Roll-Call — Part 1, Chapter 9, part 2
III
The circumstances in which, about a month later, George lunched with the Ingram family at their flat in the Rue d'Athènes, near the Gare St. Lazare, Paris, had an appearance of the utmost simplicity and ordinariness.
He had been down to Staffordshire for a rest, and had returned unrested.
And then Mr. Enwright had suggested that it would do him good to go to Paris, even to go alone.
He went, with no plan, but having made careful arrangements for the telegraphing to him of the result of the competition, which was daily expected.
By this time he was very seriously convinced that there was no hope of him being among the selected six or ten, and he preferred to get the news away from London rather than in it; he felt that he could not face London on the day or the morrow of a defeat which would of course render his youthful audacity ridiculous.
He arrived in Paris on a Wednesday evening, and took a room in a _maison meublée_ of the Rue de Sèze.
Every inexperienced traveller in Paris has a friend who knows a lodging in Paris which he alleges is better and cheaper than any other lodging--and which is not.
The house in the Rue de Sèze was the economical paradise of Buckingham Smith, whom George had encountered again at the Buckingham Smith exhibition.
Buckingham Smith, with over half his pictures bearing the red seal that indicates 'Sold,' felt justified in posing to the younger George as a cosmopolitan expert--especially as his opinions on modern French art were changing.
George spent three solitary and dejected days in Paris, affecting an interest in museums and architecture and French opera, and committing follies.
Near the end of the third day, a Saturday, he suddenly sent a threepenny express note to Lois Ingram.
He would have telephoned had he dared to use the French telephone.
On Sunday morning, an aproned valet having informed him that Monsieur was demanded at the telephone, he had to use the telephone.
Lois told him that he must come to lunch, and that afterwards he would be escorted to the races.
Dejection was instantly transformed into a gay excitation.
Proud of having spoken through a French telephone, he began to conceive romantically the interior of a Paris home--he had seen naught but a studio or so with Mr. Enwright--and to thrill at the prospect of Sunday races.
Not merely had he never seen a horse-race on a Sunday--he had never seen a horse-race at all.
He perhaps was conscious of a genuine interest in Lois and her environment, but what most satisfied and flattered him, after his loneliness, was the bare fact of possessing social relations in Paris at all.
The Ingram home was up four flights of naked oaken stairs, fairly swept, in a plain, flat-fronted house.
The door of the home was opened by a dark, untidy, dishevelled, uncapped, fat girl, with a full apron, dazzling white and rectangularly creased, that had obviously just been taken out of a drawer.
Familiarly and amicably smiling, she led him into a small, modest drawing-room where were Lois and her father and mother.
Lois was enigmatic and taciturn.
Mr. and Mrs. Ingram were ingenuous, loquacious, and at ease.
Both of them had twinkling eyes.
Mrs. Ingram was rather stout and grey and small, and wore a quiet, inexpensive blue dress, embroidered at the neck in the Morrisian manner, of no kind of fashionableness.
She spoke in a low voice, smiled to herself with a benevolence that was not without a touch of the sardonic, and often looked at the floor or at the ceiling.
Mr. Ingram, very slim and neat, was quite as small as his wife, and seemed smaller.
He talked much and rather amusingly, in a somewhat mincing tone, as it were apologetically, truly anxious to please.
He had an extremely fair complexion, and his youthfulness was quite startling.
His golden hair and perfect teeth might have belonged to a boy.
George leapt immediately into familiarity with these two.
But nobody could have less resembled his preconceived image of 'Parisian' than Mr. Ingram.
And he could not understand a bit whence or how such a pair had produced their daughter Lois.
Laurencine was a far more comprehensible offspring for them.
The dining-room was even less spacious than the drawing-room, and as unpretentious.
The furniture everywhere was sparse, but there were one or two rich knick-knacks, and an abundance of signed photographs.
The few pictures, too, were signed, and they drew attention.
On the table the napkins, save George's, were in rings, and each ring different from the others.
George's napkin had the air of a wealthy, stiff, shiny relative of the rest.
Evidently in that home the long art of making both ends meet was daily practised.
George grew light-hearted and happy, despite the supreme preoccupation which only a telegram could allay.
He had keenly the sensation of being abroad.
The multiplicity of doors, the panelling of the doors, the narrow planking of the oaken floor, the moulding of the cornices, the shape of the windows, the view of the courtyard from the dining-room and of attics and chimney-cowls from the drawing-room, the closed anthracite stoves in lieu of fires, the crockery, the wine-bottle, the mustard, the grey salt, the unconventional gestures and smiles and exclamations of the unkempt maid--all these strange details enchanted him, and they all set off very vividly the intense, nice, honest, reassuring Englishness of the host and hostess.
It was not until after the others were seated for the meal that Laurencine made her appearance.
She was a magnificent and handsome virgin, big-boned, physically a little awkward, candid.
How exquisitely and absurdly she flushed in shaking hands with George!
With what a delicious mock-furious setting of the teeth and tossing of the head she frowned at her mother's reproaches for being late!
This family knew the meaning of intimacy but not of ceremony.
Laurencine sat down at her father's left; George was next to her on Mrs. Ingram's right.
Lois had the whole of the opposite side of the table.
"Does he know?"
Laurencine asked; and turning to George: "Do you know?"
"Know what?"
"You'd better tell him, dad.
You like talking, and he ought to know.
I
shan't be able to eat if he doesn't. It would be so ridiculous sitting here and pretending."
Mrs. Ingram looked upwards across the room at a corner of the ceiling, and smiled faintly.
"You might," she said, "begin by asking Mr. Cannon if he particularly wants to be burdened with the weight of your secrets, my dear child."
"Oh!
I particularly do," said George.
"There's no secret about it--at least there won't be soon," said Laurencine.
Lois spoke simultaneously: "My dear mother, please call George George.
If we call him George, you can't possibly call him Mr. Cannon."
"I quite admit," Mrs. Ingram replied to her eldest, "I quite admit that you and Laurencine are entitled to criticise my relations with my husband, because he's your father.
But I propose to carry on my affairs with other men just according to my own ideas, and any interference will be resented.
I've had a bad night, owing to the garage again, and I don't feel equal to calling George George.
I've only known him about twenty minutes.
Moreover, I might be misunderstood, mightn't I, Mr. Cannon?"
"You might," said George.
"Now, dad!"
Laurencine admonished.
Mr. Ingram, addressing George, began: "Laurencine suffers from a grave form of self-consciousness----" "I don't, dad."
"It is a disease akin to conceit.
Her sufferings are sometimes so acute that she cannot sit up straight and is obliged to loll and curl her legs round the legs of the chair.
We are all very sorry for her.
The only treatment is brutal candour, as she herself advocates----" Laurencine jumped up, towered over her father, and covered his mouth with her hand.
"This simple hand," said Mr. Ingram, seizing it, "will soon bear a ring.
Laurencine is engaged to be married."
"I'm not, father."
She sat down again.
"Well, you are not.
But you will be, I presume, by post-time to-night.
A
young man of the name of Lucas has written to Laurencine this morning in a certain sense, and he has also written to me.
Laurencine has seen my letter, and I've seen hers.
But my envelope contained only one letter.
Whether her envelope contained more than one, whether the epistle which I saw is written in the style usually practised by the present age, whether it was composed for the special purpose of being shown to me, I do not know, and discretion and nice gentlemanly feeling forbid me to inquire.
However----" At this point, Laurencine snatched her father's napkin off his knees and put it on her own.
"However, my wife and I have met this Mr. Lucas, and as our opinion about him is not wholly unfavourable, the matter was satisfactorily and quickly arranged--even before I had had my bath; Laurencine and I will spend the afternoon in writing suitable communications to Mr. Lucas.
I
am ready to show her mine for a shilling, but I doubt if five pounds would procure me a sight of hers.
Yet she is only an amateur writer and I'm a professional."
There was a little silence, and then George said awkwardly: "I congratulate old Lucas."
"This news must have astonished you extremely," observed Mr. Ingram.
"It must have come as a complete surprise.
In fact you are doubtless in the condition known to charwomen as capable of being knocked down with a feather."
"Oh!
Quite!"
George agreed.
Nevertheless, in spite of his light tone, he regretted the engagement.
He did not think Lucas was worthy of the splendid girl.
He felt sorry for her.
At that moment she faced him bravely, and smiled.
Her face had a tremendous deep crimson flush.
There was a woman somewhere in the girl!
Strange phenomenon!
And another strange phenomenon: if Laurencine had been self-conscious, George also was self-conscious; and he avoided Lois's eyes!
Why?
He wondered whether the circumstances in which he had come to Paris and entered the Ingram home were as simple and ordinary as they superficially appeared.
"Laurencine," said her mother, "give your father back his serviette!"
"Mine's fallen."
"Never mind, my dear," said Mr. Ingram very benevolently, and he bent down and retrieved Laurencine's napkin, which he kept.
"And now," he proceeded, "the serious operation being over and the patient out of danger, shall we talk about something else for a few moments?"
"I should think so indeed!"
Laurencine exclaimed, suddenly gay.
"George, when _shall_ you know about the competition?"
"Any minute, I might," said he.
They all talked sympathetically to George on the new subject.
After lunch, Lois disappeared.
She came back resplendent for the races, when coffee had long been finished in the drawing-room.
"Why aren't you ready, Laure?"
she demanded.
"I'm not going, darling."
"Lois," Mr. Ingram exhorted, "don't forget the afternoon is to be spent in literary composition."
"It isn't," Laurencine contradicted.
"I may as well tell you I've written all I mean to write in the way of letters for one day.
But I don't want to go, really, Lois darling."
"No. She wants to think," Mrs. Ingram explained.
Lois set her lips together, and then glimpsed herself in the large mirror over the anthracite stove.
She looked too rich and complicated for that simple drawing-room.
A performance on a horn made itself heard in the street below.
"There he is!"
said Laurencine.
She opened a window and ran out on to the balcony and leaned over; then glanced within the room and nodded.
George had assumed that Irene Wheeler was the author and hostess of the race-party, and he was not mistaken.
Irene's automobile had been sent round to embark him and the girls.
Mrs. Ingram urged him to come again the next day, and he said ardently that he would.
Mrs. Ingram's 'affair' with him was progressing rapidly.
"But I hope you'll call me George, then," he added.
"I may!"
she said.
"I may!
I may go even further."
Lois and George descended the stairs in silence.
He had not seen her, nor written to her, since the night of the comedy when he had so abruptly left the box.
Once or twice at the Ingrams' he had fancied that she might be vexed with him for that unceremonious departure.
But she was not.
The frank sigh of relief which she gave on reaching the foot of the interminable stairs, and her equally frank smile, had no reserve whatever.
The chauffeur's welcoming grin seemed to indicate that he was much attached to Miss Ingram.
He touched his hat, bowed, and spoke to her at some length in French.
Lois frowned.
"It seems Miss Wheeler doesn't feel equal to going out this afternoon," she translated to George.
"But she insists that we shall use the car all the same."
"Is she ill?"
"She's lying down, trying to sleep."
"Well, then, I suppose we'd better use the car, hadn't we?"
Lois said seriously: "If you don't object, I don't." IV
At Longchamps the sun most candidly and lovingly blessed the elaborate desecration of the English Sabbath.
The delicately ornamented grand stands, the flags, the swards, the terraces, the alleys, the booths, the notice-boards, the vast dappled sea of hats and faces in the distant cheaper parts of the Hippodrome, were laved in the descending, caressing floods of voluptuous, warm sunshine.
The air itself seemed luminous.
The enchantment of the sun was irresistible; it stunned apprehensions and sad memories, obliterating for a moment all that was or might be unhappy in the past or in the future.
George yielded to it.
He abandoned his preoccupations about the unsatisfactoriness of using somebody else's car in the absence of the owner, about Mr. and Mrs. Ingram's ignorance of the fact that their daughter had gone off alone with him, about Lois's perfect indifference to this fact, about the engagement of Laurencine to a man not her equal in worth, about the strange, uncomfortable effect of Laurencine's engagement upon his attitude towards Lois, and finally and supremely about the competition.
He gave himself up to the bright warmth like an animal, and forgot.
And he became part of the marvellous and complicated splendour of the scene, took pride in it, took even credit for it (Heaven knew why!
), and gradually passed from insular astonishment to a bland, calm acceptance of the miracles of sensuous beatitude which civilization had to offer.
After all, he was born to such experiences; they were his right; and he was equal to them.
Nevertheless his conviction of the miraculous fortunately was not impaired.
What was impaired was his conviction of his own culture.
He was constantly thinking that he knew everything or could imagine everything, and constantly undergoing the shock of undeception; but the shock of the Longchamps Sunday was excessive.
He had quite failed to imagine the race-meeting; he had imagined an organism brilliant, perhaps, but barbaric and without form and style; he had imagined grotesque contrasts of squalor, rascality, and fashion; he had imagined an affair predominantly equine and masculine.
The reality did not correspond; it transcended his imagination; it painfully demonstrated his jejune crudity.
The Hippodrome was as formalized and stylistic as an Italian garden; the only contrasts were those of one elegance with another; horses were not to be seen, except occasionally in the distance when under their riders they shot past some dark background a flitting blur of primary colours with a rumble of muffled thunder; and women, not men, predominated.
On entering the Hippodrome George and Lois had met a group of fashionably attired women, and he had thought: "There's a bunch of jolly well-dressed ones."
But as the reserved precincts opened out before him he saw none but fashionably attired women.
They were there not in hundreds but in thousands.
They sat in rows on the grand stands; they jostled each other on the staircases; they thronged the alleys and swards.
The men were negligible beside them.
And they were not only fashionably and very fashionably attired--all their frocks and all their hats and all their parasols and all their boots were new, glittering, spick-and-span; were complex and expensive; not one feared the sun.
The conception of what those innumerable chromatic toilettes had cost in the toil, stitch by stitch, of malodorous workrooms and in the fatigue of pale, industrious creatures was really formidable.
But it could not detract from the scenic triumph.
The scenic triumph dazzlingly justified itself, and proved beyond any cavilling that earth was a grand, intoxicating place, and Longchamps under the sun an unequalled paradise of the senses....
Ah!
These women were finished--finished to the least detail of coiffure, sunshade-handle, hatpin, jewellery, handbag, bootlace, glove, stocking, _lingerie_.
Each was the product of many arts in co-ordination.
Each was of great price.
And there were thousands of them.
They were as cheap as periwinkles.
George thought: "This is Paris."
He said aloud: "Seems to be a fine lot of new clothes knocking about."
Evidently for Lois his tone was too impressed, not sufficiently casual.
She replied in her condescending manner, which he detested: "My poor George, considering that this is the opening of the spring season, and the place where all the new spring fashions are tried out--what did you expect?"
The dolt had not known that he was assisting at a solemnity recognized as such by experts throughout the clothed world.
But Lois knew all those things.
She herself was trying out a new toilette, for which doubtless Irene Wheeler was partly sponsor.
She could hold her own on the terraces with the rest.
She was staggeringly different now from the daughter of the simple home in the Rue d'Athènes.
The eyes of the splendid women aroused George's antipathy, because he seemed to detect antipathy in them--not against himself but against the male in him.
These women, though by their glances they largely mistrusted and despised each other, had the air of having combined sexually against a whole sex.
The situation was very contradictory.
They had beautified and ornamented themselves in order to attract a whole sex, and yet they appeared to resent the necessity and instinct to attract.
They submitted with a secret repugnance to the mysterious and supreme bond which kept the sexes inexorably together.
And while stooping to fascinate, while deliberately seeking attention, they still had the assured mien of conquerors.
Their eyes said that they knew they were indispensable, that they had a transcendent role to play, that no concealed baseness of the inimical sex was hidden from them, and that they meant to exploit their position to the full.
These Latin women exhibited a logic, an elegance, and a frankness beyond the reach of the Anglo-Saxon.
Their eyes said not that they had been disillusioned, but rather that they had never had illusions.
They admitted the facts; they admitted everything--economic dependence, chicane, the intention to seize every advantage, ruthless egotism.
They had no shame for a depravity which they shared equally with the inescapable and cherished enemy And it was the youngest who, beneath the languishing and the softness and the invitation deceitful and irresistible, gazed outmost triumphantly to the enemy: "You are the victims.
We have tried our strength and your infirmity."
They were heroic.
There was a feeling in the bright air of melancholy and doom as the two hostile forces, inseparable, inextricably involved together, surveyed the opponent in the everlasting conflict.
George felt its influence upon himself, upon Lois, upon the whole scene.
The eyes of the most feminine women in the world, denying their smiles and their lure, had discovered to him something which marked a definite change in his estimate of certain ultimate earthly values.
Lois said: "Perhaps a telegram is waiting for you at the hotel."
"Well, I can wait till I get back," he replied stoutly.
He thought, looking at her by his side: "She is just like these Frenchwomen!"
And for some reason he felt proud.
"You needn't," said Lois, "We can telephone from under the grand stand if you like."
"But I don't know the number."
"We can get that out of the book, of course."
"I don't reckon I can use these French telephones."
"Oh!
My poor boy, I'll telephone for you--unless you prefer not to risk knowing the worst."
Yes, her tone was the tone of a strange woman.
And it was she who thirsted for the result of the competition.
Controlling himself, submissively he asked her to telephone for him, and she agreed in a delightfully agreeable voice.
She seemed to know the entire geography of the Hippodrome.
She secured a telephone-cabin in a very business-like manner.
As she entered the cabin she said to George: "I'll ask them if a telegram has come, and if it has I'll ask them to open it and read it to me, or spell it--of course it'll be in English....
Eh?"
Through the half-open door of the cabin he watched her, and listened.
She rapidly turned over the foul and torn pages of the telephone-book with her thumb.
She spoke into the instrument very clearly, curtly, and authoritatively.
George could translate in his mind what she said--his great resolve to learn French had carried him so far.
"On the part of Monsieur Cannon, one of your clients, Monsieur Cannon of London.
Has there arrived a telegram for him?"
She waited.
The squalor of the public box increased the effect of her young and proud stylishness and of her perfume.
George waited, humbled by her superior skill in the arts of life, and saying anxiously to himself: "Perhaps in a moment I shall know the result," almost trembling.
She hung up the instrument, and, with a glance at George, shook her head.
"There isn't anything," she murmured.
He said: "It's very queer, isn't it?
However..."
As they emerged from the arcana of the grand stand, Lois was stopped by a tall, rather handsome Jew, who, saluting her with what George esteemed to be French exaggeration of gesture, nevertheless addressed her in a confidential tone in English.
George, having with British restraint acknowledged the salute, stood aside, and gazed discreetly away from the pair.
He could not hear what was being said.
After several minutes Lois rejoined George, and they went back into the crowds and the sun.
She did not speak.
She did not utter one word.
Only, when the numbers went up for a certain race, she remarked: "This is the Prix du Cadran.
It's the principal race of the afternoon."
And when that was over, amid cheering that ran about the field like fire through dried bush, she added: "I think I ought to go back now.
I told the chauffeur to be here after the Prix du Cadran.
What time is it exactly?"
They sat side by side in the long, open car, facing the chauffeur's creaseless back.
After passing the Cascade, the car swerved into the Allée de Longchamps which led in an absolutely straight line, two miles long, to the Port Maillot and the city.
Spring decorated the magnificent wooded thoroughfare.
The side-alleys, aisles of an interminable nave, were sprinkled with revellers and lovers and the most respectable families half hidden amid black branches and gleams of tender green.
Automobiles and carriages threaded the main alley at varying speeds.
The number of ancient horse-cabs gradually increased until, after the intersection of the Allée de la Reine Marguerite, they thronged the vast road.
All the humble and shabby genteel people in Paris who could possibly afford a cab seemed to have taken a cab.
Nearly every cab was overloaded.
The sight of this vast pathetic effort of the disinherited towards gaiety and distraction and the mood of spring, intensified the vague sadness in George due to the race-crowd, Lois's silence, and the lack of news about the competition.
At length Lois said, scowling--no doubt involuntarily: "I think I'd better tell you now.
Irene Wheeler's committed suicide.
Shot herself."
She pressed her lips together and looked at the road.
George gave a startled exclamation.
He could not for an instant credit the astounding news.
"But how do you know?
Who told you?"
"The man who spoke to me in the grand stand.
He's correspondent of _The London Courier_--friend of father's of course."
George protested: "Then why on earth didn't you tell me before?...
Shot herself!
What for?"
"I didn't tell you before because I couldn't." All the violence of George's nature came to the surface as he said brutally: "Of course you could!"
"I tell you I couldn't!"
she cried.
"I knew the car wouldn't be there for us until after the Prix du Cadran.
And if I'd told you I couldn't have borne to be walking about that place three-quarters of an hour.
We should have had to talk about it.
I couldn't have borne that.
And so you needn't be cross, please."
But her voice did not break, nor her eyes shine.
"I was wondering whether I should tell the chauffeur at once, or let him find it out."
"I should let him find it out," said George.
"He doesn't know that you know.
Besides, it might upset his driving."
"Oh!
I shouldn't mind about his driving," Lois murmured disdainfully.
