PART III
I
Down by the River Wye, among plum-trees in blossom, Noel had laid her baby in a hammock, and stood reading a letter:
“MY DEAREST NOLLIE,
“Now that you are strong again, I feel that I must put before you my feeling as to your duty in this crisis of your life. Your aunt and uncle have made the most kind and generous offer to adopt your little boy. I have known that this was in their minds for some time, and have thought it over day and night for weeks. In the worldly sense it would be the best thing, no doubt. But this is a spiritual matter. The future of our souls depends on how we meet the consequences of our conduct. And painful, dreadful, indeed, as they must be, I am driven to feel that you can only reach true peace by facing them in a spirit of brave humility. I want you to think and think – till you arrive at a certainty which satisfies your conscience. If you decide, as I trust you will, to come back to me here with your boy, I shall do all in my power to make you happy while we face the future together. To do as your aunt and uncle in their kindness wish, would, I am sore afraid, end in depriving you of the inner strength and happiness which God only gives to those who do their duty and try courageously to repair their errors. I have confidence in you, my dear child.
“Ever your most loving father,
“EDWARD PIERSON.”
She read it through a second time, and looked at her baby. Daddy seemed to think that she might be willing to part from this wonderful creature! Sunlight fell through the plum blossom, in an extra patchwork quilt over the bundle lying there, touched the baby’s nose and mouth, so that he sneezed. Noel laughed, and put her lips close to his face. ‘Give you up!’ she thought: ‘Oh, no! And I’m going to be happy too. They shan’t stop me:
In answer to the letter she said simply that she was coming up; and a week later she went, to the dismay of her uncle and aunt. The old nurse went too. Everything had hitherto been so carefully watched and guarded against by Thirza, that Noel did not really come face to face with her position till she reached home.
Gratian, who had managed to get transferred to a London Hospital, was now living at home. She had provided the house with new maids against her sister’s return; and though Noel was relieved not to meet her old familiars, she encountered with difficulty the stolid curiosity of new faces. That morning before she left Kestrel, her aunt had come into her room while she was dressing, taken her left hand and slipped a little gold band on to its third finger. “To please me, Nollie, now that you’re going, just for the foolish, who know nothing about you.”
Noel had suffered it with the thought: ‘It’s all very silly!’ But now, when the new maid was pouring out her hot water, she was suddenly aware of the girl’s round blue eyes wandering, as it were, mechanically to her hand. This little hoop of gold, then, had an awful power! A rush of disgust came over her. All life seemed suddenly a thing of forms and sham. Everybody then would look at that little ring; and she was a coward, saving herself from them! When she was alone again, she slipped it off, and laid it on the washstand, where the sunlight fell. Only this little shining band of metal, this little yellow ring, stood between her and the world’s hostile scorn! Her lips trembled. She took up the ring, and went to the open window; to throw it out. But she did not, uncertain and unhappy – half realising the cruelty of life. A knock at the door sent her flying back to the washstand. The visitor was Gratian.
“I’ve been looking at him,” she said softly; “he’s like you, Nollie, except for his nose.”
“He’s hardly got one yet. But aren’t his eyes intelligent? I think they’re wonderful.” She held up the ring: “What shall I do about this, Gratian?”
Gratian flushed. “Wear it. I don’t see why outsiders should know. For the sake of Dad I think you ought. There’s the parish.”
Noel slipped the ring back on to her finger. “Would you?”
“I can’t tell. I think I would.”
Noel laughed suddenly. “I’m going to get cynical; I can feel it in my bones. How is Daddy looking?”
“Very thin; Mr. Lauder is back again from the Front for a bit, and taking some of the work now.”
“Do I hurt him very much still?”
“He’s awfully pleased that you’ve come. He’s as sweet as he can be about you.”
“Yes,” murmured Noel, “that’s what’s dreadful. I’m glad he wasn’t in when I came. Has he told anyone?”
Gratian shook her head. “I don’t think anybody knows; unless – perhaps Captain Fort. He came in again the other night; and somehow – ”
Noel flushed. “Leila!” she said enigmatically. “Have you seen her?”
“I went to her flat last week with Dad – he likes her.”
“Delilah is her real name, you know. All men like her. And Captain Fort is her lover.”
Gratian gasped. Noel would say things sometimes which made her feel the younger of the two.
“Of course he is,” went on Noel in a hard voice. “She has no men friends; her sort never have, only lovers. Why do you think he knows about me?”
“When he asked after you he looked – ”
“Yes; I’ve seen him look like that when he’s sorry for anything. I don’t care. Has Monsieur Lavendie been in lately?”
“Yes; he looks awfully unhappy.”
“His wife drugs.”
“Oh, Nollie! How do you know?”
“I saw her once; I’m sure she does; there was a smell; and she’s got wandering eyes that go all glassy. He can paint me now, if he likes. I wouldn’t let him before. Does he know?”
“Of course not.”
“He knows there was something; he’s got second sight, I think. But I mind him less than anybody. Is his picture of Daddy good?”
“Powerful, but it hurts, somehow.”
“Let’s go down and see it.”
The picture was hung in the drawing-room, and its intense modernity made that old-fashioned room seem lifeless and strange. The black figure, with long pale fingers touching the paler piano keys, had a frightening actuality. The face, three-quarters full, was raised as if for inspiration, and the eyes rested, dreamy and unseeing, on the face of a girl painted and hung on a background of wall above the piano.
“It’s the face of that girl,” said Gratian, when they had looked at the picture for some time in silence:
“No,” said Noel, “it’s the look in his eyes.”
“But why did he choose such a horrid, common girl? Isn’t she fearfully alive, though? She looks as if she were saying: ‘Cheerio!’.rdquo;
“She is; it’s awfully pathetic, I think. Poor Daddy!”
“It’s a libel,” said Gratian stubbornly.
“No. That’s what hurts. He isn’t quite – quite all there. Will he be coming in soon?”
Gratian took her arm, and pressed it hard. “Would you like me at dinner or not; I can easily be out?”
Noel shook her head. “It’s no good to funk it. He wanted me, and now he’s got me. Oh! why did he? It’ll be awful for him.”
Gratian sighed. “I’ve tried my best, but he always said: ‘I’ve thought so long about it all that I can’t think any longer. I can only feel the braver course is the best. When things are bravely and humbly met, there will be charity and forgiveness.’.rdquo;
“There won’t,” said Noel, “Daddy’s a saint, and he doesn’t see.”
“Yes, he is a saint. But one must think for oneself – one simply must. I can’t believe as he does, any more; can you, Nollie?”
“I don’t know. When I was going through it, I prayed; but I don’t know whether I really believed. I don’t think I mind much about that, one way or the other.”
“I mind terribly,” said Gratian, “I want the truth.”
“I don’t know what I want,” said Noel slowly, “except that sometimes I want – life; awfully.”
And the two sisters were silent, looking at each other with a sort of wonder.
Noel had a fancy to put on a bright-coloured blue frock that evening, and at her neck she hung a Breton cross of old paste, which had belonged to her mother. When she had finished dressing she went into the nursery and stood by the baby’s cot. The old nurse who was sitting there beside him, got up at once and said:
“He’s sleeping beautiful – the lamb. I’ll go down and get a cup o’ tea, and come up, ma’am, when the gong goes.” In the way peculiar to those who have never to initiate, but only to support positions in which they are placed by others, she had adopted for herself the theory that Noel was a real war-widow. She knew the truth perfectly; for she had watched that hurried little romance at Kestrel, but by dint of charity and blurred meditations it was easy for her to imagine the marriage ceremony which would and should have taken place; and she was zealous that other people should imagine it too. It was so much more regular and natural like that, and “her” baby invested with his proper dignity. She went downstairs to get a “cup o’ tea,” thinking: ‘A picture they make – that they do, bless his little heart; and his pretty little mother – no more than a child, all said and done.’
Noel had been standing there some minutes in the failing light, absorbed in the face of the sleeping baby, when, raising her eyes, she saw in a mirror the refection of her father’s dark figure by the door. She could hear him breathing as if the ascent of the stairs had tired him; and moving to the head of the cot, she rested her hand on it, and turned her face towards him. He came up and stood beside her, looking silently down at the baby. She saw him make the sign of the Cross above it, and the movement of his lips in prayer. Love for her father, and rebellion against this intercession for her perfect baby fought so hard in the girl’s heart that she felt suffocated, and glad of the dark, so that he could not see her eyes. Then he took her hand and put it to his lips, but still without a word; and for the life of her she could not speak either. In silence, he kissed her forehead; and there mounted in Noel a sudden passion of longing to show him her pride and love for her baby. She put her finger down and touched one of his hands. The tiny sleeping fingers uncurled and, like some little sea anemone, clutched round it. She heard her father draw his breath in; saw him turn away quickly, silently, and go out. And she stayed, hardly breathing, with the hand of her baby squeezing her finger.
II
1
When Edward Pierson, afraid of his own emotion, left the twilit nursery, he slipped into his own room, and fell on his knees beside his bed, absorbed in the vision he had seen. That young figure in Madonna blue, with the halo of bright hair; the sleeping babe in the fine dusk; the silence, the adoration in that white room! He saw, too; a vision of the past, when Noel herself had been the sleeping babe within her mother’s arm, and he had stood beside them, wondering and giving praise. It passed with its other-worldliness and the fine holiness which belongs to beauty, passed and left the tormenting realism of life. Ah! to live with only the inner meaning, spiritual and beautifed, in a rare wonderment such as he had experienced just now!
His alarum clock, while he knelt in his narrow, monkish little room – ticked the evening hour away into darkness. And still he knelt, dreading to come back into it all, to face the world’s eyes, and the sound of the world’s tongue, and the touch of the rough, the gross, the unseemly. How could he guard his child? How preserve that vision in her life, in her spirit, about to enter such cold, rough waters? But the gong sounded; he got up, and went downstairs.
But this first family moment, which all had dreaded, was relieved, as dreaded moments so often are, by the unexpected appearance of the Belgian painter. He had a general invitation, of which he often availed himself; but he was so silent, and his thin, beardless face, which seemed all eyes and brow, so mournful, that all three felt in the presence of a sorrow deeper even than their own family grief. During the meal he gazed silently at Noel. Once he said: “You will let me paint you now, mademoiselle, I hope?” and his face brightened a little when she nodded. There was never much talk when he came, for any depth of discussion, even of art, brought out at once too wide a difference. And Pierson could never avoid a vague irritation with one who clearly had spirituality, but of a sort which he could not understand. After dinner he excused himself, and went off to his study. Monsieur would be happier alone with the two girls! Gratian, too, got up. She had remembered Noel’s words: “I mind him less than anybody.” It was a chance for Nollie to break the ice.
2
“I have not seen you for a long time, mademoiselle,” said the painter, when they were alone.
Noel was sitting in front of the empty drawing-room hearth, with her arms stretched out as if there had been a fire there.
“I’ve been away. How are you going to paint me, monsieur?”
“In that dress, mademoiselle; Just as you are now, warming yourself at the fire of life.”
“But it isn’t there.”
“Yes, fires soon go out. Mademoiselle, will you come and see my wife? She is ill.”
“Now?” asked Noel, startled.
“Yes, now. She is really ill, and I have no one there. That is what I came to ask of your sister; but – now you are here, it’s even better. She likes you.”
Noel got up. “Wait one minute!” she said, and ran upstairs. Her baby was asleep, and the old nurse dozing. Putting on a cloak and cap of grey rabbit’s fur, she ran down again to the hall where the painter was waiting; and they went out together.
“I do not know if I am to blame,” he said, “my wife has been no real wife to me since she knew I had a mistress and was no real husband to her.”
Noel stared round at his face lighted by a queer, smile.
“Yes,” he went on, “from that has come her tragedy. But she should have known before I married her. Nothing was concealed. Bon Dieu! she should have known! Why cannot a woman see things as they are? My mistress, mademoiselle, is not a thing of flesh. It is my art. It has always been first with me, and always will. She has never accepted that, she is incapable of accepting it. I am sorry for her. But what would you? I was a fool to marry her. Chere mademoiselle, no troubles are anything beside the trouble which goes on day and night, meal after meal, year, after year, between two people who should never have married, because one loves too much and requires all, and the other loves not at all – no, not at all, now, it is long dead – and can give but little.”
“Can’t you separate?” asked Noel, wondering.
“It is hard to separate from one who craves for you as she craves her drugs – yes, she takes drugs now, mademoiselle. It is impossible for one who has any compassion in his soul. Besides, what would she do? We live from hand to mouth, in a strange land. She has no friends here, not one. How could I leave her while this war lasts? As well could two persons on a desert island separate. She is killing herself, too, with these drugs, and I cannot stop her.”
“Poor madame!” murmured Noel. “Poor monsieur!”
The painter drew his hand across his eyes.
“I cannot change my nature,” he said in a stifled voice, “nor she hers. So we go on. But life will stop suddenly some day for one of us. After all, it is much worse for her than for me. Enter, mademoiselle. Do not tell her I am going to paint you; she likes you, because you refused to let me.”
Noel went up the stairs, shuddering; she had been there once before, and remembered that sickly scent of drugs. On the third floor they entered a small sitting-room whose walls were covered with paintings and drawings; from one corner a triangular stack of canvases jutted out. There was little furniture save an old red sofa, and on this was seated a stoutish man in the garb of a Belgian soldier, with his elbows on his knees and his bearded cheeks resting on his doubled fists. Beside him on the sofa, nursing a doll, was a little girl, who looked up at Noel. She had a most strange, attractive, pale little face, with pointed chin and large eyes, which never moved from this apparition in grey rabbits’ skins.
“Ah, Barra! You here!” said the painter:
“Mademoiselle, this is Monsieur Barra, a friend of ours from the front; and this is our landlady’s little girl. A little refugee, too, aren’t you, Chica?”
The child gave him a sudden brilliant smile and resumed her grave scrutiny of the visitor. The soldier, who had risen heavily, offered Noel one of his podgy hands, with a sad and heavy giggle.
“Sit down, mademoiselle,” said Lavendie, placing a chair for her: “I will bring my wife in,” and he went out through some double doors.
Noel sat down. The soldier had resumed his old attitude, and the little girl her nursing of the doll, though her big eyes still watched the visitor. Overcome by strangeness, Noel made no attempt to talk. And presently through the double doors the painter and his wife came in. She was a thin woman in a red wrapper, with hollow cheeks, high cheek-bones, and hungry eyes; her dark hair hung loose, and one hand played restlessly with a fold of her gown. She took Noel’s hand; and her uplifted eyes seemed to dig into the girl’s face, to let go suddenly, and flutter.
“How do you do?” she said in English. “So Pierre brought you, to see me again. I remember you so well. You would not let him paint you. Ah! que c’est drole! You are so pretty, too. Hein, Monsieur Barra, is not mademoiselle pretty?”
The soldier gave his heavy giggle, and resumed his scrutiny of the floor.
“Henriette,” said Lavendie, “sit down beside Chica – you must not stand. Sit down, mademoiselle, I beg.”
“I’m so sorry you’re not well,” said Noel, and sat down again.
The painter stood leaning against the wall, and his wife looked up at his tall, thin figure, with eyes which had in them anger, and a sort of cunning.
“A great painter, my husband, is he not?” she said to Noel. “You would not imagine what that man can do. And how he paints – all day long; and all night in his head. And so you would not let him paint you, after all?”
Lavendie said impatiently: “Voyons, Henriette, causez d’autre chose.”
His wife plucked nervously at a fold in her red gown, and gave him the look of a dog that has been rebuked.
“I am a prisoner here, mademoiselle, I never leave the house. Here I live day after day – my husband is always painting. Who would go out alone under this grey sky of yours, and the hatreds of the war in every face? I prefer to keep my room. My husband goes painting; every face he sees interests him, except that which he sees every day. But I am a prisoner. Monsieur Barra is our first visitor for a long time.”
The soldier raised his face from his fists. “Prisonnier, madame! What would you say if you were out there?” And he gave his thick giggle. “We are the prisoners, we others. What would you say to imprisonment by explosion day and night; never a minute free. Bom! Bom! Bom! Ah! les tranchees! It’s not so free as all that, there.”
“Every one has his own prison,” said Lavendie bitterly. “Mademoiselle even, has her prison – and little Chica, and her doll. Every one has his prison, Barra. Monsieur Barra is also a painter, mademoiselle.”
“Moi!” said Barra, lifting his heavy hairy hand. “I paint puddles, star-bombs, horses’ ribs – I paint holes and holes and holes, wire and wire and wire, and water – long white ugly water. I paint splinters, and men’s souls naked, and men’s bodies dead, and nightmare – nightmare – all day and all night – I paint them in my head.” He suddenly ceased speaking and relapsed into contemplation of the carpet, with his bearded cheeks resting on his fists. “And their souls as white as snow, les camarades,” he added suddenly and loudly, “millions of Belgians, English, French, even the Boches, with white souls. I paint those souls!”
A little shiver ran through Noel, and she looked appealingly at Lavendie.
“Barra,” he said, as if the soldier were not there, “is a great painter, but the Front has turned his head a little. What he says is true, though. There is no hatred out there. It is here that we are prisoners of hatred, mademoiselle; avoid hatreds – they are poison!”
His wife put out her hand and touched the child’s shoulder.
“Why should we not hate?” she said. “Who killed Chica’s father, and blew her home to-rags? Who threw her out into this horrible England – pardon, mademoiselle, but it is horrible. Ah! les Boches! If my hatred could destroy them there would not be one left. Even my husband was not so mad about his painting when we lived at home. But here – !” Her eyes darted at his face again, and then sank as if rebuked. Noel saw the painter’s lips move. The sick woman’s whole figure writhed.
“It is mania, your painting!” She looked at Noel with a smile. “Will you have some tea, mademoiselle? Monsieur Barra, some tea?”
The soldier said thickly: “No, madame; in the trenches we have tea enough. It consoles us. But when we get away – give us wine, le bon vin; le bon petit vin!”
“Get some wine, Pierre!”
Noel saw from the painter’s face that there was no wine, and perhaps no money to get any; but he went quickly out. She rose and said:
“I must be going, madame.”
Madame Lavendie leaned forward and clutched her wrist. “Wait a little, mademoiselle. We shall have some wine, and Pierre shall take you back presently. You cannot go home alone – you are too pretty. Is she not, Monsieur Barra?”
The soldier looked up: “What would you say,” he said, “to bottles of wine bursting in the air, bursting red and bursting white, all day long, all night long? Great steel bottles, large as Chica: bits of bottles, carrying off men’s heads? Bsum, garra-a-a, and a house comes down, and little bits of people ever so small, ever so small, tiny bits in the air and all over the ground. Great souls out there, madame. But I will tell you a secret,” and again he gave his heavy giggle, “all a little, little mad; nothing to speak of – just a little bit mad; like a watch, you know, that you can wind for ever. That is the discovery of this war, mademoiselle,” he said, addressing Noel for the first time, “you cannot gain a great soul till you are a little mad.” And lowering his piggy grey eyes at once, he resumed his former attitude. “It is that madness I shall paint some day,” he announced to the carpet; “lurking in one tiny corner of each soul of all those millions, as it creeps, as it peeps, ever so sudden, ever so little when we all think it has been put to bed, here – there, now – then, when you least think; in and out like a mouse with bright eyes. Millions of men with white souls, all a little mad. A great subject, I think,” he added heavily. Involuntarily Noel put her hand to her heart, which was beating fast. She felt quite sick.
“How long have you been at the Front, monsieur?”
“Two years, mademoiselle. Time to go home and paint, is it not? But art – !” he shrugged his heavy round shoulders, his whole bear-like body. “A little mad,” he muttered once more. “I will tell you a story. Once in winter after I had rested a fortnight, I go back to the trenches at night, and I want some earth to fill up a hole in the ground where I was sleeping; when one has slept in a bed one becomes particular. Well, I scratch it from my parapet, and I come to something funny. I strike my briquet, and there is a Boche’s face all frozen and earthy and dead and greeny-white in the flame from my briquet.”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh! but yes, mademoiselle; true as I sit here. Very useful in the parapet – dead Boche. Once a man like me. But in the morning I could not stand him; we dug him out and buried him, and filled the hole up with other things. But there I stood in the night, and my face as close to his as this” – and he held his thick hand a foot before his face. “We talked of our homes; he had a soul, that man. ‘Il me disait des choses’, how he had suffered; and I, too, told him my sufferings. Dear God, we know all; we shall never know more than we know out there, we others, for we are mad – nothing to speak of, but just a little, little mad. When you see us, mademoiselle, walking the streets, remember that.” And he dropped his face on to his fists again.
A silence had fallen in the room-very queer and complete. The little girl nursed her doll, the soldier gazed at the floor, the woman’s mouth moved stealthily, and in Noel the thought rushed continually to the verge of action: ‘Couldn’t I get up and run downstairs?’ But she sat on, hypnotised by that silence, till Lavendie reappeared with a bottle and four glasses.
“To drink our health, and wish us luck, mademoiselle,” he said.
Noel raised the glass he had given her. “I wish you all happiness.”
“And you, mademoiselle,” the two men murmured.
She drank a little, and rose.
“And now, mademoiselle,” said Lavendie, “if you must go, I will see you home.”
Noel took Madame Lavendie’s hand; it was cold, and returned no pressure; her eyes had the glazed look that she remembered. The soldier had put his empty glass down on the floor, and was regarding it unconscious of her. Noel turned quickly to the door; the last thing she saw was the little girl nursing her doll.
In the street the painter began at once in his rapid French:
“I ought not to have asked you to come, mademoiselle; I did not know our friend Barra was there. Besides, my wife is not fit to receive a lady; vous voyez qu’il y a de la manie dans cette pauvre tote. I should not have asked you; but I was so miserable.”
“Oh!” murmured Noel, “I know.”
“In our home over there she had interests. In this great town she can only nurse her grief against me. Ah! this war! It seems to me we are all in the stomach of a great coiling serpent. We lie there, being digested. In a way it is better out there in the trenches; they are beyond hate, they have attained a height that we have not. It is wonderful how they still can be for going on till they have beaten the Boche; that is curious and it is very great. Did Barra tell you how, when they come back – all these fighters – they are going to rule, and manage the future of the world? But it will not be so. They will mix in with life, separate – be scattered, and they will be ruled as they were before. The tongue and the pen will rule them: those who have not seen the war will rule them.”
“Oh!”’ cried Noel, “surely they will be the bravest and strongest in the future.”
The painter smiled.
“War makes men simple,” he said, “elemental; life in peace is neither simple nor elemental, it is subtle, full of changing environments, to which man must adapt himself; the cunning, the astute, the adaptable, will ever rule in times of peace. It is pathetic, the belief of those brave soldiers that the-future is theirs.”
“He said, a strange thing,” murmured Noel; “that they were all a little mad.”
“He is a man of queer genius – Barra; you should see some of his earlier pictures. Mad is not quite the word, but something is loosened, is rattling round in them, they have lost proportion, they are being forced in one direction. I tell you, mademoiselle, this war is one great forcing-house; every living plant is being made to grow too fast, each quality, each passion; hate and love, intolerance and lust and avarice, courage and energy; yes, and self-sacrifice – all are being forced and forced beyond their strength, beyond the natural flow of the sap, forced till there has come a great wild luxuriant crop, and then – Psum! Presto! The change comes, and these plants will wither and rot and stink. But we who see Life in forms of Art are the only ones who feel that; and we are so few. The natural shape of things is lost. There is a mist of blood before all eyes. Men are afraid of being fair. See how we all hate not only our enemies, but those who differ from us. Look at the streets too – see how men and women rush together, how Venus reigns in this forcing-house. Is it not natural that Youth about to die should yearn for pleasure, for love, for union, before death?”
Noel stared up at him. ‘Now!’ she thought: I will.’
“Yes,” she said, “I know that’s true, because I rushed, myself. I’d like you to know. We couldn’t be married – there wasn’t time. And – he was killed. But his son is alive. That’s why I’ve been away so long. I want every one to know.” She spoke very calmly, but her cheeks felt burning hot.
The painter had made an upward movement of his hands, as if they had been jerked by an electric current, then he said quite quietly:
“My profound respect, mademoiselle, and my great sympathy. And your father?”
“It’s awful for him.”
The painter said gently: “Ah! mademoiselle, I am not so sure. Perhaps he does not suffer so greatly. Perhaps not even your trouble can hurt him very much. He lives in a world apart. That, I think, is his true tragedy to be alive, and yet not living enough to feel reality. Do you know Anatole France’s description of an old woman: ‘Elle vivait, mais si peu.’ Would that not be well said of the Church in these days: ‘Elle vivait, mais si peu.’ I see him always like a rather beautiful dark spire in the night-time when you cannot see how it is attached to the earth. He does not know, he never will know, Life.”
Noel looked round at him. “What do you mean by Life, monsieur? I’m always reading about Life, and people talk of seeing Life! What is it – where is it? I never see anything that you could call Life.”
The painter smiled.
“To ‘see life’.” he said. “Ah! that is different. To enjoy yourself! Well, it is my experience that when people are ‘seeing life’ as they call it, they are not enjoying themselves. You know when one is very thirsty one drinks and drinks, but the thirst remains all the same. There are places where one can see life as it is called, but the only persons you will see enjoying themselves at such places are a few humdrums like myself, who go there for a talk over a cup of coffee. Perhaps at your age, though, it is different.”
Noel clasped her hands, and her eyes seemed to shine in the gloom. “I want music and dancing and light, and beautiful things and faces; but I never get them.”
“No, there does not exist in this town, or in any other, a place which will give you that. Fox-trots and ragtime and paint and powder and glare and half-drunken young men, and women with red lips you can get them in plenty. But rhythm and beauty and charm never. In Brussels when I was younger I saw much ‘life’ as they call it, but not one lovely thing unspoiled; it was all as ashes in the mouth. Ah! you may smile, but I know what I am talking of. Happiness never comes when you are looking for it, mademoiselle; beauty is in Nature and in real art, never in these false silly make believes. There is a place just here where we Belgians go; would you like to see how true my words are?