Twilight Sleep (22 page)

The Marchesa di San Fedele's ideas about the country were perfectly
simple; in fact she had only one. She regarded it as a place in
which there was more time to play bridge than in town. Thank God
for that!—and the rest one simply bore with… Of course there
was the obligatory going the rounds with host or hostess: gardens,
glass, dairy, chicken–hatchery, and heaven knew what besides
(stables, thank goodness, were out of fashion—even if people rode
they no longer, unless they kept hounds, dragged one between those
dreary rows of box stalls, or made one admire the lustrous steel
and leather of the harness room, or the monograms stencilled in
blue and red on the coach–house floor).

The Marchesa's life had always been made up of doing things as dull
as going over model dairies in order to get the chance, or the
money, to do others as thrilling to her as dancing was to Lita. It
was part of the game: one had to pay for what one got: the thing
was to try and get a great deal more than the strict equivalent.

"Not that I don't marvel at your results, Pauline; we all do. But
they make me feel so useless and incapable. All this wonderful
creation—baths and swimming–pools and hatcheries and fire–engines,
and everything so perfect, indoors and out! Sometimes I'm glad
you've never been to our poor old San Fedele. But of course
bathrooms will have to be put in at San Fedele if Michelangelo
finds an American bride when he comes over…"

Pauline laid down the pen she had taken up to record the exact
terms in which she was to address the Cardinal's secretary. ("A
PERSONAL note, dear; yes, in your own writing; they don't yet
understand your new American ways at the Vatican…")

"When Michelangelo comes over?" Pauline echoed.

The Marchesa's face was sharper than a knife. "It's my little
surprise. I didn't mean you or Dexter to know till the contract
was signed…"

"What contract?"

"My boy's to do Cæsar Borgia in the new film. Klawhammer cabled a
definite offer the day you left for the country. And of course I
insisted on Michelangelo's sailing instantly, though he'd planned
to spend the spring in Paris and was rather cross at having to give
it up. But as I told him, now is the moment to secure a lovely
American bride. We all know what your rich papas–in–law over here
always ask: 'What debts? What prospects? What other women?' The
woman matter can generally be arranged. The debts ARE, in this
case—thanks to your generosity. But the prospects—what were
THEY, I ask you? Months of green mould at San Fedele for a
fortnight's splash in Rome … oh, I don't disguise it! And what
American bride would accept THAT? The San Fedele pearls, yes—but
where is the San Fedele plumbing? But now, my dear, Michelangelo
presents himself as an equal … superior, I might say, if I
weren't afraid of being partial. Cæsar Borgia in a Klawhammer film—
no one knows how many millions it may mean! And of course
Michelangelo is the very type…"

"To do me the favour to transmit to his Eminence… Yes; this
really is a surprise, Amalasuntha." Inwardly Pauline was saying:
"After all, why not? If his own mother doesn't mind seeing him all
over the place on film posters. And perhaps now he may pay us back—
in common decency he'll have to!"

She saw no serious reason for displeasure, once she had dropped her
carefully cultivated Wyant attitude. "If only it doesn't upset
Lita again, and make her restless!" But they really couldn't hope
to keep all Lita's friends and relations off the screen.

"Arthur was amazed—and awfully pleased, after the first recoil.
Dear Arthur, you know, always recoils at first," the Marchesa
continued, with her shrewd deprecating smile, which insinuated that
Pauline of course wouldn't. (It was odd, Pauline reflected; the
Marchesa always looked like a peasant when she was talking
business.)

"Arthur? You've already written to him about it?"

"No, dear. I ran across him yesterday in town. You didn't know
Arthur'd come back? I thought he said he'd telephoned to Nona, or
somebody. A touch of gout—got fidgety because he couldn't see his
doctor. But he looked remarkably well, I thought—so handsome
still, in his élancé Wyant way; only a little too flushed, perhaps.
Yes … poor Eleanor… Oh, no; he said Jim was still on the
island. Perfectly contented fishing. Jim's the only person I know
who's always perfectly contented … such a lesson…" The
Marchesa's sigh seemed to add: "Very restful—but how I should
despise him if he were my Michelangelo!"

Pauline could hear—oh, how distinctly!—all that her former
husband would have to say about Michelangelo's projects. They
would be food for an afternoon's irony. But that did not greatly
trouble her—nor did Wyant's unexpected return. He was always
miserable out of reach of his doctor. And the fact that Jim hadn't
come back proved that there was nothing seriously wrong. Pauline
thought: "I'll write to Jim again, and tell him how perfect Dexter
has been about Lita and the baby, and that will convince him
there's no need to hurry back."

Complacency returned to her. How should it not, with the list for
the Cardinal's reception nearly complete, and the telephonic
assurance of the Bishop of New York and the Chief Rabbi that both
these dignitaries would be present? Socially also, though the
season was over, the occasion promised to be brilliant. Lots of
people were coming back just to see how a Cardinal was received.
Even the Rivingtons were coming—she had it from the Bishop. Yes,
the Rivingtons had certainly been more cordial since she and
Manford had thrown them over at the last minute. That was the way
to treat people who thought themselves so awfully superior. What
wouldn't the Rivingtons have given to capture the Cardinal? But he
was sailing for Italy the day after Pauline's reception—that was
the beauty of it! No one else could possibly have him. Amalasuntha
had stage–managed the whole business very cleverly. She had even
overcome the Cardinal's scruples when he heard that Mrs. Manford was
chairman of the Birth Control committee… And tonight, at the
dinner, how pleasant everybody's congratulations would be! Pauline
gloried in her achievement for Manford's sake. Despite his assurance
to the contrary she could never imagine, for more than a moment at a
time, that such successes were really indifferent to him.

Lita appeared in the drawing–room after almost everybody had
arrived. She was always among the last; and in the country, as she
said, there was no way of knowing what time it was. Even at
Cedarledge, where all the clocks agreed to a second, one could
never believe them, and always suspected they must have stopped
together, twelve hours before.

"Besides, what's the use of knowing what time it is in the country?
Time for WHAT?"

She came in quietly, almost unnoticeably, with the feathered gait
that was half–way between drifting and floating; and at once, in
spite of the twenty people assembled, had the shining parquet and
all the mirrors to herself. That was her way: that knack of
clearing the floor no matter how quietly she entered. And tonight—!

Well; perhaps, Manford thought, all the other women WERE a little
overdressed. Women always had a tendency to overdress when they
dined with the Manfords; to wear too many jewels, and put on
clothes that glistened. Even at Cedarledge Pauline's parties had a
New York atmosphere. And Lita, in her straight white slip, slim
and unadorned as a Primitive angel, with that close coif of
goldfish–coloured hair, and not a spangle, a jewel, a pearl even,
made the other women's clothes look like upholstery.

Manford, by the hearth, slightly bored in anticipation, yet bound
to admit that, like all his wife's shows, it was effectively done—
Manford received the shock of that quiet entrance, that shimmer
widening into light, and then turned to Mrs. Herman Toy. Full noon
there; the usual Rubensy redundance flushed by golfing in a high
wind, by a last cocktail before dressing, by the hurried wriggle
into one of those elastic sheaths the women—the redundant women—
wore. Well; he liked ripeness in a fruit to be eaten as soon as
plucked. And Gladys' corn–yellow hair was almost as springy and
full of coloured shadows as the other's red. But the voice, the
dress, the jewels, the blatant jewels! A Cartier show–case spilt
over a strawberry mousse… And the quick possessive look, so
clumsily done—brazen, yet half–abashed! When a woman's first
business was to make up her mind which it was to be… Chances
were the man didn't care, as long as her ogling didn't make him
ridiculous… Why couldn't some women always be in golf clothes—
if any? Gala get–up wasn't in everybody's line… There was
Lita speaking to Gladys now—with auburn eyebrows lifted just a
thread. The contrast—! And Gladys purpler and more self–
conscious—God, why did she have her clothes so tight? And that
drawing–room drawl! Why couldn't she just sing out: "Hul–LO!" as
she did in the open?

The Marchesa—how many times more was he to hear Pauline say:
"Amalasuntha on your right, dear." Oh, to get away to a world
where nobody gave dinners, and there were no Marchesas on one's
right! He knew by heart the very look of the little cheese
soufflés, light as cherubs' feathers, that were being handed around
before the soup on silver–gilt dishes with coats–of–arms.
Everything at Cedarledge was silver–gilt. Pauline, as usual, had
managed to transplant the party to New York, when all he wanted was
to be quiet, smoke his pipe, and ride or tramp with Nona and Lita.
Why couldn't she see it? Her vigilant eye sought his—was it for
approval or admonition? What was she saying? "The Cardinal? Oh,
yes. It's all settled. So sweet of him! Of course you must all
promise to come. But I've got another little surprise for you
after dinner. No; not a word beforehand; not if you were to put me
on the rack." What on earth did she mean?

"A surprise? Is this a surprise party?" It was Amalasuntha now.
"Then I must produce mine. But I daresay Pauline's told you.
About Michelangelo and Klawhammer… Cæsar Borgia … such a
sum that I don't dare to mention it—you'd think I was mixing up
the figures. But I've got them down in black and white. Of
course, as the producers say, Michelangelo's so supremely the type—
it's more than they ever could have hoped for." What was the
woman raving about? "He sails tomorrow," she said. Sailing again—
was that damned Michelangelo always sailing? Hadn't his debts
been paid on the express condition—? But no; there's been
nothing, as the Marchesa called it, "in black and white." The
transaction had been based on the implicit understanding that
nothing but dire necessity would induce Michelangelo to waste his
charms on New York. Dire necessity—or the chance to put himself
permanently beyond it! A fortune from a Klawhammer film. As
Amalasuntha said, it was incalculable…

"It's the type, you see: between ourselves, there's always been a
rumour of Borgia blood on the San Fedele side. A naughty
ancestress! Perhaps you've noticed the likeness? You remember
that wonderful profile portrait of Cæsar Borgia in black velvet?
What gallery IS it in? Oh, I know—it came out in 'Vogue'!"
Amalasuntha visibly bridled at her proficiency. She was aware that
envious people said the Italians knew nothing of their own artistic
inheritance. "I remember being so struck by it at the time—I said
to Venturino: 'But it's the image of our boy!' Though
Michelangelo will have to grow a beard, which makes him furious…
But then the millions!"

Manford, looking up, caught a double gaze bent in his direction.
Gladys Toy's vast blue eyes had always been like searchlights; but
tonight they seemed actually to be writing her private history over
his head, like an advertising aeroplane. The fool! But was the
other look also meant for him? That half–shaded glint of Lita's—
was it not rather attached to the Marchesa, strung like a telephone
wire to her lips? Klawhammer … Michelangelo … a Borgia
film… Those listening eyes missed not a syllable…

"The offers those fellows make—right and left—nobody takes much
account of them. Wait till I see your contract, as you call it…
If you really think it's a job for a gentleman," Manford growled.

"But, my friend, gentlemen can't be choosers! Who are the real
working–class today? Our old aristocracies, alas! And besides, is
it ever degrading to create a work of art? I thought in America
you made so much of creativeness—constructiveness—what do you
call it? Is it less creative to turn a film than to manufacture
bathtubs? Can there be a nobler mission than to teach history to
the millions by means of beautiful pictures? … Yes! I see
Lita listening, and I know she agrees with me… Lita! What a
Lucrezia for his Cæsar! But why look shocked, dear Dexter? Of
course you know that Lucrezia Borgia has been entirely rehabilitated?
I saw that also in 'Vogue.' She was a perfectly pure woman—and
her hair was exactly the colour of Lita's."

They were finishing coffee in the drawing–room, the doors standing
open into the tall library where the men always smoked—the library
which (as Stanley Heuston had once remarked) Pauline's incorruptible
honesty had actually caused her to fill with books.

"Oh, what IS it? Not a fire? … A chimney in the house? …
But it's actually here… Not a … "

The women, a–flutter at the sudden siren–shriek, the hooting,
rushing and clattering up the drive, surged across the parquet,
flowed with startled little cries out into the hall, and saw the
unsurprisable Powder signalling to two perfectly matched footmen to
throw open the double doors.

"A fire? The engine … the … oh, it's a FIRE–DRILL! …
A PARADE! How realistic! How lovely of you! What a beauty the
engine is!" Pauline stood smiling, watch in hand, as the hook–and–
ladder motor clattered up the drive and ranged itself behind the
engine. The big lantern over the front door illuminated fresh
scarlet paint and super–polished brasses, the firemen's agitated
helmets and perspiring faces, the flashing hoods of the lamps.