Firecrackers/Chapter 14
In the days following Mrs. Pollanger's party, Campaspe fell prey to a mood which she uncharacteristically found impossible to shake off. She was thinking, more passionately than ever before, about herself, and her thoughts were black. Gunnar had leaped from the window to avoid her, of that there could be no reasonable doubt, and equally beyond question was the fact that this act bound her inextricably to him until they met again. His escape could not serve to free her; on the contrary, she was imprisoned by it. Looking back, she was reminded that it was the first time in her life she had experienced this unpleasant sensation. However that might be, she was experiencing it now—was no one ever secure, she was beginning to wonder?—and it was extremely disagreeable. She foresaw, indeed, a long period of revolting, and entirely uncustomary, perturbation ahead of her, unless she re-encountered Gunnar. And after? Well, whatever happened then, she readily admitted to herself, depended, precariously, on circumstances. She no longer felt any power within herself strong enough to protect her under certain conditions. With her brain she assured herself that she could still hold herself aloof from him, as she had succeeded, without any conscious effort, in holding herself aloof from other men, but her instinctive desire was so fervid that she did not know what she might do if she met him; she could not know. An unreasoning passion controlled her: her will was crumbling. At present, she was fully aware, she half-belonged to some one else, a state of affairs which she did not condone—rather, she loathed it—but over which, in the circumstances, she held no sway, nor could she anticipate any hope of recovery from this abhorrent emotional ailment save through a providential coincidence that would bring Gunnar before her eyes again. He had obviously run away. A man who would jump out of a window to evade a danger, at best only potential, was perfectly capable of jumping into a river or an ocean to conclusively end his panic. The simpler expedient of putting an ocean between him and the object of his fright might also have occurred to him. The consequence of the situation was that Campaspe hovered between a state of rude impatience and a feeling of impotence that possessed her with a tormenting rage. That her happiness should rest thus, even temporarily, in another's keeping was sufficient cause to infuriate her. She coveted then, with an eager ardour, this opportunity for one more meeting which—and on this point she was firmly determined—should ultimately settle the terms of their relationship.
In this hitherto unexperienced mood she derived her greatest solace through passing her time with Lalla Draycott. Lalla was as free from emotions, she took life as nonchalantly, as a grue in a French farce. Lalla's one interest centred in out-door sports. Every morning, accompanied by her bloodhound, Anubis, she rode in the park on a black stallion called Murder. At the proper seasons, in localities where the sport was possible and fashionable, she indulged in fox-hunting. She attended football and baseball games, and race-meets, and played golf and tennis. She knew the names of every celebrity mentioned in the sporting-pages of the newspapers. She could talk about Paavo Nurmi, Georges Carpentier, Jack Dempsey, Vincent Richards, or Epinard for an entire day without stopping, if any one would listen, whereas it is doubtful if she knew whether Anatole France was President of the Swiss Republic or a member of the Irish Parliament. She went to all the prize-fights and wrestling-matches in Madison Square Garden, usually occupying ringside seats. She enjoyed a bowing acquaintance with Tex Rickard. No horseor dog-show ever opened without her presence. She wore mannish suits and smoked little cigars especially made for her.
Jack Draycott, thoroughly sympathetic with his wife's tastes, was her constant companion. Now, Campaspe had assumed the habit of going along too. She revived her long-forgotten custom of riding in the park. She again took up ice-skating, a smart diversion in New York this winter, at which she had once been an adept. The names of Gene Tunney, Abe Goldstein, Luis Angel Firpo, Tiger Flowers, Harry Wills, and Joe Lynch rolled easily off her tongue. She plunged whole-heartedly into this, to her, unfamiliar milieu in an effort the sooner to forget something she was finding it annoyingly difficult to forget. There was, however, another and even better reason for her avaricious adoption of the sporting life. She had the feeling that if she found Gunnar anywhere it would be in this environment. She never entered the ice-palace without anxiously scanning the faces of the instructors and the star-skaters. She never settled back to watch a prize-fight until she had assured herself that she was unacquainted with the features of the pugilists.
One morning—she had attended one of these bouts with Jack and Lalla the night before and gone out to supper afterwards—waking late, she was informed at once by Frederika that several pressing messages on the part of the Countess Nattatorrini had been delivered over the telephone. Campaspe immediately communicated with the Ritz. A strange voice explained that a nurse was speaking. The Countess was extremely ill; she had expressed a desire to see Mrs. Lorillard. Could she come at once? Mrs. Lorillard affirmed that she would be at the bedside as soon as she could dress, say in three-quarters of an hour.
Opening the door of the Countess's apartment at the appointed time, the nurse drew it nearly closed behind her and stepped out into the corridor.
I am so glad that you could come, Mrs. Lorillard, she began. The Countess is dying. The doctor, who has just gone, informs me that there is no hope. Last night she seemed better and we thought there might be a chance, but that faded away at dawn. The Countess is very much concerned because the priest has not arrived. I have telephoned for him twice, and was told, the second time, that he had not yet left the house. I thought if you would sit with her for a few moments I would go to fetch him. Her maid left several days ago, fearing infection. You know how cowardly French maids are. The Countess's malady is not infectious. There is nothing to do but just sit with her. Perhaps she may ask for something. Give her anything she wants. It doesn't matter now: nothing can hurt her any longer. She is conscious, but slightly delirious: she suffers from curious delusions. You will not, I hope, she concluded, gazing searchingly at Campaspe, find it too horrible.
Shaking her head, Campaspe quickly agreed to substitute for the nurse at the bedside of the dying woman, and as Miss Cottrell adjusted a blue cloak over her white uniform, Campaspe passed on through the salon into the sick-chamber. An overpowering scent harassed her nostrils, a nauseating confusion of some disinfectant with two floral odours which she detested. Clusters of white violets and stalks of tuberoses filled vases which stood on every available flat surface. The Countess, wasted by age and disease, lay on the bed. Her hair, usually so carefully arranged by the hairdresser, was combed straight back and bound loosely. Her eyes now stared unseeingly, now burned with a fierce and penetrating concentration on the object towards which they were directed. Her false teeth had been removed and, as a consequence, her cheeks were sunken hollows. When she saw Compaspe the old woman burst into tears. The nurse was right: it was horrible!
Why didn't you let me know that you were ill? Campaspe demanded.
I didn't want to bother you, Campaspe, the dying woman gasped. At first it was difficult to comprehend her, as her articulation was much affected by her lack of teeth. I didn't believe I was very sick, and I didn't want to bother you. . . . One long, bony claw clutched convulsively at the bed-covering. . . . Now I am no worse, no worse . . . Her voice rose to a shrill shriek which indicated that she would brook no denial . . . but I am so lonely, so lonely. . . . She was whimpering . . . I want a priest, and where is my sister Lou?
Shall I send for her, Ella? Campaspe inquired.
Has no one sent for her, my sister Lou?
Seated before the desk, Campaspe removed a bowl of white violets, and sought a telegraph form. What is her address? she queried.
The Countess gave her this information, and while Campaspe indited the message, lay back gasping. After the boy had called to take it, she mumbled, May I have a glass of water, Campaspe? Where is Miss Cottrell?
She's gone on anerrand. She'll be back directly'll get the water for you.
Why isn't she here? She should be here. I don't like to ask you to wait on me. The Countess was querulous.
Campaspe handed her the water. I'm only too glad to wait on you, dear Ella. I'll do anything you want done.
The bony claw continued to pluck the coverlet. A writhing shudder shook the skeleton lying under the bed-clothes. A hideous, glassy stare came into the eyes of the old woman, and she began to mutter, her lips gradually forming words, until, as she went on, eventually they gushed forth in a torrent. Wicked . . . Yes . . . Wicked . . . I have been . . . a very wicked . . . woman, Campaspe. Will God . . . Will God . . . forgive me, I wonder? How will he punish me? Yet, I meant . . . I meant it . . . to be all right. I was searching . . . searching . . . searching. I had a lantern, and they put it out. I lighted a candle and it was extinguished. They took it away from me. They took everything away from me . . . She sat upright. Campaspe, on the bed beside her, supported the poor, feeble frame. The Countess was for the moment, apparently, unaware of her presence. . . . Cyril! she cried. You here! You've come back to me! You're sorry you left me? You won't go away again, will you? You'll stay with me now and make me happy! Tony, too! . . . Terror coloured the old woman's tones . . . You've all returned! she shrieked, trying to cover her face with her palms, but lacking the strength to lift her arms. All! Albert! Fernand! Gareth! Edgar! You're all here! Tell them to go away, Campaspe! Tell them to go away!
There, there, dear, be quiet. There's nobody here but me. Campaspe smoothed the sallow, fevered brow. The Countess, exhausted, sank back, her head once more cradled in the pillow. The tears flowed down her cheeks. I tried so hard to be happy, she sobbed. I wanted so much to be happy, only happy. I never did any one harm. But they all went away and left me alone. I cannot bear to be alone. Do you think God will forgive me for desiring just a little happiness?
I'm sure he will, dear. Campaspe continued to stroke the calid forehead.
My God, why have you made me suffer so much? Why have you denied me the happiness that others enjoy? Why have you made me a wanderer on the face of the earth, searching, for ever searching? Thy rod and thy staff did not comfort me. My cup was always empty. My days were numbered. . . . Fierce anger dominated her now. . . . I've had nothing, nothing. . . . The bony claw convulsively clutched, clutched.
Her manner suddenly changed. Campaspe, she cajoled, open the drawer of that desk.
Campaspe obeyed her.
The photograph! The photograph! Her impatience was almost obscene.
In a Russian leather case Campaspe found the picture, taken in Nice, of a blond boy of radiant beauty, playing tennis. He reminded her of Hadrian's Bithynian Antinoüs, a classic Greek lad in white flannels.
Give it to me! Give it to me! the Countess screamed, snatching the case from Campaspe's proffering hand as soon as she could reach it.
Luigi! Luigi! she cried, kissing the photograph. I loved you! I love you still. How could you leave me, like all the others? Why were you, too, unfaithful to my dream? Did God take you away from me? I hate God! I hate God! I hate God!
Her words once more became an indistinguishable muttering; the photograph slipped from her fingers and lay, face downwards, on the coverlet. At last, the Countess was silent.
Presently, in a weaker voice, she inquired, Where is the priest?
He's coming in a moment, dear. Try to be patient.
I've been patient so long. I've waited and waited. I've not been so very wicked, after all, Campaspe. All I wanted was a little happiness, just once, that's all, just once. It was so little to ask, and yet God wouldn't give it to me. Will he forgive me, Campaspe? Where is the priest?
Coming, coming, dear.
Suddenly the expression in the senile, worn-out features altered. Weary lassitude gave way to a grisly leer. How do I know, she pondered aloud, but that this may be God's kindness? Perhaps he has held it in reserve until now. The priest is coming. Perhaps he . . .
The Countess, with her sunken cheeks, her staring eyes, the balls covered with a film, her clutching claws, was very terrible now. Campaspe grasped the arms of her chair tightly.
Campaspe, my teeth! I must have my teeth!
Campaspe discovered them in a tumbler of water on the ledge of the wash-basin in the bathroom. She carried the plates to the bedside.
My teeth! Campaspe, quick! The priest is coming. My teeth! My teeth!
Campaspe adjusted the plates in the vacant jaw.
My make-up, Campaspe! My lipstick! My rouge! My powder! Be quick! The priest is coming. Hasten!
Campaspe found the cosmetics in a dresserdrawer. Again she approached the bedside, but this time she faltered.
Make me up, Campaspe! Make me up! God is sending me a priest, a young, beautiful priest! Make me up!
Campaspe applied the rouge and powder to the wasted cheeks. She touched the brows and lashes with a blue pencil. She painted the lips a deep carmine.
My hair, Campaspe! My hair!
Campaspe combed the thin, white hair, and attempted to arrange it more becomingly.
Flowers, Campaspe! Strew the bed with flowers!
Campaspe cast stalks of fragrant tuberoses on the coverlet. Raising great clusters of white violets in her two hands, she scattered them on the bed.
My mirror! My mirror! With an amazing amount of energy, the Countess sat up again and regarded her reflection in the glass with obvious satisfaction. I am young again, she cried. Am I not young again, Campaspe?
You are marvellous, Campaspe assured her, but after one glance at the wreck before her, gruesome in this ghastly make-up, horrible in its wild expression of forlorn and ungratified lust, she turned her head away.
The outer door was heard to open. The aged woman gazed expectantly in the direction from which the caller must approach. The mirror she permitted to drop from her relaxed fingers to the floor, where it splintered into a thousand fragments.
The nurse entered, followed by the holy father. Even in dying, the Countess Ella Nattatorrini was doomed to disappointment. The priest was an old man.