to come to no definite conclusions, until one has been vouchsafed the opportunity to form a first-hand impression.
I think, she declared aloud, that I shall give a box-party at the Riverside Monday afternoon. Whom shall I ask?
Why don't we go alone?
No . . . Campaspe appeared to be considering . . . I don't think so. Consuelo . . .
Consuelo!
You are not aware, perhaps, that Consuelo has also struck up an acquaintance with this young man of irregular customs.
If it's the chap she met at the florist's, Vera told me something.
It is, I believe you will discover, the same. At any rate, we shan't know unless we take Consuelo with us. I think I shall invite Vera, too.
Vera! Paul groaned.
Now, Paulet, you must learn to be more sympathetic with Vera. You're not playing the game. You don't want to go back to your flat in Gramercy Park, do you?
Some days I think I'd like to.
Campaspe regarded this friend of long standing with something approaching consternation. What had come over him? What was the cause of this eclipse of his usually blithe spirit? Well, it would serve no purpose to inquire. As was her happy way, she bided her time.
But you haven't answered my question, 'paspe, Paul persisted. What do you think this boy's up to?
Paulet, she mock-chided him, you appear to regard this serious matter as if it were merely a cross-word puzzle.
It gets me! he exclaimed. I'm eaten up with curiosity. I'm inquisitive and, at the same time, I half-sense something. 'paspe, he blurted out, regarding her almost shamefacedly . . . I'm going to work.
Going to work!
Yes, he hurried on, I've got to do something. I'm not satisfied. My life is too empty.
Reflect, Paulet, reflect ere you make this decision. Campaspe's face was wreathed in a series of ironic smiles, subtly blending one with the other.
Paul remained silent, even grave.
What do you intend to do? Campaspe attempted to demand with more seriousness.
I thought, perhaps . . . there were strangely uncharacteristic breaks between the words . . . Cupid might take me in. He must have loads of jobs in his brokering place.
It's quite possible. I'll ask him.
You'll do that, 'paspe!
Of course. Don't be an ass, Paulet. Of course, I'll do that. More and more, as she observed this butterfly of long acquaintance turning back into a chrysalis, she was puzzled and amazed. Only try to think, Paulet . . . she tasted her orange to give her query a more casual air . . . is it O'Grady who has put you up to this, or just your life with Vera?
Damned if I know, 'paspe. I think I was bored, but I saw no way out. Then I met O'Grady. He seemed to be having such a jolly time working, working at such tough jobs, too. There's something about him—you'll feel it yourself when you know him—that convinces you that he's happy straight through. It's queer, the whole thing—you know I can't explain anything very well. I thought you'd explain it, he concluded lamely.
Campaspe seldom permitted her cynicism to colour her tone. She uttered the following phrase in a voice instinct with the deepest charm: Paulet, you're exactly like Tyltyl searching for that blue fowl.
Now, 'paspe, don't be rough! He held up a protesting hand.
She did not spare him: I shall have to begin to call you Paulianna.
He grinned. I know I'm ridiculous, he admitted.
Anyhow, here is your coffee.
Thanks. He accepted the cup. You'll see for yourself, he went on defiantly, and O, God! 'paspe, Vera's so dull.
Had Mrs. Lorillard needed any additional evidence in regard to the truth of this latter dictum, she received it later in the afternoon. With her drawing-room crowded with what she called her time-fillers, men and women of Laura's set whom she permitted to visit her occasionally, Vera Moody was announced. The appearance in the doorway of stout Vera, her curved figure expensively upholstered in black velvet and bundled in furs, her bosom festooned with pearls, her eyes circled by a betraying red, was a signal for Campaspe to invent a suitable excuse to rid herself of her other callers, not a particularly difficult feat for a woman with her superior cunning.
Once they shared the room between them the fat lady poured out her pangs without reserve.
Paul, she sobbed, doesn't love me any more.
Nonsense, Vera! What's the matter? Campaspe invariably treated the erstwhile Mrs. Whittaker with a considerable degree of brusque impatience. This served not only to soothe her own nerves but also to cow Vera into a state of complete release.
He says . . . Mrs. Moody's voice now rose to a shrill wail . . . that he's going to work!
Is that what you're making all this fuss about? He told me as much today.
Was he here today? The lady seemed to hover on the verge of another explosion which, taking into consideration her proportions, suggested that it would have about enough force to complete the demolition of Rheims Cathedral.
Certainly. He had luncheon with me.
He never lunches with me any more, Mrs. Moody whimpered, and last night he dined out again. But I don't mind that. I know you're one of his oldest friends. It's his going to work that kills me.
I promised to speak to Cupid about getting him a position. Mrs. Lorillard absent-mindedly began to whistle.
Campaspe, you wouldn't do that!
I don't see why not. If he wants to go to work, let him.
Campaspe, don't you see? Can't you understand? It's a reflection on me. It means he's tired of me. Why should he want to work otherwise? I've got plenty of money. Why won't he continue to allow me take care of him as I have in the past? He's tired of me! I know he's tired of me!
Campaspe smiled, the more readily as the woman's calloidal convulsions reminded her of the shivering of a mammoth platter of jelly. If I were you, she suggested, I shouldn't worry about Paul's latest decision. He has only threatened to go to work; he hasn't agreed to support himself. He certainly will not succeed in doing so in Cupid's office. Cupid is notoriously close in his business relations.
O, do you think . . . ? Vera brightened a little, but her handkerchief was black with the mascara which had rubbed off her lashes, and the dark tears flowed from her smarting eyes.
I know, Campaspe averred. Let him go to work. It won't do him any harm, I suppose. You see, he has a problem to solve.
It's that furnace-man! Vera spoke with as much bitter vehemence as it was possible for her to summon from her plump, good-natured depths. Ever since he came into the house everything has been different.
Paulet says he's curious.
Curious! Vera cried. I should think he is. He's reading books on the uplift, Swedenborg and Freud. I've never before known him to take any interest in subjects like that.
Has he, Campaspe demanded, fascinated, read In Tune with the Infinite?
I don't know. I can't remember all the titles, but his library is beginning to look like Mrs. Pollanger's does on the day before she gives one of those talks of hers at the Woman's Club.
Well, Vera, dry those idle tears. Campaspe began to feel a strong desire to put an end to this scene. He won't go to work until after Monday anyway. I'm giving a box-party at the Riverside on the afternoon of that day. Paulet has promised to be present, and I want you to come, too.
Well, that is nice of you, Campaspe, Mrs. Moody, now completely mollified, gurgled. You usually prefer to be alone, you and Paul, you have so much to talk about. Vera opened her cornelian compact and powdered her nose.
You'll come? Campaspe queried grimly.
Of course, Vera replied. As she rose to take her departure, one of the strands of pearls caught under the arm of her chair. The tension caused the chain to break, scattering the iridescent bubbles over the rug.