Julius (35 page)

There would be two shames for her to bear - knowledge of her husband’s indifference and knowledge of her disease. Whatever the cost might be to herself, Rachel shrank from the ugly glare of publicity, the sting of gossip, the pity born of curiosity.

It was a duty she imposed upon herself to hold high the standards of convention and decency bred in her bones. And beneath all this, right at the core of her trouble, was a little crushed seed of hope that struggled for existence. She wanted Julius. He was her husband, and bound up with her for all the layers of ice between them; she had known happiness because of him, and her life had been his; they had been young together and Gabriel had been their baby. She remembered how he had been tender with her many times, and proud, and he had told her lovely things. She had stood by his side through all that meteoric rise of his to power and position. What knowledge she possessed of the world and men and women had come to her from him. She wanted Julius, he was her husband. If there was anyone beyond God that should know of her illness and her suffering it should be him. He was bound to her in so many ways.

So Rachel came across to the Island to act hostess at her daughter’s dance, and nobody must guess that the colour in her cheeks was rouge to hide the pallor, and her eyes were bright only because of the rouge. Her dress was new for the occasion, and she wore the Dreyfus diamonds at her throat, and a diamond tiara in her hair.

She stood at the head of the stairs to welcome the guests, a figure of great dignity and grace, lending by her presence alone a suggestion of ceremony and distinction that waved proudly like a single standard amongst the parade of ostentatious glitter conjured up so sumptuously by Julius, who stood by his wife’s side flaunting his wealth in a cloud of glory.

That party that Julius Lévy gave at Cowes has never been forgotten; it was like a crazy, dazzling theatrical display, bursting upon the world in a night for one performance only, lit by a thousand lights that flashed scarlet and silver and gold.

Every room in the house had been cleared for dancing, and on the lawns was a dancing floor. There were two bands in the house, a band in the garden. Upstairs, downstairs, amongst the roses under the trees the dancing couples clung to one another, jostled, excited, laughing half-hysterically at this wild hum and call of music from which there was no escaping, finding each other with new eyes and new colours because of the constant change of the streaming, flickering lights that played upon their faces.

There were tables set for supper in every corner and space of the garden not taken by the dancing floor, and waiters who appeared mysteriously from the trees with a supper that came from God knew where - surely the whole cuisine and staff from Claridge’s itself - impossible, untrue; and all the time the never-ceasing throb of music from the three bands, the splutter and hiss of fireworks rising in the air and exploding in a hundred glittering stars, the stamp of feet, the bewildering chatter of voices and the movement of dancers, and champagne, and more champagne.

It was a panorama of intoxicated splash, a reeling, tumultuous exposition of everything that is riotous and exuberant and crude; and Julius Lévy himself in the background, a magician with a wand conjuring new sights and new sounds without pause or relaxation until his guests surrendered to his mood in complete abandon, finding themselves crazy in a crazy world, so that they went on dancing whipped and stung by the music and the lights and the shooting stars, forgetting who they were and what should matter, a circle that tossed and twisted round a living flame.

And Gabriel was the flame, dressed in gold like a sheet of armour, her dress the colour of her hair. Her party, her guests, her music, the whole wheel turning because of her and Papa cracking the whip that sent the wheel in motion - Papa, who had invented this night for her as though it was his wish to make her drunk for the first time, drunk with the glorious wanton waste that he was powerful enough to give her. She danced with her head thrown back and her lips parted, unconscious of her partners, who they were and what they said to her, aware only of this music that never ceased, sending her nerves a-jangle and beating against her brain, the glare of lights from the house and amongst the trees in the garden, the sudden burst of an explosion when the fireworks broke in the sky above her head blazing a path to her feet.

She had no will of her own now, no consecutive thought, no power of concentration; she was being dashed and hurtled into a chaos that blinded her, some bottomless pit, some sweet, appalling nothingness.

A little trailing question flashed into her half-conscious senses: ‘Am I drunk? Is this being drunk? Am I lost? Am I dead now?’ And then no time to fix upon some determination because she would be swept away on another wave of sound and light, borne by this terrible music across the dancing floor, aware of Papa who watched her, Papa who smiled at her, Papa who played her on a thousand strings, she dancing to his tune like a doll on wires - Papa who harped at her and would not let her be. He was cruel, he was relentless, he was like some oppressive, suffocating power that stifled her and could not be warded off; he gave her all these bewildering sounds and sensations without pausing so that she was like a child stuffed with sweets cloying and rich; they were rammed down her throat and into her belly, filling her, exhausting her, making her a drum of excitement and anguish and emotion that was gripping in its savage intensity. It was too much for her, too strong.

She felt as though she were a dry stack in a deep wood, and he had put a match to her and was watching her burn.

She passed next to him once, he standing by the steps of the verandah, and he looked down at her and said: ‘Are you enjoying it? Do you want it to be over?’ And she laughed back at him, shaking her head: ‘I don’t want it ever to be over’ - afraid of the sudden flat calm that would come when the music stopped, the garish pallor of day when the lights were extinguished, the odd dark silence when the couples melted away, and she would be left with her restlessness and discontent and indecision. After the party the old life once more, the same string of happenings that could never be the same again. And yet she wanted the party to be over, because otherwise the turmoil and the clash would wear her down; she would stand up amongst them all, and scream and scream.

The end came suddenly with a whirling beating of drums and a last spluttering rocket that shot a crimson star. The intoxicated, hysterical crowd of dancers were stilled to attention by ‘God Save the King.’

It was over, as swift to die as it had been born, the mad party that Julius Lévy gave for his daughter, and the bands were silenced and the guests were vanished as though they had never been, the house and the garden strangely empty like a haunted place disturbed by the coming of the day.

Gabriel shivered, cold suddenly in the grey light, and she and Rachel and Julius made their way without a word to the launch that waited at the landing-stage to take them on board the
Wanderer
.

The yacht loomed white and clear on the still water against the grey light of the early day.

‘We’ll have some coffee brought up into the deck-house, and we’ll watch the sunrise,’ said Julius.

Nobody answered. Rachel was looking at Gabriel, and Gabriel was leaning against the side of the launch with her eyes shut.

‘Are you tired?’ said Rachel.

Gabriel moved, and opened her eyes.

‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt less tired in my life.’

‘Why did you shut your eyes?’ said Rachel. Gabriel did not answer.

The launch drew alongside the gangway of the yacht. Julius was humming a tune under his breath. ‘You can feel more things with your eyes shut,’ he said; ‘isn’t that right?’ He laughed, but he was the only one.

Rachel looked grey, he supposed she was feeling ill again.

They went on board and into the deck-house above the companion-way.

Julius shouted to the steward to bring them coffee.

Rachel sat down on one of the settees, pulling her cloak around her, drawing the heavy fur collar close to her throat. She was cold, chilled by the short journey across the water in the launch, and the pain in her side was like a dull gnawing toothache. It seemed to her that this weariness oppressing her was no ordinary fatigue, it was the ultimate surrender of a general whose last battle has been fought, who hauls down his torn fluttering standard and as he does so turns his sword into his own side. She felt as if she had waited for this moment for a long time, building her barriers against it, knowing in her heart that they would not stand.

Gabriel stood motionless at the opening of the deck-house, leaning her back to the door, her profile outlined against the sky.

The crazy bewilderment of the night had gone from her now, she was no longer enchanted and possessed. She was free again, at liberty to do as she pleased. Free in a new way. For a moment she had been troubled, and exquisitely sad, but now she was happy again; she was no longer afraid.

She knew that whatever happened to her henceforth it would be because of her own will and because she wanted it to be so.

She would be the victor, she would never be possessed. Nothing could hurt her now. In her life she would go out and do as she pleased and take the things that waited for her. She and Papa were two branches on a tree, and he had tried to see if he was stronger than she. He thought he had won. He thought he had beaten her down and she would let him go on thinking this as long as it suited her. She would keep him by her side and draw upon his strength; his life was her life, his flesh and blood were her flesh and blood, but it would never be he who was master. She held him between her hands and he did not know. When two forces came against each other and struggled and battled for supremacy one of the two must suffer and be hurt. People were like that in their relationship to one another. She and Papa. Papa would be hurt. This knowledge came to her as she stood by the doorway of the deck-house, looking out upon the water. She put her old life behind her as one who puts away childish things.

The steward came up the companion-way with the coffee tray in his hands. He laid it on the table and went below.

Julius poured out the three cups, slowly, methodically, taking his time. He no longer made any attempt to hide his smile, he was so sure of his future now, so blindly certain of success. He was taking a cruel deliberate interest in the situation he had created. He was aware of this tense, strained atmosphere between the three of them, Rachel on the settee, Gabriel at the doorway, himself by the table pouring out the coffee. All the fences were down between them now. He handed them both their cups of coffee and they drank in silence. He knew that Rachel would be the first to speak. It was as if she were a character in some play he had written, and the laying down of her cup in the saucer was her cue to speak. He was not prepared for what she said though.

‘You may as well know the truth, Julius, about my illness. I’ve kept it from you up to now because I thought there might be a grain of hope somewhere - I don’t mean of my recovering, but of you coming back to me again. Now of course I see that it won’t be possible.’

She spoke very calmly, choosing her words carefully, speaking as though the subject were impersonal to her. She hesitated a moment, summoning her courage to use the word she hated.

‘I have cancer,’ she said.

They both turned and gazed at her, Gabriel with wide-open eyes of astonishment, Julius with disbelief. Rachel made a little ineffectual movement with her hands.

‘Oh! no,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t try to deceive you. What would be the use? I’m not a fool.You may have thought me so, Julius, but you were wrong.’

He was not listening to what she said, he had only caught at the one word. ‘Cancer?’ he said. ‘Who says you have cancer? That fellow Isaacson? Perhaps he’s diagnosed you wrongly. Are you sure?’ and then realising by her smile and her shrug of the shoulder that she was speaking the truth, he let escape from him without caring the one question that mattered to him.

‘Cancer!’ he repeated.‘How long d’you suppose it’s been going on? Is it contagious?’

She did not look at him now lest she should see the light of fear in his eyes that she knew would be there. She did not want to despise him. But Gabriel broke in swiftly - ‘Oh! Papa,’ she said scornfully, ‘as if that matters - haven’t you any pity? For God’s sake don’t make a fool of yourself.’

Then she looked at her mother again. ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she said; ‘I’ve never known pain of any kind, it must be terrible. Please believe me when I say I’m sorry. Can’t anything be done?’

‘That rather depends on you and your father,’ said Rachel.

‘Oh! but of course Papa’s influence can get you the best doctors and treatment in the world,’ said Gabriel. ‘There must be somewhere in Germany or Switzerland - I don’t know why one always thinks of those places, but surely ...’

She broke off, she saw that Rachel’s eyes never left her face.

‘Your father’s money isn’t any use to me,’ said Rachel. ‘You know perfectly well I didn’t mean that. Why beat around the subject?’

Gabriel drew back into herself. If her mother chose to throw away the sympathy she was offered it was her affair. She must suffer alone. She would not succeed in staging a battle.

‘I’m not trying to evade anything,’ said Gabriel, losing interest. ‘I don’t see that I come into this. It’s between you and Papa.’

She turned her back once more as though she dismissed the idea of any form of discussion. She ignored the last bitter wave of antagonism. She leant against the door and watched the light breaking in purple and silver patches on the water.

Rachel looked at her husband.

‘Well?’ she said.

And even as she spoke she knew that she was not the central figure in the scene, she never had been. The question of her illness had scarcely touched the fringe of this atmosphere so tense, so still, it had brushed the outer layers of it, and struggled there impotently for the space of a moment, seeking to gain admittance. And now once more it had been wafted aside and she was nothing but a mute spectator, a poor shadow thing, watching some silent duel that held no relation to her, that admitted nothing and no one but the two locked and interwoven forces themselves. They were living their own lives on another plane, seeking the key to their own interests, pushing their way beyond her and losing themselves indefinitely in the white clouds. She was dead to them already. Rachel did not wait for the answer that never came, she got up from the settee where she had been sitting, holding to the cloak that slipped from her tired fingers, and she walked past Julius and Gabriel as if she were truly the ghost she saw herself to be, and she felt her way down the companion-way to her cabin like a spirit in a world of its own.