Du Maurier George
The Martian: A Novel
Then his money was coming to an end; he would soon have to sing in the streets, like Veronese, with Lady Archibald's guitar.
Dear Lady Archibald! When things went wrong with her she would always laugh, and say:
"Les misères du jour font le bonheur du lendemain!"
This he would say or sing to himself over and over again, and go to bed at night quite hopeful and sanguine after a merry day spent among his many friends; and soon sink into sleep, persuaded that his trouble was a bad dream which next morning would scatter and dispel. But when he woke, it was to find the grim reality sitting by his pillow, and he couldn't dry‐cup it away. The very sunshine was an ache as he went out and got his breakfast with his blue spectacles on; and black care would link its bony arm in his as he listlessly strolled by the much‐sounding sea – and cling to him close as he swam or dived; and he would wonder what he had ever done that so serious and tragic a calamity should have befallen so light a person as himself; who could only dance and sing and play the fool to make people laugh – Rigoletto – Triboulet – a mere grasshopper, no ant or bee or spider, not even a third‐class beetle – surely this was not according to the eternal fitness of things!
And thus in the unutterable utterness of his dejection he would make himself such evil cheer that he sickened with envy at the mere sight of any living thing that could see out of two eyes – a homeless irresponsible dog, a hunchback beggar, a crippled organ‐grinder and his monkey – till he met some acquaintance; even but a rolling fisherman with a brown face and honest blue eyes – a pair of them – and then he would forget his sorrow and his envy in chat and jokes and laughter with him over each a centime cigar; and was set up in good spirits for the day! Such was Barty Josselin, the most ready lover of his kind that ever existed, the slave of his last impression.
And thus he lived under the shadow of the sword of Damocles for many months; on and off, for years – indeed, as long as he lived at all. It is good discipline. It rids one of much superfluous self‐complacency and puts a wholesome check on our keeping too good a conceit of ourselves; it prevents us from caring too meanly about mean things – too keenly about our own infinitesimal personalities; it makes us feel quick sympathy for those who live under a like condition: there are many such weapons dangling over the heads of us poor mortals by just a hair – a panoply, an armory, a very arsenal! And we grow to learn in time that when the hair gives way and the big thing falls, the blow is not half so bad as the fright had been, even if it kills us; and more often than not it is but the shadow of a sword, after all; a bogie that has kept us off many an evil track – perhaps even a blessing in disguise! And in the end, down comes some other sword from somewhere else and cuts for us the Gordian knot of our brief tangled existence, and solves the riddle and sets us free.
This is a world of surprises, where little ever happens but the unforeseen, which is seldom worth meeting halfway! And these moral reflections of mine are quite unnecessary and somewhat obvious, but they harm nobody, and are very soothing to make and utter at my time of life. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man and forgive him his maudlin garrulity…
One afternoon, lolling in deep dejection on the top of a little sandy hillock, a "dune," and plucking the long coarse grass, he saw a very tall elderly lady, accompanied by her maid, coming his way along the asphalt path that overlooked the sea – or rather, that prevented the sea from overlooking the land and overflowing it!
She was in deep black and wore a thick veil.
With a little jump of surprise he recognized his aunt Caroline – Lady Caroline Grey – of all his aunts the aunt who had loved him the best as a boy – whom he had loved the best.
She was a Roman Catholic, and very devout indeed – a widow, and childless now. And between her and Barty a coolness had fallen during the last few years – a heavy raw thick mist of cold estrangement; and all on account of his London life and the notoriety he had achieved there; things of which she disapproved entirely, and thought "unworthy of a gentleman": and who can blame her for thinking so?
She had at first written to him long letters of remonstrance and good advice; which he gave up answering, after a while. And when they met in society, her manner had grown chill and distant and severe.
He hadn't seen or heard of his aunt Caroline for three or four years; but at the sudden sight of her a wave of tender childish remembrance swept over him, and his heart beat quite warmly to her: affliction is a solvent of many things, and first‐cousin to forgiveness.
She passed without looking his way, and he jumped up and followed her, and said:
"Oh, Aunt Caroline! won't you even speak to me?"
She started violently, and turned round, and cried: "Oh, Barty, Barty, where have you been all these years?" and seized both his hands, and shook all over.
"Oh, Barty – my beloved little Barty – take me somewhere where we can sit down and talk. I've been thinking of you very much, Barty – I've lost my poor son – he died last Christmas! I was afraid you had forgotten my existence! I was thinking of you the very moment you spoke!"
The maid left them, and she took his arm and they found a seat.
She put up her veil and looked at him: there was a great likeness between them in spite of the difference of age. She had been his father's favorite sister (some ten years younger than Lord Runswick); and she was very handsome still, though about fifty‐five.
"Oh, Barty, my darling – how things have gone wrong between us! Is it all my doing? Oh, I hope not!.." And she kissed him.
"How like, how like! And you're getting a little black and bulgy under the eyes – especially the left one – and so did he, at just about your age! And how thin you are!"
"I don't think anything need ever go wrong between us again, Aunt Caroline! I am a very altered person, and a very unlucky one!"
"Tell me, dear!"
And he told her all his story, from the fatal quarrel with her brother Lord Archibald – and the true history of that quarrel; and all that had happened since: he had nothing to keep back.
She frequently wept a little, for truth was in every tone of his voice; and when it came to the story of his lost eye, she wept very much indeed. And his need of affection, of female affection especially, and of kinship, was so immense that he clung to this most kind and loving woman as if she'd been his mother come back from the grave, or his dear Lady Archibald.
This meeting made a great difference to Barty in many ways – made amends! Lady Caroline meant to pass the winter at Malines, of all places in the world. The Archbishop was her friend, and she was friends also with one or two priests at the seminary there. She was by no means rich, having but an annuity of not quite three hundred a year; and it soon became the dearest wish of her heart that Barty should live with her for a while, and be nursed by her if he wanted nursing; and she thought he did. Besides, it would be convenient on account of his doctor, M. Noiret, of the University of Louvain, which was near Malines – half an hour by train.
And Barty was only too glad; this warm old love and devotion had suddenly dropped on to him by some happy enchantment out of the skies at a moment of sore need. And it was with a passion of gratitude that he accepted his aunt's proposals.
He well knew, also, how it was in him to brighten her lonely life, almost every hour of it – and promised himself that she should not be a loser by her kindness to Mr. Nobody of Nowhere. He remembered her love of fun, and pretty poetry, and little French songs, and droll chat – and nice cheerful meals tête‐à‐tête – and he was good at all these things. And how fond she was of reading out loud to him! The time might soon arrive when that would be a blessing indeed.
Indeed, a new interest had come into his life – not altogether a selfish interest either – but one well worth living for, though it was so unlike any interest that had ever filled his life before. He had been essentially a man's man hitherto, in spite of his gay light love for lovely woman; a good comrade par excellence, a frolicsome chum, a rollicking boon‐companion, a jolly pal! He wanted quite desperately to love something staid and feminine and gainly and well bred, whatever its age! some kind soft warm thing in petticoats and thin shoes, with no hair on its face, and a voice that wasn't male!
Nor did her piety frighten him very much. He soon found that she was no longer the over‐zealous proselytizing busybody of the Cross – but immensely a woman of the world, making immense allowances. All roads lead to Rome (dit‐on!), except a few which converge in the opposite direction; but even Roman roads lead to this wide tolerance in the end – for those of a rich warm nature who have been well battered by life; and Lady Caroline had been very thoroughly battered indeed: a bad husband – a bad son, her only child! both dead, but deeply loved and lamented; and in her heart of hearts there lurked a sad suspicion that her piety (so deep and earnest and sincere) had not bettered their badness – on the contrary, perhaps! and had driven her Barty from her when he needed her most.
Now that his need of her was so great, greater than it had ever been before, she would take good care that no piety of hers should ever drive him away from her again; she felt almost penitent and apologetic for having done what she had known to be right – the woman in her had at last outgrown the nun.
She almost began to doubt whether she had not been led to selfishly overrate the paramount importance of the exclusive salvation of her own particular soul!
And then his frank, fresh look and manner, and honest boyish voice, so unmistakably sincere, and that mild and magnificent eye, so bright and humorous still, "so like – so like!" which couldn't even see her loving, anxious face… Thank Heaven, there was still one eye left that she could appeal to with both her own!
And what a child he had been, poor dear – the very pearl of the Rohans! What Rohan of them all was ever a patch on this poor bastard of Antoinette Josselin's, either for beauty, pluck, or mother‐wit – or even for honor, if it came to that? Why, a quixotic scruple of honor had ruined him, and she was Rohan enough to understand what the temptation had been the other way: she had seen the beautiful bad lady!
And, pure as her own life had been, she was no puritan, but of a church well versed in the deepest knowledge of our poor weak frail humanity; she has told me all about it, and I listened between the words.
So during the remainder of her stay at Blankenberghe he was very much with Lady Caroline, and rediscovered what a pleasant and lively companion she could be – especially at meals (she was fond of good food of a plain and wholesome kind, and took good care to get it).
She had her little narrownesses, to be sure, and was not hail‐fellow‐well‐met with everybody, like him; and did not think very much of giddy little viscountesses with straddling loud‐voiced Flemish husbands, nor of familiar facetious commercial millionaires, of whom Barty numbered two or three among his adorers; nor even of the "highly born" Irish wives of Belgian generals and all that. Madame de Clèves was an O'Brien.
These were old ingrained Rohan prejudices, and she was too old herself to alter.
But she loved the good fishermen whose picturesque boats made such a charming group on the sands at sunset, and also their wives and children; and here she and her nephew were "bien d'accord."
I fear her ladyship would not have appreciated very keenly the rising splendor of a certain not altogether unimportant modern house in Barge Yard, Bucklersbury – and here she would have been wrong. The time has come when we throw the handkerchief at female Rohans, we Maurices and our like. I have not done so myself, it is true; but not from any rooted antipathy to any daughter of a hundred earls – nor yet from any particular diffidence on my own part.
Anyhow, Lady Caroline loved to hear all Barty had to say of his gay life among the beauty, rank, and fashion of Blankenberghe. She was very civil to the handsome Irish Madame de Clèves, née O'Brien, and listened politely to the family history of the O'Briens and that of the de Clèveses too: and learnt, without indecent surprise, or any emotion of any kind whatever, what she had never heard before – namely, that in the early part of the twelfth century a Rohan de Whitby had married an O'Brien of Ballywrotte; and other prehistoric facts of equal probability and importance.
She didn't believe much in people's twelfth – century reminiscences; she didn't even believe in those of her own family, who didn't believe in them either, or trouble about them in the least; and I dare say they were quite right.
Anyhow, when people solemnly talked about such things it made her rather sorry. But she bore up for Barty's sake, and the resigned, half‐humorous courtesy with which she assented to these fables was really more humiliating to a sensitive, haughty soul than any mere supercilious disdain; not that she ever wished to humiliate, but she was easily bored, and thought that kind of conversation vulgar, futile, and rather grotesque.
Indeed, she grew quite fond of Madame de Clèves and the splendid young dragoon, and the sweet little black‐haired daughter with lovely blue eyes, who sang so charmingly. For they were singularly charming people in every way, the de Clèveses; and that's a way Irish people often have – as well as of being proud of their ancient blood. There is no more innocent weakness. I have it very strongly – moi qui vous parle – on the maternal side. My mother was a Blake of Derrydown, a fact that nobody would have known unless she now and then accidentally happened to mention it herself, or else my father did. And so I take the opportunity of slipping it in here – just out of filial piety!
So the late autumn of that year found Barty and his aunt at Malines, or Mechelen, as it calls itself in its native tongue.
They had comfortable lodgings of extraordinary cheapness in one of the dullest streets of that most picturesque but dead‐alive little town, where the grass grew so thick between the paving‐stones here and there that the brewers' dray‐horses might have browsed in the "Grand Brul" – a magnificent but generally deserted thoroughfare leading from the railway station to the Place d'Armes, where rose still unfinished the colossal tower of one of the oldest and finest cathedrals in the world, whose chimes wafted themselves every half‐quarter of an hour across the dreamy flats for miles and miles, according to the wind, that one might realize how slow was the flight of time in that particular part of King Leopold's dominions.
"'And from a tall tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down!'"
said Barty to his aunt – quoting (or misquoting) a bard they were very fond of just then, as they slowly walked down the "Grand Brul" in solitude together, from the nineteenth century to the fourteenth in less than twenty minutes – or three chimes from St. Rombault, or fifty skrieks from the railway station.
But for these a spirit of stillness and mediæval melancholy brooded over the quaint old city and great archiepiscopal see and most important railway station in all Belgium. Magnificent old houses in carved stone with wrought‐iron balconies were to be had for rents that were almost nominal. From the tall windows of some of these a frugal, sleepy, priest‐ridden old nobility looked down on broad and splendid streets hardly ever trodden by any feet but their own, or those of some stealthy Jesuit priest, or Sister of Mercy.
Only during the Kermesse, or at carnival‐time, when noisy revellers of either sex and ungainly processions of tipsy masques and mummers waked Mechelen out of its long sleep, and all the town seemed one vast estaminet, did one feel one's self to be alive. Even at night, and in the small hours, frisky masques and dominoes walked the moonlit streets, and made loud old Flemish mediæval love, à la Teniers.
There was a beautiful botanical garden, through which a river flowed under tall trees, and turned the wheels of the oldest flour‐mills in Flanders. This was a favorite resort of Barty's, – and he had it pretty much to himself.
And for Lady Caroline there were, besides St. Rombault, quite half‐a‐dozen churches almost as magnificent if not so big, and in them as many as you could wish of old Flemish masters, beginning with Peter Paul Rubens, who pervades the land of his birth very much as Michael Angelo pervades Florence and Rome.
And these dim places of Catholic worship were generously open to all, every day and all day long, and never empty of worshippers, high and low, prostrate in the dust, or kneeling with their arms extended and their heads in the air, their wide‐open, immovable, unblinking eyes hypnotized into stone by the cross and the crown of thorns. Mostly peasant women, these: with their black hoods falling from their shoulders, and stiff little close white caps that hid the hair.
Out of cool shadowy recesses of fretted stone and admirably carved wood emanations seemed to rise as from the long‐forgotten past – tons of incense burnt hundreds of years ago, and millions of closely packed supplicants, rich and poor, following each other in secula seculorum! Lady Caroline spent many of her hours haunting these crypts – and praying there.
At the back of their house in the Rue des Ursulines Blanches, Barty's bedroom window overlooked the playground of the convent "des Sœurs Rédemptoristines": all noble ladies, most beautifully dressed in scarlet and ultramarine, with long snowy veils, and who were waited upon by non‐noble sisters in garments of a like hue but less expensive texture.
So at least said little Finche Torfs, the daughter of the house – little Frau, as Lady Caroline called her, and who seems to have been one of the best creatures in the world; she became warmly attached to both her lodgers, who reciprocated the feeling in full; it was her chief pleasure to wait on them and look after them at all times of the day, though Lady Caroline had already a devoted maid of her own.
Little Frau's father was a well‐to‐do burgher with a prosperous ironmongery in the "Petit Brul."
This was his private house, where he pursued his hobby, for he was an amateur photographer, very fond of photographing his kind and simple‐minded old wife, who was always attired in rich Brussels silks and Mechelen lace on purpose. She even cooked in them, though not for her lodgers, whose mid‐day and evening meals were sent from "La Cigogne," close by, in four large round tins that fitted into each other, and were carried in a wicker‐work cylindrical basket. And it was little Frau's delight to descant on the qualities of the menu as she dished and served it. I will not attempt to do so.
But after little Frau had cleared it all away, Barty would descant on the qualities of certain English dishes he remembered, to the immense amusement of Aunt Caroline, who was reasonably fond of what is good to eat.
He would paint in words (he was better in words than any other medium – oil, water, or distemper) the boiled leg of mutton, not overdone; the mashed turnips; the mealy potato; the caper‐sauce. He would imitate the action of the carver and the sound of the carving‐knife making its first keen cut while the hot pink gravy runs down the sides. Then he would wordily paint a French roast chicken and its rich brown gravy and its water‐cresses; the pommes sautées; the crisp, curly salade aux fines herbes! And Lady Caroline, still hungry, would laugh till her eyes watered, as well as her mouth.
When it came to the sweets, the apple‐puddings and gooseberry‐pies and Devonshire cream and brown sugar, there was no more laughing, for then Barty's talent soared to real genius – and genius is a serious thing. And as to his celery and Stilton cheese – But there! it's lunch‐time, and I'm beginning to feel a little peckish myself…
Every morning when it was fine Barty and his aunt would take an airing round the town, which was enclosed by a ditch where there was good skating in the winter, on long skates that went very fast, but couldn't cut figures, 8 or 3!
There were no fortifications or ramparts left. But a few of the magnificent old brick gateways still remained, admitting you to the most wonderful old streets with tall pointed houses – clean little slums, where women sat on their door‐steps making the most beautiful lace in the world – odd nooks and corners and narrow ways where it was easy to lose one's self, small as the town really was; innumerable little toy bridges over toy canals one could have leaped at a bound, overlooked by quaint, irregular little dwellings, of colors that had once been as those of the rainbow, but which time had mellowed into divine harmonies, as it does all it touches – from grand old masters to oak palings round English parks; from Venice to Mechelen and its lace; from a disappointed first love to a great sorrow.
Occasionally a certain distinguished old man of soldier‐like aspect would pass them on horseback, and gaze at their two tall British figures with a look of curious and benign interest, as if he mentally wished them well, and well away from this drear limbo of penitence and exile and expiation.
They learnt that he was French, and a famous general, and that his name was Changarnier; and they understood that public virtue has to be atoned for.
And he somehow got into the habit of bowing to them with a good smile, and they would smile and bow back again. Beyond this they never exchanged a word, but this little outward show and ceremony of kindly look and sympathetic gesture always gave them a pleasant moment and helped to pass the morning.
All the people they met were to Lady Caroline like people in a dream: silent priests; velvet‐footed nuns, who were much to her taste; quiet peasant women, in black cloaks and hoods, driving bullock‐carts or carts drawn by dogs, six or eight of these inextricably harnessed together and panting for dear life; blue‐bloused men in French caps, but bigger and blonder than Frenchmen, and less given to epigrammatic repartee, with mild, blue, beery eyes, à fleur de tête, and a look of health and stolid amiability; sturdy green‐coated little soldiers with cock‐feathered brigand hats of shiny black, the brim turned up over the right eye and ear that they might the more conveniently take a good aim at the foe before he skedaddled at the mere sight of them; fat, comfortable burgesses and their wives, so like their ancestors who drink beer out of long glasses and smoke long clay pipes on the walls of the Louvre and the National Gallery that they seemed like old friends; and quaint old heavy children who didn't make much noise!
And whenever they spoke French to you, these good people, they said "savez‐vous?" every other second; and whenever they spoke Flemish to each other it sounded so much like your own tongue as it is spoken in the north of England that you wondered why on earth you couldn't understand a single word.
Now and then, from under a hood, a handsome dark face with Spanish eyes would peer out – eloquent of the past history of the Low Countries, which Barty knew much better than I. But I believe there was once a Spanish invasion or occupation of some kind, and I dare say the fair Belgians are none the worse for it to‐day. (It might even have been good for some of us, perhaps, if that ill‐starred Armada hadn't come so entirely to grief. I'm fond of big, tawny‐black eyes.)
All this, so novel and so strange, was a perpetual feast for Lady Caroline. And they bought nice, cheap, savory things on the way home, to eke out the lunch from "la Cigogne."
In the afternoon Barty would take a solitary walk in the open country, or along one of those endless straight chaussées, paved in the middle, and bordered by equidistant poplars on either side, and leading from town to town, and the monotonous perspective of which is so desolating to heart and eye; backwards or forwards, it is always the same, with a flat sameness of outlook to right and left, and every 450 seconds the chime would boom and flounder heavily by, with a dozen sharp railway whistles after it, like swordfish after a whale, piercing it through and through.
Barty evidently had all this in his mind when he wrote the song of the seminarist in "Gleams," beginning:
"Twas April, and the sky was clear,
An east wind blowing keenly;
The sun gave out but little cheer,
For all it shone serenely.
The wayside poplars, all arow,
For many a weary mile did throw
Down on the dusty flags below
Their shadows, picked out cleanly."
Etc., etc., etc.
(Isn't it just like Barty to begin a lyric that will probably last as long as the English language with an innocent jingle worthy of a school‐boy?)
After dinner, in the evening, it was Lady Caroline's delight to read aloud, while Barty smoked his cigarettes and inexpensive cigars – a concession on her part to make him happy, and keep him as much with her as she could; and she grew even to like the smell so much that once or twice, when he went to Antwerp for a couple of days to stay with Tescheles, she actually had to burn some of his tobacco on a red‐hot shovel, for the scent of it seemed to spell his name for her and make his absence less complete.
Thus she read to him Esmond, Hypatia, Never too Late to Mend, Les Maîtres Sonneurs, La Mare au Diable, and other delightful books, English and French, which were sent once a week from a circulating library in Brussels. How they blessed thy name, good Baron Tauchnitz!
"Oh, Aunt Caroline, if I could only illustrate books! If I could only illustrate Esmond and draw a passable Beatrix coming down the old staircase at Castlewood with her candle!" said Barty, one night.
That was not to be. Another was to illustrate Esmond, a poor devil who, oddly enough, was then living in the next street and suffering from a like disorder.1
As a return, Barty would sing to her all he knew, in five languages – three of which neither of them quite understood – accompanying himself on the piano or guitar. Sometimes she would play for him accompaniments that were beyond his reach, for she was a decently taught musician who could read fairly well at sight; whereas Barty didn't know a single note, and picked up everything by ear. She practised these accompaniments every afternoon, as assiduously as any school‐girl.
Then they would sit up very late, as they always had so much to talk about – what had just been read or played or sung, and many other things: the present, the past, and the future. All their old affection for each other had come back, trebled and quadrupled by pity on one side, gratitude on the other – and a little remorse on both. And there were long arrears to make up, and life was short and uncertain.
Sometimes l'Abbé Lefebvre, one of the professors at the séminaire and an old friend of Lady Caroline's, would come to drink tea, and talk politics, which ran high in Mechelen. He was a most accomplished and delightful Frenchman, who wrote poetry and adored Balzac – and even owned to a fondness for good old Paul de Kock, of whom it is said that when the news of his death reached Pius the Ninth, his Holiness dropped a tear and exclaimed:
"Mio caro Paolo di Kocco!"
Now and then the Abbé would bring with him a distinguished young priest, a Dominican – also a professor; Father Louis, of the princely house of Aremberg, who died a Cardinal three years ago.
Father Louis had an admirable and highly cultivated musical gift, and played to them Beethoven and Mozart, Schubert, Chopin, and Schumann – and this music, as long as it lasted (and for some time after), was to Barty as great a source of consolation as of unspeakable delight; and therefore to his aunt also. Though I'm afraid she preferred any little French song of Barty's to all the Schumanns in the world.
First of all, the priest would play the "Moonlight Sonata," let us say; and Barty would lean back and listen with his eyes shut, and almost believe that Beethoven was talking to him like a father, and pointing out to him how small was the difference, really, between the greatest earthly joy and the greatest earthly sorrow: these were not like black and white, but merely different shades of gray, as on moonlit things a long way off! and Time, what a reconciler it was – like distance! and Death, what a perfect resolution of all possible discords, and how certain! and our own little life, how short, and without importance! what matters whether it's to‐day, this small individual flutter of ours; or was a hundred years ago; or will be a hundred years hence! it has or had to be got through – and it's better past than to come.
"It all leads to the same divine issue, my poor friend," said Beethoven; "why, just see here – I'm stone‐deaf, and can't hear a note of what I'm singing to you! But it is not about that I weep, when I am weeping. It was terrible when it first came on, my deafness, and I could no longer hear the shepherd's pipe or the song of the lark; but it's well worth going deaf, to hear all that I do. I have to write everything down, and read it to myself; and my tears fall on the ruled paper, and blister the lines, and make the notes run into each other; and when I try to blot it all out, there's that still left on the page, which, turned into sound by good father Louis the Dominican, will tell you, if you can only hear it aright, what is not to be told in any human speech; not even that of Plato, or Marcus Aurelius, or Erasmus, or Shakespeare; not even that of Christ himself, who speaks through me from His unknown grave, because I am deaf and cannot hear the distracting words of men – poor, paltry words at their best, which mean so many things at once that they mean just nothing at all. It's a Tower of Babel. Just stop your ears and listen with your heart and you will hear all that you can see when you shut your eyes or have lost them – and those are the only realities, mein armer Barty!"
