Maud did not catch the beginning of Constance’s remarks, only the tail end.
“… I was afraid,” she heard. “The storm was terrible. And then, at the very end, when he finds his daughter in that black sack, I wanted to know what he would do. I could have cried when the curtain came down. He did love her so much! I think he killed himself. I think he threw himself into the river with his sack. Yes, that’s what he did, after the curtain came down.”
She gave herself a little shake. She looked up at Stern in a childlike way.
“I am glad I came. Would you say it was Verdi’s best opera?”
The naïveté of this seemed to amuse Stern. He greeted Maud and drew her toward them.
“Well, now. Is it his best opera? What would you say, Maud?”
“I like it. But I prefer
Trovatore.
” Maud smiled. “Monty, of course, prefers Wagner to Verdi. We must take you, Constance. You have stamina.
Tannhäuser,
perhaps. You would like that. Or
The Ring.
”
Not long after this, to Maud’s relief, for she grew tired, her guests left. Stern remained, standing in a thoughtful way by the fire, and Maud—who loved the ends of evenings, when she and Stern were alone—sat down and stared into the coals for a while. The quiet was companionable. Maud fetched them both a glass of wine. Stern lit one of his cigars.
“Isn’t Constance odd?” Maud began, for she liked postmortems and meant to steer the conversation to the interesting subject of Steenie. “So quaint! That question about Verdi. She can be such a child sometimes—and at others …” She sighed. “Well, she is grown-up now. It will be her ball soon. I think that will be a success. We must find her a husband, Monty.”
“At once? Quick-smart?” Stern smiled.
“Well, as soon as possible. You promised to think. What about that Russian—”
“Lady Cunard’s? No. I think not. He has debts. A sponger, or so I hear.”
“Really?” Maud looked up. “Then what about the American—Gus Alexander? You like him—you said so yourself. And he’s awfully rich. He sent Constance two hundred red roses.”
“Did he indeed?”
“You don’t think he’d suit?” Maud frowned. “I don’t see why not. I think he’s fun. Not pretentious in the least. Who then?”
“My dear”—Stern leaned forward; he kissed her brow—“I cannot think of a single suitable candidate. There is a limit to the number of men who want a child-wife. The responsibility is too great. Particularly one of that type. Constance will be a heartbreaker. I wouldn’t wish that on my friends—no, not even at your request. And now—I know you like to matchmake, but you do it better on your own—I must leave you, I fear. It’s late. I have work to do.”
“Oh, Monty, you won’t stay?”
“My dear, nothing would give me greater pleasure, as you know. But I must be at the War Office tomorrow morning, and I have a board meeting after that. Tomorrow?”
“Very well. Tomorrow.” Maud, who knew better than to argue, kissed him goodnight.
When he had left the house, she could not resist running to the window, so she might watch him walk along the street. He turned in the direction of the chambers he still kept up in Albany, near the Burlington Arcade.
Maud watched him lovingly. He walked at a slow pace, she saw, hatless, stopping once or twice to look up at the night sky. This was unusual. Stern’s habitual gait, neither fast nor slow but measured, conveyed a sense of purpose. He walked in the manner of a man whose days were strung with appointments, appointments that caused him no anxiety. Stern, though punctual, was rarely seen to consult a watch and never gave an impression of haste. The appointments would wait, his gait seemed to suggest; they would wait because their outcome rested with him.
That was how he usually walked; not that night. That night he looked like a man preoccupied, even uncertain of his route. Maud, struck by this, watched him attentively. She craned her neck. She saw him reach the corner, where it was his custom to pick up a cab. He stood there some while, a tall and solitary black-coated figure, the light from a gas lamp striking his bared head. He stared out fixedly across the street. Several taxicabs passed him, their FOR HIRE signs illumined, but Stern hailed none of them. Once, in an angry way he turned about, and Maud, heart lifting, thought he must have changed his mind and was returning to her.
But no. Stern walked a few paces, stopped beneath a second lamp, looked up again toward the sky. For an instant she could see the pale oval of his face; then he bent his head, turned back. Without hesitation now, as if he had come to a decision, he set off on foot in the direction of Albany. Maud watched him until he was out of sight.
Maud was puzzled. Seeing her lover thus, at a distance, from a window, as she might have seen a stranger, she had been struck by how vulnerable he looked. A man in love, Maud might have said, but it had been a stranger she watched, a man perplexed by some word, gesture, or glance from the beloved. This thought (my aunt Maud was a romantic even then) gave her a
frisson
of pleasure. The next moment, recollecting herself, she turned away with a smile at such foolishness.
Stern, though accomplished at lovemaking, was not a man to allow sentiment to ruffle his composure; he did not betray his feelings in the bedroom, let alone standing in the street by Hyde Park corner. Maud knew she might like to imagine that Stern, standing there, thought of her. She also knew it was unlikely. His mind would not have dwelt on her—or indeed on any other woman—and if she were to admit to Stern that momentary suspicion of hers, he would dismiss it with impatience. When he was apart from her, he claimed, his thoughts were always occupied with his business.
Maud, reminding herself that she was not a mooning girl, was disposed to believe this. What then could account for this oddness in Stern’s behavior? Some problems with his munitions works? Some crease in the well-ironed affairs of his bank? Or could it be—and here Maud began to feel anxious—could it be that Stern was considering some of his loans, and one loan in particular?
That loan, to a member of her own family, made Maud increasingly uneasy. She began to see a day when that debt must be written off or called in—and when that happened, what would be her lover’s reaction?
Stern always said that the lending of money was a straightforward business matter; the identity of the debtor was irrelevant. Explaining this creed, Stern could be cold. On such occasions Maud found him both alarming and exciting. On such occasions she sensed power, even a certain rapacity; she could not approve this, but she found it erotic.
This confused her. Two creeds of her own collided. Brought up to believe that all debts should be honored eventually, she also believed that a lender should show mercy. To pursue a debt to the point of ruination, Maud judged vulgar. It smacked of commerce; it was tradesman’s behavior, not the attitude of a gentleman.
As far as this particular debt was concerned, Maud had always assumed in a vague way that it would be repaid—in due course. Should the debtor experience serious difficulties—which seemed unlikely—then she herself would intervene. She would plead on the debtor’s behalf, whereupon Montague would waive the debt. Of course he would; any other course of action was unthinkable!
Certain, now, that she had hit upon the reason for Stern’s odd, preoccupied air, Maud was anxious to question him. If Stern was worried, then the matter must be pressing. It had better be discussed—and at once.
Maud (always precipitate) telephoned Stern’s chambers in Albany. There was no reply. She waited fifteen minutes, then telephoned again. Still no reply. It was incomprehensible!
Maud was fond, her imagination vigorous. She saw a street accident; she saw her lover set upon by thugs. She called again, and again. At two in the morning, Stern answered.
He sounded curt. He sounded displeased to be telephoned, even more displeased when Maud embarked on a rush of worries. The matter of the loan to her brother was not pressing, he said. There were other things on his mind.
“But where have you
been,
Monty?” Maud began.
“Walking the streets.”
“At
this
hour? Monty, why?”
“I wanted to think. There was a matter I needed to resolve.”
“
What
matter? Monty—are you anxious?”
“Not in the least. That matter is resolved.”
“You’ve come to a decision?”
“Yes. I’ve come to a decision.”
“Monty—”
“It’s late. Goodnight, Maud.”
That same morning, Acland was returning to France. He saw his family only briefly.
Both Freddie and Steenie had overslept. His mother had risen early to bid him goodbye; so had his father. These farewells took some time; the others were more perfunctory.
Freddie emerged, looking guilty, rubbing his eyes, with half an hour to spare. Steenie arrived some five minutes later, in a distinctly foppish suit. He ate his breakfast standing up, humming
“La donna e mobile.”
Constance did not appear until they were all gathered in the hall.
She came running down the stairs, her hair loose and unbrushed, her cuffs unfastened, complaining that Jenna grew forgetful. She had failed to sew on missing buttons. It was time for Acland to depart. He stood in an irresolute way by the door, dressed in uniform, his bags at his feet, his cap under his arm. Outside, his father’s Rolls waited.
A gruff handshake from his father; a less gruff handshake from Freddie. A hug from Steenie; a long and tearful embrace from his mother. Constance hung back. Only at the last moment did she kiss him goodbye: two quick and distracted kisses, one for each cheek.
She did not remind him of his promise again. This first hurt Acland, then made him resentful.
Constance followed him out onto the steps.
“I’m sorry you shall miss my ball,” she called out to him as he climbed into the back of the car.
She waved her hand, one quick careless gesture.
“Oh, I hate goodbyes,” she said with sudden intensity, and ran indoors.
The Rolls drew away from the curb. Its great engine whispered. Its silvery and ghostly hood pointed the way to the station, to the troop ship, to the trenches.
Acland leaned back in the seat; he watched the streets pass.
It was in this way, angry with Constance—and suspecting she had meant him to be angered—that Acland returned to France.
From the journals
Winterscombe,
June 12, 1916
THERE WAS A WAR in me—not a great war, like the war in Europe, just a small one—and it is over now. I am better. This is because of:
my rabbit
my dog
my Acland
myself
Because I am better, I shall write down the secret thing. I shall do it now, before I go downstairs to my ball. I want the paper to have it. I don’t want it in my mind anymore. Listen, paper: you can remember. I can forget.
Once upon a time, when I was five years old, I made my father very angry. It was nighttime, and he came to my room. The nurse had left. No more wages, he said—but he missed her, I think.
He had wine with him, and while he drank the wine, he told me the story of his new book. He had never done that before! I listened very carefully. I felt so proud, and grown-up. The hero was very fine—he was Papa, I could tell that! I thought he would be pleased I had seen this—but when I told him, he became very angry. He picked up his wineglass and threw it at the wall. There was wine, glass, everywhere. All the room was red with it.
He said I was stupid, and he meant to chastise me. He said I was wicked, and he would beat all the wickedness out of me.
He put me across his lap. He pulled my nightgown up. He bared me, and then he hit me.
I’m not sure how many times. It might have been five. It might have been twenty. Something happened, then, when he was hitting me. He stopped. He stroked me.
Then he did a wicked thing. I knew it was a wicked thing. The nurse told me. You shouldn’t touch down there, or look down there—but Papa did. He said, Look, I can open you up, like a little purse. You see how small you are? There is a little place there, such a tiny place; he held up one of his white fingers, and he said—Watch. This will go in.
It hurt. I cried. Papa held me very close. He said we were close, and he loved me so very much, and because he loved me, he would show me a secret.
He unbuttoned himself. He said, Look. There, coiled up between his thighs, was this strange thing, like a sweaty white snake. I was afraid to touch it, but Papa laughed. He said he would show me some magic. He put my hand on it, and it pulsed. It was alive. Stroke it—Papa said. Stroke it, and you’ll see, Constance, you can make it grow.
Pretend it’s a kitten, he said. Smooth the fur very gently. So I did—and it grew bigger, just as he said. It uncoiled. It sprang up at me. I said—Look, Papa, you have grown a new bone—and when I said that, he laughed again and then he kissed me.
Usually, Papa did not like mouth kisses, because of germs, but that night was different. He kissed me, then he told me there was something he wanted very much. I could give it to him. He held his new bone in his hand. He spat on it. He said he could—
Stuff it up me. Push it up me. That big thing. I knew it would never fit—and it wouldn’t. It made me bleed—but Papa was not angry. He washed me. He washed me clean. Then he sat me on his lap. He gave me a glass with some wine in it. The glass was like a thimble. The wine was like my blood.
Don’t cry, Papa said. Don’t worry. This is our secret. We can try again.
The first time he did it, it was a Sunday. I knew it was a Sunday—I could hear the church bells ring. There was a church at the end of our street, Saint Michael and All Angels. If you leaned out the window a long way you could almost see it. All those angels.
He used an ointment that time. I had to rub it on till he was slippery. Then it went in all the way and Papa gave a great shout. It hurt me, and I thought it hurt him too, because he shook and I could see his eyes hated me. He closed his eyes and when it was over he wouldn’t look at me.
Always on a Sunday after that. Sometimes he said—Touch my snake. Sometimes he said—Stroke the kitten, Constance. Sometimes he said the bad words, all the short ones. Once he sat me on his lap and put it in that way. Once he said I was his own little girl. Once he did another thing—I don’t want to write down the other thing. It made me sick. When I was sick, his eyes hated me. He always said he loved me, but his eyes always hated me.
After he met Gwen, which was the next year, this stopped. I was glad and I was sad. After it stopped, he never said he loved me. After it stopped, he called me the albatross, which he never did before, and then he’d laugh at me. I said—Please, Papa, don’t call me that, not when other people can hear. And he promised me to stop—but he didn’t. He said it again, the very next day.
Little albatross. It made me very lonely.
There. That is how it was. There it is, the most secret thing of all. I have given it to the paper, and the paper can decide if he loved me, or if he lied.
I shall close that book now, and begin a new one.
I shall close that Constance.
I shall close that life.
I shall go and dance. I am ready to dance now. I am wearing my new white dress. I am going to choose a husband. From now on, I’ll be very very careful. I wouldn’t want to be an albatross again—not to anyone.