The Lonely Lady of Dulwich Read online

  Then there was another occasion; Zita and Robert were to dine with the Legges one evening, and the day before Amelia, in reminding Zita of it, said: “By the way (Amelia was greedy and knew all about cooking), does Robert like langouste, or can’t he eat it?”

  “Oh!” said Zita, “Robert likes anything. He doesn’t know what he is eating.”

  This remark opened a door for Amelia on all sorts of things, and it amazed her, or rather it puzzled her more than ever – as Robert had told her that he ordered dinner himself and saw to all that…and indeed the food at the Harmers’ flat was delicious; and did Zita think that it all came from heaven by accident, or was entirely the doing of the cook, who had been engaged by Robert, so he said, after a thorough investigation and a searching cross-examination, and a great deal of trouble? It also threw light on Robert and his behaviour to Zita. It was obvious that he never made any fuss about any domestic or kitchen details, and Amelia, who knew how particular he was, thought that he deserved credit. It amazed her that Zita should be so blind, but then she reflected – perhaps women are blind when their husbands are concerned. Or was she wrong? Was Robert blind? Were they both blind and was Zita right?

  Did Zita really do everything?

  Another time they were discussing a common acquaintance, Hedworth Lawless, who was at that time Minister at Copenhagen and was staying in Paris on his way through. Hedworth Lawless was good-looking and was thought to be a great charmer; they were talking of him and Zita said: “Lady Lawless is so sensible, she is never jealous; I suppose she thinks there’s safety in numbers.” Now Amelia knew that so far from its being a question of numbers, there was only one person who counted in Hedworth Lawless’s life, an Italian who had married a diplomat, and that, so far from not being jealous, Lady Lawless would have been jealous even had she ceased to love; she would have had toothache even after losing all her teeth. Then she reflected – Lady Lawless is a clever woman, and Zita is ingenuous. But when one day, talking of Jean de Bosis, Zita said she thought he had an essentially happy nature; that he was entirely domestic, devoted to his mother; that he would marry, have a large family and not stir from his fireside, his garden and his farm in Normandy, then Amelia said to herself: “Zita isn’t stupid, but she has no more perception than a rhinoceros, which is curious, considering what a sensitive creature she is in some ways.” And the more she saw of her and the better she got to know her, the more she was convinced that this was the truth.

  “Zita is either unperceptive or deep,” she said to Madeleine Laurent.

  “Oh,” said Madeleine, “she is deep, but not in the sense you mean: she could be a well of suffering, and it is partly because she is unperceptive. Any French person could see she is unperceptive at once. Elle ne sait pas même s’arranger. Which for a woman with her beauty is a pity.”

  But to get back to why Amelia thought herself to blame; Zita had got into the habit of dropping into the Legges’ apartment at any time; and the visits of Jean de Bosis began to be more frequent. Cyril Legge liked him and always pressed his wife to invite him, which she did, seeing no reason why she shouldn’t. At first Robert used to come with his wife, but as his intimacy with Mrs Rylands increased and it became a matter of seeing her every day, he found it more convenient to let Zita go out by herself.

  Then Zita started having a day. Jean de Bosis used to attend it regularly. Sometimes he would stay a little while after the other guests had gone. Zita would sometimes ask him to dinner. Things went on like this till the spring of the next year, and Amelia was unaware of there being anything unusualor perilous in the situation until some of those little things happened that leave you perplexed and guessing, and not a little uneasy; little incidents that give one the tantalizing feeling that the right key is in the lock and just about to be turned, and yet cannot be turned, or that there is a rift in the firmamentand that you could look through the clouds and see what you want to see, only it closes again too soon.

  Two little incidents of this nature occurred.

  This was the first.

  The Legges arranged a small party one night to go to the Théâtre français. There was a revival of Ruy Blas ; Sarah Bernhardt was playing the part of the Queen of Spain. Cyril had taken a box, one of those boxes in which people sit in twos: two in front, then two behind, and then two behind those. The party consisted of the Legges, Bertrand and his wife, Jean de Bosis and Zita. Robert had dined with the Legges on condition that he might be spared a play in verse.

  In the box the party was arranged like this: Madame Bertrand and Zita were in front – Zita on the side of the box nearest to the stage; then Amelia and Bertrand, and then Jean de Bosis and Legge. Jean was on the extreme left, at the greatest distance from Zita, so that she could see him, and he, looking at the stage, could look straight at her.

  When Sarah Bernhardt came to the lines:

  ‘Qui que tu sois, ami dont l’ombre m’accompagne,

  Puisque mon cœur subit une inflexible loi,

  Sois aimé par ta mère et sois béni par moi!’

  which she sighed like an Aeolian harp, Zita, who was looking at the stage and had tears in her eyes, turned her head in the direction of Jean de Bosis. You could not have said their eyes had met, because she had turned her head back and he was looking at the stage once more. It happened in a second; itwas a mere nothing; and yet Amelia noticed it, and in notingit she felt that something electric and significant had brushed past her.

  During the entr’acte they walked in the foyer. Zita walked arm in arm with Bertrand and Amelia with Jean de Bosis. Jean discussed the play with Amelia and said it needed a genius to make one swallow so absurd a story: “but, after all,” he said, “the plots of all the greatest plays are absurd. It is absurd to think Oedipus could have lived for twelve years without mentioning the past; that, after being told he was to kill his father and marry his mother, he should have killed an old man and married a woman much older than himself without suspecting anything might be wrong, is frankly incredible. But I am ready to accept the donnée of any story the dramatist likes to set before me on condition of not thinking it out. What could be sillier than the plot of King Lear? What could be more wildly improbable than the conduct of Othello? Ruy Blas isn’t a sillier story than any of these, and it is dramatic, and Sarah Bernhardt makes the queen seem as true as Desdemona or Cordelia.” Cordelia somehow or other made Amelia think of Zita, because she felt that Zita might have behaved like Cordelia, but she couldn’t have behaved like Desdemona.

  “Bertrand,” she said, “told me at dinner that he wants to paint another picture of Zita; what do you think?”

  “He can always try,” said Jean, “but nobody but Velasquez could have painted her.”

  “Velasquez?” said Amelia, surprised.

  “Yes, because of the small head,” he said, pensively.

  That was the second of the little things. Amelia wondered. When the play was over the Legges dropped Zita at her apartment.

  On the way they talked about the play and the acting.

  “Bertrand wants to paint you again,” said Amelia, “but Jean de Bosis says there is only one painter who could have painted you, Velasquez!”

  “Velasquez!” said Zita, with a slightly artificial laugh. “What an idea! I wonder what made him think that?”

  “He thought that,” said Amelia, “because you have got such a small head.”

  Zita said nothing, but Amelia thought in the darkness that Zita had blushed, and she wondered once more. She was left guessing.

  CHAPTER VI

  In the month of August that year Robert took a moor in Scotland in the same remote spot in the north. He asked some of his friends, the only other woman besides Zita being Flora Sutton. He asked Mrs Rylands but she had been ordered by the doctors to take waters. He asked the Legges, but Cyril could not leave Paris. The Legges stayed in Paris all through August and September. Jean de Bosis went to stay with his mother in Normandy. But he came to Paris often, and every time he came he v
isited the Legges and talked about Zita. When the Harmers came back from Scotland, Bertrand asked permission to paint Zita again, this time for himself. Robert was delighted. Bertrand painted her in an evening gown this time: cream-coloured satin and tulle, with a tea rose near her heart. The picture is now in the Luxembourg, and is thought to be Bertrand’s masterpiece. Amelia went often to the sittings now; Jean de Bosis suddenly gave up going altogether, nor did he any longer pay visits to the Legges; nor was he seen at Zita’s day – he had disappeared.

  Amelia mentioned his name one day to Zita and she said:

  “We never see him now at all. I think he is living in the country with his mother.”

  Talking it over with her husband, Amelia said to him:

  “I believe I was wrong after all about Zita and Jean de Bosis.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t believe she cares for him, and he never goes to the studio now, or here, as to that, and he never goes near Zita.”

  “I expect he found it was useless,” said Cyril. “Or perhaps Robert noticed it?”

  “No,” said Amelia, decisively, “Robert could never be jealous of a Frenchman. As far as Zita is concerned, he thinks foreigners don’t count. In his eyes they belong to a different category. He could never imagine Zita being attracted by a foreigner.”

  “But supposing,” said Legge, “cousin Robert knew for certain Zita was attracted by a foreigner, what then?”

  “Ah! then I don’t know.”

  It was in the spring, shortly after the opening of the Salon, when everyone was talking of Bertrand’s new picture, and the English people in Paris were raving about Zita’s portrait, and Robert seemed to be enjoying their admiration, that Jean de Bosis published his first book, a small book of verse called Stances. It attracted little attention and few copies of it were sold.

  Amelia heard of the publication from Madeleine, who was interested.

  “He is not a poet,” she said to Amelia, as they sat together late one afternoon in Madeleine’s flat, the day of her jour, when the visitors had gone, “but he has got talent certainly, and I expect he will write something, but not verse.”

  “Are there any love poems in it?” asked Amelia, who was interested more in the personal than in the artistic side of poetry.

  “No,” said Madeleine, “nature poems and landscapes. There are one or two love poems – the wreaths on the already faded tomb of a dead love. He was unlucky for the time being.”

  “Why unlucky?”

  “He loved someone who didn’t love him and who never could love him?”

  “Zita?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think she didn’t – doesn’t?”

  “I am sure.”

  “And he?”

  “Oh, he did…but when he saw it was useless, that there was nothing to be done, he gave it up.”

  “It is all over then?”

  “It has been over for a long time now. There are only a few pale reflections of it in the book. There it is, you can take it if you like. Jean has been in the country getting over it. It was like a bad illness, but it is all over now, and soon it will be someone else. He has a coeur à louer and it will not stay long vacant.”

  “Has it always been occupied before?”

  “Always more or less, but never by anyone who mattered – till this.”

  “This was serious, you think?”

  “Very. He took it badly.”

  “And she?”

  “She was quite indifferent.”

  “You think she is –”

  “Un glaçon, yes.”

  “Well, I don’t believe she was ever in love with Robert.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But her mother – ”

  “Her mother – that was autre chose. Her mother was nothing but temperament.”

  Amelia sighed.

  “It’s just as well,” said Madeleine.

  “What?”

  “Well, that nothing happened.”

  “I suppose so. May I take this book?”

  “Do. You will see he has talent.”

  Amelia took the book home with her. She opened it and chanced on a poem about ploughed fields, and then on another about autumn woods and ponds, and felt she had read enough. Had she read the book more carefully she would have come across a poem that might have interested her. It was called ‘L’Exilé’, and it told of a lovely princess with a small head, and of the hopeless passion she inspired in the heart of an alien wayfarer.

  That evening the Legges dined with Robert and Zita. The first thing that Amelia noticed on one of the small tables when she arrived was Jean de Bosis’ poems with a written dedication on the cover.

  “Have you read Jean de Bosis’ poems?” she asked Zita.

  “He sent them to me,” she said; “so kind of him, but I don’t really care for French poetry. It’s to me like oil poured on smooth water.”

  Robert, who was listening, took up the book and glanced at it, cut a few pages with a paper-cutter, and put it down again.

  After dinner there was music. Flora Sutton sang some English sentimental songs – English ballads with tunes by Tosti, and Legge, who had a pleasing baritone, sang some Schumann. Robert, who was not musical, sat in the corner of the room near the table, and Amelia noticed that he took up Jean de Bosis’ poems and read them as if absorbed. She wondered how much he understood of them. Not much, she thought; but perhaps he enjoyed the poem about the wild ducks in the dawn. He was a lover of nature, if inarticulate.

  The guests went away early. Zita and Robert were left alone. Robert lit a cigar.

  “That fellow writes quite well,” said Robert, after a time.

  “Who?” asked Zita.

  “Bosis.” (Robert pronounced the word ‘Bossis’.)

  Zita said nothing.

  “He describes wild duck getting up from a marsh very well.”

  “I haven’t had time to read them yet,” said Zita. “I must read them soon.”

  “You must be quick if you want to read them before we go away.”

  “Are we going away?” said Zita.

  “Yes,” said Robert, with a sigh, as of infinite relief, “for good. They want me in London.”

  “When did you settle this?”

  “I heard from our people in London this morning, but I didn’t make up my mind till this evening.”

  “Oh!” said Zita.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Oh no, of course not. I shall be sorry to go in some ways. We shall miss the Legges.”

  “Yes, we shall miss the Legges.”

  There was a long pause. It was broken by Zita, who said:

  “Where shall we live in England?”

  “At Wallington, as soon as the tenant goes.”

  “Just as before?”

  “Yes, just as before.”

  “And how soon shall we go?”

  “Tomorrow fortnight, but I am going over to London the day after tomorrow for two days.”

  “I see. I am sleepy,” said Zita, “I am going to bed.”

  “I am not going to bed yet. I have a letter to write. Good night, my dear.”

  “Good night, Robert.”

  As Zita went through the little antechamber into her bedroom, she saw a letter for her on the table. She opened it. It was from Madame Bertrand. They had asked a few friends to come to the studio the next afternoon between five and seven. If they were doing nothing better and happened to be anywhere near, she would meet some friends – Madeleine Laurent, and they were asking the Legges. There would be a little music … etc.

  Zita went to bed and stayed awake a long time after she heard Robert go to bed. She was thinking of Wallington.

  Next day Zita went to the studio with Madeleine Laurent. Robert had encouraged her to go but would not take her himself, because he could not stand musical parties in a studio, and as he was starting for London the next morning he wanted to have tea with Mrs Rylands. The Legges were not at the studio, ther
e were only French people there; among others Jean de Bosis. Zita thanked him for sending her his book, and told him they – she and her husband – were leaving Paris.

  “For a while?” he asked.

  “No, for good,” she said, looking straight in front of her at a large unfinished picture on the wall at the other end of the room.

  “To London?” he asked.

  “No, not to London; at least, my husband will be a lot in London, but I shall be in the country.”

  “And how soon?”

  Zita told him what had been arranged, and then their conversation was interrupted, as someone began to sing – a contralto. She sang a song of Godard’s.