Books: Maurice Guest

H >> Henry Handel Richardson >> Maurice Guest

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51

The bell, which he had pulled hard, pealed through the house, jangled
on, and, in a series of after-tinkles, died away. There was no
immediate answering sound; the silence persisted, and having waited
for some time, he rang again. Then, in the distance, he heard a door
creak; soft, cautious footsteps crept along the passage; a light
moved; the glass window in the upper half of the door was opened, and
a little old woman peered out, holding a candle above her head. On
seeing the pale face close before her, she drew back, and made as if
to shut the window; for, as a result of poring over newspapers, she
lived in continual expectation of robbery and murder.

"She is not at home," she said with tremulous bravado, in answer to
the young man's question, and again was about to close the window. But
Maurice thrust in his hand, and she could not shut without crushing it.

"Then she is still here? Has she gone out? When will she be back?" he
queried.

"How should I know? And look here, young man, if you don't take away
your hand and leave the house at once, I shall call from the window
for a policeman."

He went slowly down the stairs and across the street, and took up anew
his position in the dark doorway--a proceeding which did not reassure
Fraulein Grunhut, who, regarding his inquiries as a feint, was
watching his movements from between the slats of a window-blind. But
Maurice had not stood again for more than a quarter of an hour, when a
feeling of nausea seized him, and this reminded him that he had
practically eaten nothing since the morning. If he meant to hold out,
he must snatch a bite of food somewhere; afterwards, he would return
and wait, if he had to wait all night.

In front of the PANORAMA on the ROSSPLATZ, he ran into the arms of
Furst, and the latter, when he heard where Maurice was going, had
nothing better to do than to accompany him, and drink a SCHNITT.
Furst, who was in capital spirits at the prospect of the evening,
laughed heartily, told witty anecdotes, and slapped his fat thigh, the
type of rubicund good-humour; and as he was not of an observant turn
of mind, he did not notice his companion's abstraction. Hardly
troubling to dissemble, Maurice paid scant attention to Furst's talk;
he ate avidly, and as soon as he had finished, pushed back his
chair and called to the waiter for his bill.

"I must go," he said, and rose. "I have something important to do this
evening, and can't join you."

Furst, cut short in the middle of a sentence, let his double chin fall
on his collar, and gazed open-mouthed at his companion.

"But I say, Guest, look here!. . ." Maurice heard him expostulate as
the outer door slammed behind him.

He made haste to retrace his steps. The wind had dropped; a fine rain
was beginning to fall; it promised to be a wet night, of empty streets
and glistening pavements. There was no visible change in the windows
of the BRUDERSTRASSE; they were as blankly dark as before. Turning up
his coat-collar, Maurice resumed his patrollings, but more languidly;
he was drowsy from having eaten, and the air was chill. A weakness
overcame him at the thought of the night-watch he had set himself; it
seemed impossible to endure the crawling past of still more hours. He
was tired to exhaustion, and a sudden, strong desire arose in him,
somehow, anyhow, to be taken out of himself, to have his thoughts
diverted into other channels. And this feeling grew upon him with such
force, the idea of remaining where he was, for another hour, became so
intolerable, that he forgot everything else, and turned and ran back
towards the PANORAMA, only afraid lest Furst should have gone without him.

The latter was, in fact, just coming out of the door. He stared in
astonishment at Maurice.

"I've changed my mind," said Maurice, without apology. "Shall we go?
Where's the place?"

Furst mumbled something inaudible; he was grumpy at the other's
behaviour. Scanning him furtively, and noting his odd, excited manner,
he concluded that Maurice had been drinking.

They walked without speaking; Furst hummed to himself. In the
thick-sown, business thoroughfare, the BRUHL, they entered a dingy
cafe and while Furst chattered with the landlord and BUFFETDAME, with
both of whom he was on very friendly terms, Maurice went into the
side-room, where the KNEIPE was to be held, and sat down before a
long, narrow table, spread with a soiled red and blue-checked
tablecloth. He felt cold and sick again, and when the wan PICCOLO set
a beer-mat before him, he sent the lad to the devil for a cognac. The
waiter came with the liqueur-bottle; Maurice drank the contents
of one and then another of the tiny glasses. A genial warmth
ran through him and his nausea ceased. He leaned his head on his
hands, closed his eyes, and, soothed by the heat of the room, had a
few moments' pleasant lapse of consciousness.

He was roused by the entrance of a noisy party of three. These were
strangers to him, and when they had mentioned their names and learned
his, they sat down at the other end of the table and talked among
themselves. They were followed by a couple of men known to Maurice by
sight. One, an Italian, a stout, animated man, with prominent
jet-black eyes and huge white teeth, was a fellow-pupil of Schilsky's,
and a violinist of repute, notwithstanding the size and fleshiness of
his hands, which were out of all proportion to the delicate build of
his instrument. The other was a slender youth of fantastic appearance.
He wore a long, old-fashioned overcoat, which reached to his heels,
and was moulded to a shapely waist; on his fingers were numerous
rings; his bushy hair was scented and thickly curled, his face painted
and pencilled like a woman's. He did not sit down, but, returning to
the public room, leaned over the counter and talked to the BUFFETDAME,
in a tone which had nothing in common with Furst's hearty familiarity.

Next came a couple of Americans, loud, self-assertive, careless of
dress and convention; close behind them still another group, and at
its heels, Dove. The latter entered the room with an apologetic air,
and on sitting down at the head of the table, next Maurice, mentioned
at once that, at heart, he was not partial to this kind of thing, and
was only there because he believed the present to be an exceptional
occasion: who knew but what, in after years, he might not be proud to
claim having, made one of the party on this particular evening?--the
plain truth being that Schilsky was little popular with his own sex,
and, in consequence of the difficulty of beating up a round dozen of
men, Furst had been forced to be very pressing in his invitations, to
have recourse to bribes and promises, or, as in the case of Dove, to
stimulating the imagination. The majority of the guests present were
not particular who paid for their drink, provided they got it.

At Krafft's entry, a stifled laugh went round. To judge from his
appearance, he had not been in bed the previous night: sleep seemed to
hang on his red and sunken eyelids; his hands and face were
dirty, and when he took off his coat, which he had worn turned up at
the neck, it was seen that he had either lost or forgotten his collar.
Shirt and waistcoat were insufficiently buttoned. His walk was steady,
but his eyes had a glassy stare, and did not seem to see what they
rested on. A strong odour of brandy went out from him; but he had not
been many minutes in the room before a stronger and more penetrating
smell made itself felt. The rest of the company began to sniff and
ejaculate, and Furst, having tracked it to the corner where the
overcoats hung, drew out of one of Krafft's pockets a greasy newspaper
parcel, evidently some days old, containing bones, scraps of decaying
meat, and rancid fish. The PICCOLO, summoned by a general shout, was
bade to dispose of the garbage instantly, and to hang the coat in a
draughty place to air. Various epithets were hurled at Krafft, who,
however, sat picking his teeth with unconcern, as if what went on
around him had nothing to do with him.

They were now all collected but Schilsky, and much beer had been
drunk. Furst was in his usual state of agitation lest his friend
should forget to keep the appointment; and the spirits of those--there
were several such present--who suffered almost physical pain from
seeing another than themselves the centre of interest, went up by
leaps and bounds. But at this juncture, Schilsky's voice was heard in
the next room. It was raised and angry; it snarled at a waiter.
Significant glances flew round the table: for the young man's
outbursts of temper were well known to all. He entered, making no
response to the greetings that were offered him, displaying his anger
with genial indifference to what others thought of him. To the PICCOLO
he tossed coat and hat, and swore at the boy for not catching them.
Then he let his loose-limbed body down on the vacant chair, and drank
off the glass of PILSENER that was set before him.

There was a pause of embarrassment. The next moment, however, several
men spoke at once: Furst continued a story he was telling, some one
else capped it, and the mirth these anecdotes provoked was more than
ordinarily uproarious. Schilsky sat silent, letting his sullen mouth
hang, and tapping the table with his fingers. Meanwhile, he emptied
one glass of beer after another. The PICCOLO could hardly cope with
the demands that were made on him, and staggered about, top-heavy, with
his load of glasses.

But it was impossible to let the evening pass as flatly as
this; besides, as the general hilarity increased, it made those
present less sensitive to the mood of the guest of honour. Furst was a
born speaker, and his heart was full. So, presently, he rose to his
feet, struck his glass, and, in spite of Schilsky's deepening scowl,
held a flowery speech about his departing friend. The only answer
Schilsky gave was a muttered request to cease making an idiot of himself.

This was going rather too far; but no one protested, except Ford, the
pianist, who said in English: "Speesch? Call that a speesch?"

Furst, inclined in the first moment of rebuff to be touchy, allowed his
natural goodness of heart to prevail. He leaned forward, and said, not
without pathos: "Old man, we are all your friends here. Something's
the matter. Tell us what it is."

Before Schilsky could reply, Krafft awakened from his apparent stupor to
say with extreme distinctness: "I'll tell you. There's been the devil
to pay."

"Now, chuck it, Krafft!" cried one or two, not without alarm at the
turn things might take.

But Schilsky, whose anger had begun to subside under the influence of
the two litres he had drunk, said slowly and thickly: "Let him be.
What he says is the truth--gospel truth."

"Oh, say, that's to' bad!" cried one of the Americans--a lean man, with
the mouth and chin of a Methodist.

All kept silence now, in the hope that Schilsky would continue. As he
did not, but sat brooding, Furst, in his role of peacemaker, clapped
him on the back. "Well, forget it for to-night, old man! What does it
matter? To-morrow you'll be miles away."

This struck a reminiscence in Ford, who forthwith tried to sing:

I'm off by the morning train,
Across the raging main----

"That's easily said!" Schilsky threw a dark look round the table. "By
those who haven't been through it. I have. And I'd rather have lost a
hand."

Krafft laughed--that is to say, a cackle of laughter issued from his
mouth, while his glazed eyes stared idiotically. "He shall tell us
about it. Waiter, a round of SCHNAPS!"

"Shut up, Krafft!" said Furst uneasily.

"Damn you, Heinz!" cried Schilsky, striking the table. He
swallowed his brandy at a gulp, and held out the glass to be refilled.
His anger fell still more; he began to commiserate himself. "By Hell,
I wish a plague would sweep every woman off the earth!"

"The deuce, why don't you keep clear of them?"

Schilsky laughed, without raising his heavy eyes. "If they'd only give
one the chance. Damn them all!--old and young----I say. If it weren't
for them, a man could lead a quiet life."

"It'll all come out in the wash," consoled the American.

Maurice heard everything that passed, distinctly; but the words seemed
to be bandied at an immeasurable distance from him. He remained quite
undisturbed, and would have felt like a god looking on at the doings
of an infinitesimal world, had it not been for a wheel which revolved
in his head, and hindered him from thinking connectedly. So far,
drinking had brought him no pleasure; and he had sense enough to find
the proximity of Ford disagreeable; for the latter spilt half the
liquor he tried to swallow over himself, and half over his neighbour.

A fresh imprecation of Schilsky's called forth more laughter. On its
subsidence, Krafft awoke to his surroundings again. "What has the old
woman given you?" he asked, with his strange precision of speech and
his drunken eyes.

Schilsky struck the table with his fist. "Look at him!--shamming
drunk, the bitch!" he cried.

"Never mind him; he don't count. How much did she give you?"

"Oh, gee, go on!"

But Schilsky, turned sullen again, refused to answer.

"Out with it then, Krafft!--you know, you scoundrel, you!"

Krafft put his hand to the side of his mouth. "She gave him three
thousand marks."

On all sides the exclamations flew.

"Oh, gee-henna!"

"Golly for her!"

"DREI TAUSEND MARK!--ALLE EHRE!"

Again Krafft leaned forward with a maudlin laugh.

"JAWOHL--but on what condition?"

"Heinz, you ferret out things like a pig's snout," said Furst with an
exaggerated, tipsy disgust.

"What, the old louse made conditions, did she?"

"Is she jealous?"

There was another roar at this. Schilsky looked as black as
thunder.

Again Furst strove to intercede. "Jealous?--in seven devils' name, why
jealous? The old scarecrow! She hasn't an ounce of flesh to her bones."

Schilsky laughed. "Much you know about it, you fool! Flesh or no
flesh, she's as troublesome as the plumpest. I wouldn't go through the
last month again for all you could offer me. Month?--no, nor the last
six months either! It's been a hell of a life. Three of 'em, whole
damned three, at my heels, and each ready to tear the others' eyes
out."

"Three! Hullo!"

"Three? Bah!--what's three?" sneered the painted youth.

Schilsky turned on him. "What's three? Go and try it, if you want to
know, you pap-sodden suckling! Three, I said, and they've ended by
making the place too hot to hold me. But I'm done now. No more for
me!--if my name's what it is."

Having once broken through his reserve, he talked on, with heated
fluency; and the longer he spoke, the more he was carried away by his
grievances. For, all he had asked for, he assured his hearers, had
been peace and quiet--the peace necessary to important work. "Jesus and
Mary! Are a fellow's chief obligations not his obligations to
himself?" At the same time, it was not his intention to put any of the
blame on Lulu's shoulders: she couldn't help herself. "Lulu is Lulu.
I'm damned fond of Lulu, boys, and I've always done my best by her--is
there anyone here who wants to say I haven't?"

There was none; a chorus of sympathetic ayes went up from the party
that was drinking at his expense.

Mollified, he proceeded, asserting vehemently that he would have gone
miles out of his. way to avoid causing Lulu pain. "I'm a soft-hearted
fool--I admit it!--where a woman is concerned." But he had yielded to
her often enough--too often--as it was; the time had come for him to
make a stand. Let those present remember what he had sacrificed only
that summer for Lulu's sake. Would anyone else have done as much for
his girl? He made bold to doubt it. For a man like Zeppelin to come to
him, and to declare, with tears in his eyes, that he could teach him
no more--could he afford to treat a matter like that with indifference?
Had he really been free to make a choice?

Again he looked round the table with emphasis, and those who
had their muscles sufficiently under control, hastened to lay their
faces in seemly folds.

Then, however, Schilsky's mood changed; he struck the table so that
the glasses danced. "And shall I tell you what my reward has been for
not going? Do you want to know how Lulu has treated me for staying on
here? 'You are a quarter of an hour late: where have you been? You've
only written two bars since I saw you this morning: what have you been
doing? A letter has come in a strange writing: who is it from? You've
put on another tie: who have you been to see?' HIMMELSAKRAMENT!" He
drained his glass. "I've had the life of a dog, I tell you--of a dog!
There's not been a moment in the day when she hasn't spied on me, and
followed me, and made me ridiculous. Over every trifle she has got up
a fresh scene. She's even gone so far as to come to my room and search
my pockets, when she knew I wasn't at home."

"Yes, yes," sneered Krafft. "Exactly! And so, gentlemen he was now for
slinking off without a word to her."

"Oh, PFUI!" spat the American.

"Call him a liar!" said a voice.

"Liar?" repeated Schilsky dramatically. "Why liar? I don't deny it. I
would have done it gladly if I could--isn't that just what I've been
saying? Lulu would have got over it all the quicker alone. And then,
why shouldn't I confess it? You're all my friends here." He dropped
his voice. "I'm afraid of Lulu, boys. I was afraid she'd get round me,
and then my chance was gone. She might have shot me, but she wouldn't
have let me go. You never know how a woman of that type'll break
out--never!"

"But she didn't!" said Krafft. "You live."

Schilsky understood him.

"Some brute," he cried savagely, "some dirty brute had nothing better
to do than to tell her."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the painted boy.

Furst blew his nose. "It wasn't me. I was mum. 'Pon my honour, I was."

"My God!" said Schilsky, and fell to remembering it. "What a time I've
been through with her this afternoon!" He threatened to be overcome by
the recollection, and supported his head on his hands. "A woman has no
gratitude," he murmured, and drew his handkerchief from his pocket.
"It is a weak, childish sex--with no inkling of higher things."
Here, however, he suddenly drew himself up. "Life is very hard!" he
cried, in a loud voice. "The perpetual struggle between duty and
inclination for a man of genius . . . !"

He grew franker, and gave gratuitous details of the scene that had
taken place in his room that afternoon. Most of those present were in
ecstasies at this divulging of his private life, which went forward to
the accompaniment of snores from Ford, and the voice of Dove, who,
with portentous gravity, sang over and over again, the first strophe
of THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

"A fury!" said Schilsky. "A . . . a what do you call it ?--a . . . Meg
. . . a Meg--" He gave it up and went on: "By God, but Lulu knows how!
Keep clear of her nails, boys--I'd advise you!" At this point, he
pulled back his collar, and exhibited a long, dark scratch on the side
of his neck. "A little remembrance she gave me to take away with me!"
While he displayed it, he seemed to be rather proud of it; but
immediately afterwards, his mood veered round again to one of bitter
resentment. To illustrate the injustice she had been guilty of, and
his own long-suffering, he related, at length, the story of his
flirtation with Ephie, and the infinite pains he had been at to keep
Louise in ignorance of what was happening. He grew very tender with
himself as he told it. For, according to him, the whole affair had
come about without any assistance of his. "What the deuce was I to do?
Chucked herself full at my head, did the little one. No invitation
necessary--a ripe plum, boys! Touch the plum--and off it tumbles! As
pretty a little thing, too, as ever was made! Had everything arranged
by the second meeting. Papa to set us up; house in New York; money IN
HULLE UND FULLE!"

At the mention of New York, the lean American looked grave. "Look
here, you, don't think you're the whole shoot because you've got a
wave in your hair!" he murmured in English.

But Schilsky did not hear him; his voice droned on, giving the full
particulars of this particular case. He grew momentarily opener.

"One no sooner out of the door than the other was in," he asserted,
and laughed long to himself.

For some time past, Maurice had been possessed by the idea that what
was happening concerned him very nearly, and that he ought to
interfere and put his foot down. His hands had grown cold, and
he sat vainly trying to speak: nothing, however, came, but little
drunken gulps and hiccups. But the first mention of Ephie's name
seemed to put new strength into him; he made a violent effort, and
rose to his feet, holding on to the table with both hands. He could
not, however, manage to attract attention; no one took any notice of
him; and besides this, he had himself no notion what it was that he
really wanted to say.

"And drowns his sorrows in the convivial glass!" he suddenly shouted
in English, at the top of his voice, which he had found. He had a
vague belief that he was quoting a well-known line of poetry, and,
though he did not in the least understand how it applied to the
situation, he continued to repeat it, with varying shades of fervour,
till some one called out: "Oh, stop your blasted rot!"

He laughed hoarsely at this, could not check himself, and was so
exhausted when he had finished that it took him some time to remember
why he was on his feet. Schilsky was still relating: his face was
darkly red, his voice husky, and he flapped his arms with meaningless
gestures. A passionate rebellion, a kind of primitive hatred, gripped
Maurice, and when Schilsky paused for breath, he could contain himself
no longer. He felt the burning need of contradicting the speaker, even
though he could not catch the drift of what was said.

"It's a lie!" he cried fiercely, with such emphasis that every face
was turned to him. "A damned lie!"

"A lie? What the devil do you mean?" responded not one but many
voices--the whole table seemed to be asking him, with the exception of
Dove, who sang on in an ever decreasing tempo.

"Get out!--Let him alone; he's drunk. He doesn't know what he's
saying--He's got rats in his head!" he heard voices asserting.
Forthwith he began a lengthy defence of himself, broken only by gaps
in which his brain refused to work. Conscious that no one was
listening to him, he bawled more and more loudly.

"Oh, quit it, you double-barrelled ass!" said the American.

Schilsky, persuaded by those next him to let the incident pass
unnoticed, contented himself with a: "VERFLUCHTE SCHWEINEREI!" spat,
after Furst's gurgled account of Maurice's previous insobriety, across
the floor behind him, to express his contempt, and proceeded as
dominatingly as before with the narration of his love-affairs.

The blood rushed to Maurice's head at the sound of this voice
which he could neither curb nor understand. Rage mastered him--a
vehement desire to be quits. He kicked back his chair, and rocked to
and fro.

"It's a lie--a dirty lie!" he cried. "You make her unhappy--God, how
unhappy you make her! You illtreat her. You've never given her a day's
happiness. S . . . said so . . . herself. I heard her . . . I
swear . . . I----"

His voice turned to a whine; his words came thick and incoherent.

Schilsky sprang to his feet and aimed the contents of a half-emptied
glass at Maurice's face. "Take that, you blasted spy!--you Englishman!"
he spluttered. "I'll teach you to mix your dirty self in my affairs!"

Every one jumped up; there was noise and confusion; simultaneously two
waiters entered the room, as if they had not been unprepared for
something of this kind. Furst and another man restrained Schilsky by
the arms, reasoning with him with more force than coherence. Maurice,
the beer dripping from chin, collar and shirt-front, struggled
furiously with some one who held him back.

"Let me get at him--let me get at him!" he cried. "I'll teach him to
treat a woman as he does. The sneak--the cur--the filthy cad! He's not fit
to touch her hand--her beautiful hand--her beau . . . ti . . . ful----"
Here, overpowered by his feelings, as much as by superior strength, he
sank on a chair and wept.

"I'll break his bones!" raved Schilsky. "What the hell does he mean by
it?--the INFAME SCHUFT, the AAS, the dirty ENGLANDER! Thinks he'll
sneak after her himself, does he?--What in Jesus' name is it to him how
I treat her? I'll take a stick to her if I like--it's none of his
blasted business! Look here, do you see that?" He freed one hand,
fumbled in his pocket, and, almost inarticulate with rage and liquor,
brandished a key across the table. "Do you see that? That's a key,
isn't it, you drunken hog? Well, with that key, I can let myself into
Lulu's room at any hour I want to; I can go there now, this very
minute, if I like--do you think she'll turn me out, you infernal spy?
Turn me out?--she'd go down on her knees here before you all to get me
back to her!"