The Good Soldier

It is very difficult to give an all-round impression of an man.  I wonder how far I have succeeded with Edward Ashburnham.  I dare say I haven’t succeeded at all.  It is ever very difficult to see how such things matter.  Was it the important point about poor Edward that he was very well built, carried himself well, was moderate at the table and led a regular life—­that he had, in fact, all the virtues that are usually accounted English?  Or have I in the least succeeded in conveying that he was all those things and had all those virtues?  He certainly was them and had them up to the last months of his life.  They were the things that one would set upon his tombstone.  They will, indeed, be set upon his tombstone by his widow.

And have I, I wonder, given the due impression of how his life was portioned and his time laid out?  Because, until the very last, the amount of time taken up by his various passions was relatively small.  I have been forced to write very much about his passions, but you have to consider—­I should like to be able to make you consider—­that he rose every morning at seven, took a cold bath, breakfasted at eight, was occupied with his regiment from nine until one; played polo or cricket with the men when it was the season for cricket, till tea-time.  Afterwards he would occupy himself with the letters from his land-steward or with the affairs of his mess, till dinner-time.  He would dine and pass the evening playing cards, or playing billiards with Leonora or at social functions of one kind or another.  And the greater part of his life was taken up by that—­by far the greater part of his life.  His love-affairs, until the very end, were sandwiched in at odd moments or took place during the social evenings, the dances and dinners.  But I guess I have made it hard for you, O silent listener, to get that impression.  Anyhow, I hope I have not given you the idea that Edward Ashburnham was a pathological case.  He wasn’t.  He was just a normal man and very much of a sentimentalist.  I dare say the quality of his youth, the nature of his mother’s influence, his ignorances, the crammings that he received at the hands of army coaches—­I dare say that all these excellent influences upon his adolescence were very bad for him.  But we all have to put up with that sort of thing and no doubt it is very bad for all of us.  Nevertheless, the outline of Edward’s life was an outline perfectly normal of the life of a hard-working, sentimental and efficient professional man.

That question of first impressions has always bothered me a good deal—­ but quite academically.  I mean that, from time to time I have wondered whether it were or were not best to trust to one’s first impressions in dealing with people.  But I never had anybody to deal with except waiters and chambermaids and the Ashburnhams, with whom I didn’t know that I was having any dealings.  And, as far as waiters and chambermaids were concerned, I have generally found that my first impressions were correct enough.  If my first idea of a man was that he was civil, obliging, and attentive, he generally seemed to go on being all those things.  Once, however, at our Paris flat we had a maid who appeared to be charming and transparently honest.  She stole, nevertheless, one of Florence’s diamond rings.  She did it, however, to save her young man from going to prison.  So here, as somebody says somewhere, was a special case.

And, even in my short incursion into American business life—­an incursion that lasted during part of August and nearly the whole of September—­I found that to rely upon first impressions was the best thing I could do.  I found myself automatically docketing and labelling each man as he was introduced to me, by the run of his features and by the first words that he spoke.  I can’t, however, be regarded as really doing business during the time that I spent in the United States.  I was just winding things up.  If it hadn’t been for my idea of marrying the girl I might possibly hav looked for something to do in my own country.  For my experiences there were vivid and amusing.  It was exactly as if I had come out of a museum into a riotous fancy-dress ball.  During my life with Florence I had almost come to forget that there were such things as fashions or occupations or the greed of gain.  I had, in fact, forgotten that there was such a thing as a dollar and that a dollar can be extremely desirable if you don’t happen to possess one.  And I had forgotten, too, that there was such a thing as gossip that mattered.  In that particular, Philadelphia was the most amazing place I have ever been in in my life.  I was not in that city for more than a week or ten days and I didn’t there transact anything much in the way of business; nevertheless, the number of times that I was warned by everybody against everybody else was simply amazing.  A man I didn’t know would come up behind my lounge chair in the hotel, and, whispering cautiously beside my ear, would warn me against some other man that I equally didn’t know but who would be standing by the bar.  I don’t know what they thought I was there to do—­perhaps to buy out the city’s debt or get a controlling hold of some railway interest.  Or, perhaps, they imagined that I wanted to buy a newspaper, for they were either politicians or reporters, which, of course, comes to the same thing.  As a matter of fact, my property in Philadelphia was mostly real estate in the old-fashioned part of the city and all I wanted to do there was just to satisfy myself that the houses were in good repair and the doors kept properly painted.  I wanted also to see my relations, of whom I had a few.  These were mostly professional people and they were mostly rather hard up because of the big bank failure in 1907 or thereabouts.  Still, they were very nice.  They would have been nicer still if they hadn’t, all of them, had what appeared to me to be the mania that what they called influences were working against them.  At any rate, the impression of that city was one of old-fashioned rooms, rather English than American in type, in which handsome but careworn ladies, cousins of my own, talked principally about mysterious movements that were going on against them.  I never got to know what it was all about; perhaps they thought I knew or perhaps there weren’t any movements at all.  It was all very secret and subtle and subterranean.  But there was a nice young fellow called Carter who was a sort of second-nephew of mine, twice removed.  He was handsome and dark and gentie and tall and modest.  I understand also that he was a good cricketer.  He was employed by the real-estate agents who collected my rents.  It was he, therefore, who took me over my own property and I saw a good deal of him and of a nice girl called Mary, to whom he was engaged.  At that time I did, what I certainly shouldn’t do now—­I made some careful inquiries as to his character.  I discovered from his employers that he was just all that he appeared, honest, industrious, high-spirited, friendly and ready to do anyone a good turn.  His relatives, however, as they were mine, too—­seemed to have something darkly mysterious against him.  I imagined that he must have been mixed up in some case of graft or that he had at least betrayed several innocent and trusting maidens.  I pushed, however, that particular mystery home and discovered it was only that he was a Democrat.  My own people were mostly Republicans.  It seemed to make it worse and more darkly mysterious to them that young Carter was what they called a sort of a Vermont Democrat which was the whole ticket and no mistake.  But I don’t know what it means.  Anyhow, I suppose that my money will go to him when I die—­I like the recollection of his friendly image and of the nice girl he was engaged to.  May Fate deal very kindly with them.

I have said just now that, in my present frame of mind, nothing would ever make me make inquiries as to the character of any man that I liked at first sight. (The little digression as to my Philadelphia experiences was really meant to lead around to this.) For who in this world can give anyone a character?  Who in this world knows anything of any other heart—­or of his own?  I don’t mean to say that one cannot form an average estimate of the way a person will behave.  But one cannot be certain of the way any man will behave in every case—­and until one can do that a “character” is of no use to anyone.  That, for instance, was the way with Florence’s maid in Paris.  We used to trust that girl with blank cheques for the payment of the tradesmen.  For quite a time she was so trusted by us.  Then, suddenly, she stole a ring.  We should not have believed her capable of it; she would not have believed herself capable of it.  It was nothing in her character.  So, perhaps, it was with Edward Ashburnham.

Or, perhaps, it wasn’t.  No, I rather think it wasn’t.  It is difficult to figure out.  I have said that the Kilsyte case eased the immediate tension for him and Leonora.  It let him see that she was capable of loyalty to him; it gave her her chance to show that she believed in him.  She accepted without question his statement that, in kissing the girl, he wasn’t trying to do more than administer fatherly comfort to a weeping child.  And, indeed, his own world—­including the magistrates—­took that view of the case.  Whatever people say, one’s world can be perfectly charitable at times . . .  But, again, as I have said, it did Edward a great deal of harm.

That, at least, was his view of it.  He assured me that, before that case came on and was wrangled about by counsel with all sorts of dirty-mindedness that counsel in that sort of case can impute, he had not had the least idea that he was capable of being unfaithful to Leonora.  But, in the midst of that tumult—­he says that it came suddenly into his head whilst he was in the witness-box—­in the midst of those august ceremonies of the law there came suddenly into his mind the recollection of the softness of the girl’s body as he had pressed her to him.  And, from that moment, that girl appeared desirable to him—­and Leonora completely unattractive.

He began to indulge in day-dreams in which he approached the nurse-maid more tactfully and carried the matter much further.  Occasionally he thought of other women in terms of wary courtship—­or, perhaps, it would be more exact to say that he thought of them in terms of tactful comforting, ending in absorption.  That was his own view of the case.  He saw himself as the victim of the law.  I don’t mean to say that he saw himself as a kind of Dreyfus.  The law, practically, was quite kind to him.  It stated that in its view Captain Ashburnham had been misled by an ill-placed desire to comfort a member of the opposite sex, and it fined him five shilling for his want of tact, or of knowledge of the world.  But Edward maintained that it had put ideas into his head.

I don’t believe it, though he certainly did.  He was twenty-seven then, and his wife was out of sympathy with him—­some crash was inevitable.  There was between them a momentary rapprochement; but it could not last.  It made it, probably, all the worse that, in that particular matter, Leonara had come so very well up to the scratch.  For, whilst Edward respected her more and was grateful to her, it made her seem by so much the more cold in other matters that were near his heart—­his responsibilities, his career, his tradition.  It brought his despair of her up to a point of exasperation—­and it riveted on him the idea that he might find some other woman who would give him the moral support that he needed.  He wanted to be looked upon as a sort of Lohengrin.

At that time, he says, he went about deliberately looking for some woman who could help him.  He found several—­for there were quite a number of ladies in his set who were capable of agreeing with this handsome and fine fellow that the duties of a feudal gentleman were feudal.  He would have liked to pass his days talking to one or other of these ladies.  But there was always an obstacle—­if the lady were married there would be a husband who claimed the greater part of her time and attention.  If, on the other hand, it were an unmarried girl, he could not see very much of her for fear of compromising her.  At that date, you understand, he had not the least idea of seducing any one of these ladies.  He wanted only moral support at the hands of some female, because he found men difficult to talk to about ideals.  Indeed, I do not believe that he had, at any time, any idea of making any one his mistress.  That sounds queer; but I believe it is quite true as a statement of character.

It was, I believe, one of Leonora’s priests—­a man of the world—­who suggested that she should take him to Monte Carlo.  He had the idea that what Edward needed, in order to fit him for the society of Leonora, was a touch of irresponsibility.  For Edward, at that date, had much the aspect of a prig.  I mean that, if he played polo and was an excellent dancer he did the one for the sake of keeping himself fit and the other because it was a social duty to show himself at dances, and, when there, to dance well.  He did nothing for fun except what he considered to be his work in life.  As the priest saw it, this must for ever estrange him from Leonora —­not because Leonora set much store by the joy of life, but because she was out of sympathy with Edward’s work.  On the other hand, Leonora did like to have a good time, now and then, and, as the priest saw it, if Edward could be got to like having a good time now and then, too, there would be a bond of sympathy between them.  It was a good idea, but it worked out wrongly.

It worked out, in fact, in the mistress of the Grand Duke.  In anyone less sentimental than Edward that would not have mattered.  With Edward it was fatal.  For, such was his honourable nature, that for him to enjoy a woman’s favours made him feel that she had a bond on him for life.  That was the way it worked out in practice.  Psychologically it meant that he could not have a mistress without falling violently in love with her.  He was a serious person—­and in this particular case it was very expensive.  The mistress of the Grand Duke—­a Spanish dancer of passionate appearance —­singled out Edward for her glances at a ball that was held in their common hotel.  Edward was tall, handsome, blond and very wealthy as she understood—­and Leonora went up to bed early.  She did not care for public dances, but she was relieved to see that Edward appeared to be having a good time with several amiable girls.  And that was the end of Edward—­for the Spanish dancer of passionate appearance wanted one night of him for his beaux yeux.  He took her into the dark gardens and, remembering suddenly the girl of the Kilsyte case, he kissed her.  He kissed her passionately, violently, with a sudden explosion of the passion that had been bridled all his life—­for Leonora was cold, or at any rate, well behaved.  La Dolciquita liked this reversion, and he passed the night in her bed.

When the palpitating creature was at last asleep in his arms he discovered that he was madly, was passionately, was overwhelmingly in love with her.  It was a passion that had arisen like fire in dry corn.  He could think of nothing else; he could live for nothing else.  But La Dolciquita was a reasonable creature without an ounce of passion in her.  She wanted a certain satisfaction of her appetites and Edward had appealed to her the night before.  Now that was done with, and, quite coldly, she said that she wanted money if he was to have any more of her.  It was a perfectly reasonable commercial transaction.  She did not care two buttons for Edward or for any man and he was asking her to risk a very good situation with the Grand Duke.  If Edward could put up sufficient money to serve as a kind of insurance against accident she was ready to like Edward for a time that would be covered, as it were, by the policy.  She was getting fifty thousand dollars a year from her Grand Duke; Edward would have to pay a premium of two years’ hire for a month of her society.  There would not be much risk of the Grand Duke’s finding it out and it was not certain that he would give her the keys of the street if he did find out.  But there was the risk—­a twenty per cent risk, as she figured it out.  She talked to Edward as if she had been a solicitor with an estate to sell—­perfectly quietly and perfectly coldly without any inflections in her voice.  She did not want to be unkind to him; but she could see no reason for being kind to him.  She was a virtuous business woman with a mother and two sisters and her own old age to be provided comfortably for.  She did not expect more than a five years’ further run.  She was twenty-four and, as she said:  “We Spanish women are horrors at thirty.”  Edward swore that he would provide for her for life if she would come to him and leave off talking so horribly; but she only shrugged one shoulder slowly and contemptuously.  He tried to convince this woman, who, as he saw it, had surrendered to him her virtue, that he regarded it as in any case his duty to provide for her, and to cherish her and even to love her—­for life.  In return for her sacrifice he would do that.  In return, again, for his honourable love she would listen for ever to the accounts of his estate.  That was how he figured it out.

She shrugged the same shoulder with the same gesture and held out her left hand with the elbow at her side: 

“Enfin, mon ami,” she said, “put in this hand the price of that tiara at Forli’s or . . .”  And she turned her back on him.

Edward went mad; his world stood on its head; the palms in front of the blue sea danced grotesque dances.  You see, he believed in the virtue, tenderness and moral support of women.  He wanted more than anything to argue with La Dolciquita; to retire with her to an island and point out to her the damnation of her point of view and how salvation can only be found in true love and the feudal system.  She had once been his mistress, he reflected, and by all the moral laws she ought to have gone on being his mistress or at the very least his sympathetic confidante.  But her rooms were closed to him; she did not appear in the hotel.  Nothing:  blank silence.  To break that down he had to have twenty thousand pounds.  You have heard what happened.  He spent a week of madness; he hungered; his eyes sank in; he shuddered at Leonora’s touch.  I dare say that nine-tenths of what he took to be his passion for La Dolciquita was really discomfort at the thought that he had been unfaithful to Leonora.  He felt uncommonly bad, that is to say—­oh, unbearably bad, and he took it all to be love.  Poor devil, he was incredibly naïve.  He drank like a fish after Leonora was in bed and he spread himself over the tables, and this went on for about a fortnight.  Heaven knows what would have happened; he would have thrown away every penny that he possessed.

On the night after he had lost about forty thousand pounds and whilst the whole hotel was whispering about it, La Dolciquita walked composedly into his bedroom.  He was too drunk to recognize her, and she sat in his arm-chair, knitting and holding smelling salts to her nose—­for he was pretty far gone with alcoholic poisoning—­and, as soon as he was able to understand her, she said: 

“Look here, mon ami, do not go to the tables again.  Take a good sleep now and come and see me this afternoon.”

He slept till the lunch-hour.  By that time Leonora had heard the news.  A Mrs Colonel Whelan had told her.  Mrs Colonel Whelan seems to have been the only sensible person who was ever connected with the Ashburnhams.  She had argued it out that there must be a woman of the harpy variety connected with Edward’s incredible behaviour and mien; and she advised Leonora to go straight off to Town—­which might have the effect of bringing Edward to his senses—­and to consult her solicitor and her spiritual adviser.  She had better go that very morning; it was no good arguing with a man in Edward’s condition.

Edward, indeed, did not know that she had gone.  As soon as he awoke he went straight to La Dolciquita’s room and she stood him his lunch in her own apartments.  He fell on her neck and wept, and she put up with it for a time.  She was quite a good-natured woman.  And, when she had calmed him down with Eau de Mélisse, she said:  “Look here, my friend, how much money have you left?  Five thousand dollars?  Ten?” For the rumour went that Edward had lost two kings’ ransoms a night for fourteen nights and she imagined that he must be near the end of his resources.

The Eau de Mélisse had calmed Edward to such an extent that, for the moment, he really had a head on his shoulders.  He did nothing more than grunt: 

“And then?”

“Why,” she answered, “I may just as well have the ten thousand dollars as the tables.  I will go with you to Antibes for a week for that sum.”

Edward grunted:  “Five.”  She tried to get seven thousand five hundred; but he stuck to his five thousand and the hotel expenses at Antibes.  The sedative carried him just as far as that and then he collapsed again.  He had to leave for Antibes at three; he could not do without it.  He left a note for Leonora saying that he had gone off for a week with the Clinton Morleys, yachting.

He did not enjoy himself very much at Antibes.  La Dolciquita could talk of nothing with any enthusiasm except money, and she tired him unceasingly, during every waking hour, for presents of the most expensive description.  And, at the end of a week, she just quietly kicked him out.  He hung about in Antibes for three days.  He was cured of the idea that he had any duties towards La Dolciquita—­feudal or otherwise.  But his sentimentalism required of him an attitude of Byronic gloom—­as if his court had gone into half-mourning.  Then his appetite suddenly returned, and he remembered Leonora.  He found at his hotel at Monte Carlo a telegram from Leonora, dispatched from London, saying; “Please return as soon as convenient.”  He could not understand why Leonora should have abandoned him so precipitately when she only thought that he had gone yachting with the Clinton Morleys.  Then he discovered that she had left the hotel before he had written the note.  He had a pretty rocky journey back to town; he was frightened out of his life—­and Leonora had never seemed so desirable to him.

V I call this the Saddest Story, rather than “The Ashburnham Tragedy”, just because it is so sad, just because there was no current to draw things along to a swift and inevitable end.  There is about it none of the elevation that accompanies tragedy; there is about it no nemesis, no destiny.  Here were two noble people—­for I am convinced that both Edward and Leonora had noble natures—­here, then, were two noble natures, drifting down life, like fireships afloat on a lagoon and causing miseries, heart-aches, agony of the mind and death.  And they themselves steadily deteriorated.  And why?  For what purpose?  To point what lesson?  It is all a darkness.

There is not even any villain in the story—­for even Major Basil, the husband of the lady who next, and really, comforted the unfortunate Edward —­even Major Basil was not a villain in this piece.  He was a slack, loose, shiftless sort of fellow—­but he did not do anything to Edward.  Whilst they were in the same station in Burma he borrowed a good deal of money—­though, really, since Major Basil had no particular vices, it was difficult to know why he wanted it.  He collected—­different types of horses’ bits from the earliest times to the present day—­but, since he did not prosecute even this occupation with any vigour, he cannot have needed much money for the acquirement, say, of the bit of Genghis Khan’s charger—­if Genghis Khan had a charger.  And when I say that he borrowed a good deal of money from Edward I do not mean to say that he had more than a thousand pounds from him during the five years that the connection lasted.  Edward, of course, did not have a great deal of money; Leonora was seeing to that.  Still, he may have had five hundred pounds a year English, for his menus plaisirs—­for his regimental subscriptions and for keeping his men smart.  Leonora hated that; she would have preferred to buy dresses for herself or to have devoted the money to paying off a mortgage.  Still, with her sense of justice, she saw that, since she was managing a property bringing in three thousand a year with a view to re-establishing it as a property of five thousand a year and since the property really, if not legally, belonged to Edward, it was reasonable and just that Edward should get a slice of his own.  Of course she had the devil of a job.

I don’t know that I have got the financial details exactly right.  I am a pretty good head at figures, but my mind, still, sometimes mixes up pounds with dollars and I get a figure wrong.  Anyhow, the proposition was something like this:  Properly worked and without rebates to the tenants and keeping up schools and things, the Branshaw estate should have brought in about five thousand a year when Edward had it.  It brought in actually about four. (I am talking in pounds, not dollars.) Edward’s excesses with the Spanish Lady had reduced its value to about three—­as the maximum figure, without reductions.  Leonora wanted to get it back to five.

She was, of course, very young to be faced with such a proposition—­twenty-four is not a very advanced age.  So she did things with a youthful vigour that she would, very likely, have made more merciful, if she had known more about life.  She got Edward remarkably on the hop.  He had to face her in a London hotel, when he crept back from Monte Carlo with his poor tail between his poor legs.  As far as I can make out she cut short his first mumblings and his first attempts at affectionate speech with words something like:  “We’re on the verge of ruin.  Do you intend to let me pull things together?  If not I shall retire to Hendon on my jointure.” (Hendon represented a convent to which she occasionally went for what is called a “retreat” in Catholic circles.) And poor dear Edward knew nothing—­absolutely nothing.  He did not know how much money he had, as he put it, “blued” at the tables.  It might have been a quarter of a million for all he remembered.  He did not know whether she knew about La Dolciquita or whether she imagined that he had gone off yachting or had stayed at Monte Carlo.  He was just dumb and he just wanted to get into a hole and not have to talk.  Leonora did not make him talk and she said nothing herself.

I do not know much about English legal procedure—­I cannot, I mean, give technical details of how they tied him up.  But I know that, two days later, without her having said more than I have reported to you, Leonora and her attorney had become the trustees, as I believe it is called, of all Edward’s property, and there was an end of Edward as the good landlord and father of his people.  He went out.  Leonora then had three thousand a year at her disposal.  She occupied Edward with getting himself transferred to a part of his regiment that was in Burma—­if that is the right way to put it.  She herself had an interview, lasting a week or so—­with Edward’s land-steward.  She made him understand that the estate would have to yield up to its last penny.  Before they left for India she had let Branshaw for seven years at a thousand a year.  She sold two Vandykes and a little silver for eleven thousand pounds and she raised, on mortgage, twenty-nine thousand.  That went to Edward’s money-lending friends in Monte Carlo.  So she had to get the twenty-nine thousand back, for she did not regard the Vandykes and the silver as things she would have to replace.  They were just frills to the Ashburnham vanity.  Edward cried for two days over the disappearance of his ancestors and then she wished she had not done it; but it did not teach her anything and it lessened such esteem as she had for him.  She did not also understand that to let Branshaw affected him with a feeling of physical soiling—­that it was almost as bad for him as if a woman belonging to him had become a prostitute.  That was how it did affect him; but I dare say she felt just as bad about the Spanish dancer.

So she went at it.  They were eight years in India, and during the whole of that time she insisted that they must be self-supporting—­they had to live on his Captain’s pay, plus the extra allowance for being at the front.  She gave him the five hundred a year for Ashburnham frills, as she called it to herself—­and she considered she was doing him very well.

Indeed, in a way, she did him very well—­but it was not his way.  She was always buying him expensive things which, as it were, she took off her own back.  I have, for instance, spoken of Edward’s leather cases.  Well, they were not Edward’s at all; they were Leonora’s manifestations.  He liked to be clean, but he preferred, as it were, to be threadbare.  She never understood that, and all that pigskin was her idea of a reward to him for putting her up to a little speculation by which she made eleven hundred pounds.  She did, herself, the threadbare business.  When they went up to a place called Simla, where, as I understand, it is cool in the summer and very social—­when they went up to Simla for their healths it was she who had him prancing around, as we should say in the United States, on a thousand-dollar horse with the gladdest of glad rags all over him.  She herself used to go into “retreat”.  I believe that was very good for her health and it was also very inexpensive.

It was probably also very good for Edward’s health, because he pranced about mostly with Mrs Basil, who was a nice woman and very, very kind to him.  I suppose she was his mistress, but I never heard it from Edward, of course.  I seem to gather that they carried it on in a high romantic fashion, very proper to both of them—­or, at any rate, for Edward; she seems to have been a tender and gentle soul who did what he wanted.  I do not mean to say that she was without character; that was her job, to do what Edward wanted.  So I figured it out, that for those five years, Edward wanted long passages of deep affection kept up in long, long talks and that every now and then they “fell,” which would give Edward an opportunity for remorse and an excuse to lend the Major another fifty.  I don’t think that Mrs Basil considered it to be “falling”; she just pitied him and loved him.

You see, Leonora and Edward had to talk about something during all these years.  You cannot be absolutely dumb when you live with a person unless you are an inhabitant of the North of England or the State of Maine.  So Leonora imagined the cheerful device of letting him see the accounts of his estate and discussing them with him.  He did not discuss them much; he was trying to behave prettily.  But it was old Mr Mumford—­the farmer who did not pay his rent—­that threw Edward into Mrs Basil’s arms.  Mrs Basil came upon Edward in the dusk, in the Burmese garden, with all sorts of flowers and things.  And he was cutting up that crop—­with his sword, not a walking-stick.  He was also carrying on and cursing in a way you would not believe.

She ascertained that an old gentleman called Mumford had been ejected from his farm and had been given a little cottage rent-free, where he lived on ten shillings a week from a farmers’ benevolent society, supplemented by seven that was being allowed him by the Ashburnham trustees.  Edward had just discovered that fact from the estate accounts.  Leonora had left them in his dressing-room and he had begun to read them before taking off his marching-kit.  That was how he came to have a sword.  Leonora considered that she had been unusually generous to old Mr Mumford in allowing him to inhabit a cottage, rent-free, and in giving him seven shillings a week.  Anyhow, Mrs Basil had never seen a man in such a state as Edward was.  She had been passionately in love with him for quite a time, and he had been longing for her sympathy and admiration with a passion as deep.  That was how they came to speak about it, in the Burmese garden, under the pale sky, with sheaves of severed vegetation, misty and odorous, in the night around their feet.  I think they behaved themselves with decorum for quite a time after that, though Mrs Basil spent so many hours over the accounts of the Ashburnham estate that she got the name of every field by heart.  Edward had a huge map of his lands in his harness-room and Major Basil did not seem to mind.  I believe that people do not mind much in lonely stations.  It might have lasted for ever if the Major had not been made what is called a brevet-colonel during the shuffling of troops that went on just before the South African War.  He was sent off somewhere else and, of course, Mrs Basil could not stay with Edward.  Edward ought, I suppose, to have gone to the Transvaal.  It would have done him a great deal of good to get killed.  But Leonora would not let him; she had heard awful stories of the extravagance of the hussar regiment in war-time—­how they left hundred-bottle cases of champagne, at five guineas a bottle, on the veldt and so on.  Besides, she preferred to see how Edward was spending his five hundred a year.  I don’t mean to say that Edward had any grievance in that.  He was never a man of the deeds of heroism sort and it was just as good for him to be sniped at up in the hills of the North Western frontier, as to be shot at by an old gentleman in a tophat at the bottom of some spruit.  Those are more or less his words about it.  I believe he quite distinguished himself over there.  At any rate, he had had his D.S.O. and was made a brevet-major.  Leonora, however, was not in the least keen on his soldiering.  She hated also his deeds of heroism.  One of their bitterest quarrels came after he had, for the second time, in the Red Sea, jumped overboard from the troopship and rescued a private soldier.  She stood it the first time and even complimented him.  But the Red Sea was awful, that trip, and the private soldiers seemed to develop a suicidal craze.  It got on Leonora’s nerves; she figured Edward, for the rest of that trip, jumping overboard every ten minutes.  And the mere cry of “Man overboard” is a disagreeable, alarming and disturbing thing.  The ship gets stopped and there are all sorts of shouts.  And Edward would not promise not to do it again, though, fortunately, they struck a streak of cooler weather when they were in the Persian Gulf.  Leonora had got it into her head that Edward was trying to commit suicide, so I guess it was pretty awful for her when he would not give the promise.  Leonora ought never to have been on that troopship; but she got there somehow, as an economy.

Major Basil discovered his wife’s relation with Edward just before he was sent to his other station.  I don’t know whether that was a blackmailer’s adroitness or just a trick of destiny.  He may have known of it all the time or he may not.  At any rate, he got hold of, just about then, some letters and things.  It cost Edward three hundred pounds immediately.  I do not know how it was arranged; I cannot imagine how even a blackmailer can make his demands.  I suppose there is some sort of way of saving your face.  I figure the Major as disclosing the letters to Edward with furious oaths, then accepting his explanations that the letters were perfectly innocent if the wrong construction were not put upon them.  Then the Major would say:  “I say, old chap, I’m deuced hard up.  Couldn’t you lend me three hundred or so?” I fancy that was how it was.  And, year by year, after that there would come a letter from the Major, saying that he was deuced hard up and couldn’t Edward lend him three hundred or so?  Edward was pretty hard hit when Mrs Basil had to go away.  He really had been very fond of her, and he remained faithful to her memory for quite a long time.  And Mrs Basi had loved him very much and continued to cherish a hope of reunion with him.  Three days ago there came a quite proper but very lamentable letter from her to Leonora, asking to be given particulars as to Edward’s death.  She had read the advertisement of it in an Indian paper.  I think she must have been a very nice woman. . . .

And then the Ashburnhams were moved somewhere up towards a place or a district called Chitral.  I am no good at geography of the Indian Empire.  By that time they had settled down into a model couple and they never spoke in private to each other.  Leonora had given up even showing the accounts of the Ashburnham estate to Edward.  He thought that that was because she had piled up such a lot of money that she did not want him to know how she was getting on any more.  But, as a matter of fact, after five or six years it had penetrated to her mind that it was painful to Edward to have to look on at the accounts of his estate and have no hand in the management of it.  She was trying to do him a kindness.  And, up in Chitral, poor dear little Maisie Maidan came along. . . .

That was the most unsettling to Edward of all his affairs.  It made him suspect that he was inconstant.  The affair with the Dolciquita he had sized up as a short attack of madness like hydrophobia.  His relations with Mrs Basil had not seemed to him to imply moral turpitude of a gross kind.  The husband had been complaisant; they had really loved each other; his wife was very cruel to him and had long ceased to be a wife to him.  He thought that Mrs Basil had been his soul-mate, separated from him by an unkind fate—­something sentimental of that sort.

But he discovered that, whilst he was still writing long weekly letters to Mrs Basil, he was beginning to be furiously impatient if he missed seeing Maisie Maidan during the course of the day.  He discovered himself watching the doorways with impatience; he discovered that he disliked her boy husband very much for hours at a time.  He discovered that he was getting up at unearthly hours in order to have time, later in the morning, to go for a walk with Maisie Maidan.  He discovered himself using little slang words that she used and attaching a sentimental value to those words.  These, you understand, were discoveries that came so late that he could do nothing but drift.  He was losing weight; his eyes were beginning to fall in; he had touches of bad fever.  He was, as he described it, pipped.

And, one ghastly hot day, he suddenly heard himself say to Leonora: 

“I say, couldn’t we take Mrs Maidan with us to Europe and drop her at Nauheim?”

He hadn’t had the least idea of saying that to Leonora.  He had merely been standing, looking at an illustrated paper, waiting for dinner.  Dinner was twenty minutes late or the Ashburnhams would not have been alone together.  No, he hadn’t had the least idea of framing that speech.  He had just been standing in a silent agony of fear, of longing, of heat, of fever.  He was thinking that they were going back to Branshaw in a month and that Maisie Maidan was going to remain behind and die.  And then, that had come out.

The punkah swished in the darkened room; Leonora lay exhausted and motionless in her cane lounge; neither of them stirred.  They were both at that time very ill in indefinite ways.

And then Leonora said: 

“Yes.  I promised it to Charlie Maidan this afternoon.  I have offered to pay her ex’s myself.”

Edward just saved himself from saying:  “Good God!” You see, he had not the least idea of what Leonora knew—­about Maisie, about Mrs Basil, even about La Dolciquita.  It was a pretty enigmatic situation for him.  It struck him that Leonora must be intending to manage his loves as she managed his money affairs and it made her more hateful to him—­and more worthy of respect.

Leonora, at any rate, had managed his money to some purpose.  She had spoken to him, a week before, for the first time in several years—­about money.  She had made twenty-two thousand pounds out of the Branshaw land and seven by the letting of Branshaw furnished.  By fortunate investments—­in which Edward had helped her—­she had made another six or seven thousand that might well become more.  The mortgages were all paid off, so that, except for the departure of the two Vandykes and the silver, they were as well off as they had been before the Dolciquita had acted the locust.  It was Leonora’s great achievement.  She laid the figures before Edward, who maintained an unbroken silence.

“I propose,” she said, “that you should resign from the Army and that we should go back to Branshaw.  We are both too ill to stay here any longer.”

Edward said nothing at all.

“This,” Leonora continued passionlessly, “is the great day of my life.”

Edward said: 

“You have managed the job amazingly.  You are a wonderful woman.”  He was thinking that if they went back to Branshaw they would leave Maisie Maidan behind.  That thought occupied him exclusively.  They must, undoubtedly, return to Branshaw; there could be no doubt that Leonora was too ill to stay in that place.  She said: 

“You understand that the management of the whole of the expenditure of the income will be in your hands.  There will be five thousand a year.”  She thought that he cared very much about the expenditure of an income of five thousand a year and that the fact that she had done so much for him would rouse in him some affection for her.  But he was thinking exclusively of Maisie Maidan—­of Maisie, thousands of miles away from him.  He was seeing the mountains between them—­blue mountains and the sea and sunlit plains.  He said: 

“That is very generous of you.”  And she did not know whether that were praise or a sneer.  That had been a week before.  And all that week he had passed in an increasing agony at the thought that those mountains, that sea, and those sunlit plains would be between him and Maisie Maidan.  That thought shook him in the burning nights:  the sweat poured from him and he trembled with cold, in the burning noons—­at that thought.  He had no minute’s rest; his bowels turned round and round within him:  his tongue was perpetually dry and it seemed to him that the breath between his teeth was like air from a pest-house.

He gave no thought to Leonora at all; he had sent in his papers.  They were to leave in a month.  It seemed to him to be his duty to leave that place and to go away, to support Leonora.  He did his duty.

It was horrible, in their relationship at that time, that whatever she did caused him to hate her.  He hated her when he found that she proposed to set him up as the Lord of Branshaw again—­as a sort of dummy lord, in swaddling clothes.  He imagined that she had done this in order to separate him from Maisie Maidan.  Hatred hung in all the heavy nights and filled the shadowy corners of the room.  So when he heard that she had offered to the Maidan boy to take his wife to Europe with him, automatically he hated her since he hated all that she did.  It seemed to him, at that time, that she could never be other than cruel even if, by accident, an act of hers were kind. . . .  Yes, it was a horrible situation.

But the cool breezes of the ocean seemed to clear up that hatred as if it had been a curtain.  They seemed to give him back admiration for her, and respect.  The agreeableness of having money lavishly at command, the fact that it had bought for him the companionship of Maisie Maidan—­these things began to make him see that his wife might have been right in the starving and scraping upon which she had insisted.  He was at ease; he was even radiantly happy when he carried cups of bouillon for Maisie Maidan along the deck.  One night, when he was leaning beside Leonora, over the ship’s side, he said suddenly: 

“By jove, you’re the finest woman in the world.  I wish we could be better friends.”

She just turned away without a word and went to her cabin.  Still, she was very much better in health.

And now, I suppose, I must give you Leonora’s side of the case. . . . That is very difficult.  For Leonora, if she preserved an unchanged front, changed very frequently her point of view.  She had been drilled—­ in her tradition, in her upbringing—­to keep her mouth shut.  But there were times, she said, when she was so near yielding to the temptation of speaking that afterwards she shuddered to think of those times.  You must postulate that what she desired above all things was to keep a shut mouth to the world; to Edward and to the women that he loved.  If she spoke she would despise herself.

From the moment of his unfaithfulness with La Dolciquita she never acted the part of wife to Edward.  It was not that she intended to keep herself from him as a principle, for ever.  Her spiritual advisers, I believe, forbade that.  But she stipulated that he must, in some way, perhaps symbolical, come back to her.  She was not very clear as to what she meant; probably she did not know herself.  Or perhaps she did.

There were moments when he seemed to be coming back to her; there were moments when she was within a hair of yielding to her physical passion for him.  In just the same way, at moments, she almost yielded to the temptation to denounce Mrs Basil to her husband or Maisie Maidan to hers.  She desired then to cause the horrors and pains of public scandals.  For, watching Edward more intently and with more straining of ears than that which a cat bestows upon a bird overhead, she was aware of the progress of his passion for each of these ladies.  She was aware of it from the way in which his eyes returned to doors and gateways; she knew from his tranquillities when he had received satisfactions.

At times she imagined herself to see more than was warranted.  She imagined that Edward was carrying on intrigues with other women—­with two at once; with three.  For whole periods she imagined him to be a monster of libertinage and she could not see that he could have anything against her.  She left him his liberty; she was starving herself to build up his fortunes; she allowed herself none of the joys of femininity—­no dresses, no jewels—­hardly even friendships, for fear they should cost money.

And yet, oddly, she could not but be aware that both Mrs Basil and Maisie Maidan were nice women.  The curious, discounting eye which one woman can turn on another did not prevent her seeing that Mrs Basil was very good to Edward and Mrs Maidan very good for him.  That seemed her to be a monstrous and incomprehensible working of Fate’s.  Incomprehensible!  Why, she asked herself again and again, did none of the good deeds that she did for her husband ever come through to him, or appear to hime as good deeds?  By what trick of mania could not he let her be as good to him as Mrs Basil was?  Mrs Basil was not so extraordinarily dissimilar to herself.  She was, it was true, tall, dark, with soft mournful voice and a great kindness of manner for every created thing, from punkah men to flowers on the trees.  But she was not so well read as Lenora, at any rate in learned books.  Leonora could not stand novels.  But, even with all her differences, Mrs Basil did not appear to Leonora to differ so very much from herself.  She was truthful, honest and, for the rest, just a woman.  And Leonora had a vague sort of idea that, to a man, all women are the same after three weeks of close intercourse.  She thought that the kindness should no longer appeal, the soft and mournful voice no longer thrill, the tall darkness no longer give a man the illusion that he was going into the depths of an unexplored wood.  She could not understand how Edward could go on and on maundering over Mrs Basil.  She could not see why he should continue to write her long letters after their separation.  After that, indeed, she had a very bad time.

She had at that period what I will call the “monstrous” theory of Edward.  She was always imagining him ogling at every woman that he came across.  She did not, that year, go into “retreat” at Simla because she was afraid that he would corrupt her maid in her absence.  She imagined him carrying on intrigues with native women or Eurasians.  At dances she was in a fever of watchfulness.

She persuaded herself that this was because she had a dread of scandals.  Edward might get himself mixed up with a marriageable daughter of some man who would make a row or some husband who would matter.  But, really, she acknowledged afterwards to herself, she was hoping that, Mrs Basil being out of the way, the time might have come when Edward should return to her.  All that period she passed in an agony of jealousy and fear—­the fear that Edward might really become promiscuous in his habits.

So that, in an odd way, she was glad when Maisie Maidan came along—­and she realized that she had not, before, been afraid of husbands and of scandals, since, then, she did her best to keep Maisie’s husband unsuspicious.  She wished to appear so trustful of Edward that Maidan could not possibly have any suspicions.  It was an evil position for her.  But Edward was very ill and she wanted to see him smile again.  She thought that if he could smile again through her agency he might return, through gratitude and satisfied love—­to her.  At that time she thought that Edward was a person of light and fleeting passions.  And she could understand Edward’s passion for Maisie, since Maisie was one of those women to whom other women will allow magnetism.  She was very pretty; she was very young; in spite of her heart she was very gay and light on her feet.  And Leonora was really very fond of Maisie, who was fond enough of Leonora.  Leonora, indeed, imagined that she could manage this affair all right.  She had no thought of Maisie’s being led into adultery; she imagined that if she could take Maisie and Edward to Nauheim, Edward would see enough of her to get tired of her pretty little chatterings, and of the pretty little motions of her hands and feet.  And she thought she could trust Edward.  For there was not any doubt of Maisie’s passion for Edward.  She raved about him to Leonora as Leonora had heard girls rave about drawing masters in schools.  She was perpetually asking her boy husband why he could not dress, ride, shoot, play polo, or even recite sentimental poems, like their major.  And young Maidan had the greatest admiration for Edward, and he adored, was bewildered by and entirely trusted his wife.  It appeared to him that Edward was devoted to Leonora.  And Leonora imagined that when poor Maisie was cured of her hear and Edward had seen enough of her, he would return to her.  She had the vague, passionate idea that, when Edward had exhausted a number of other types of women he must turn to her.  Why should not her type have its turn in his heart?  She imagined that, by now, she understood him better, that she understood better his vanities and that, by making him happier, she could arouse his love.

Florence knocked all that on the head. . . .