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×ð´ ·¤ô§ü Öè Âýç·ý¤Øæ çÕÙæ çÙØ× ·Ô¤ ·¤æØü Ùãè´ ·¤ÚU ÚUãè ãñÐ Øã ÕæÌ ÂëÍ·÷¤ï ãñ ç·¤ ã× ©Ù
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88We can imagine that this

complicated array of moving
things which constitutes 88the
world99 is something like a
great chess game being played
by the God, and we are
observers of the game. We do
not know what the rules of the
games are; all we are allowed
to do is to watch the playing.
Of course, if we watch long
enough, we may eventually
catch on to a few of the rules.
The rules of the game are what
ç¿Þæ â¢. w.v we mean by fundamental

physics. Even if we knew every rule, however, we might not be able to
understand why a particular move is made in the game, merely
because it is too complicated and our minds are limited”
[Page No. 13, Lectures on Physics]
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1
Randomness is a reflection of our ignorance of some fundamental property of
reality. [Page No. 134, Elements of Quantum Optics by Brice Scott]

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“Say good-by for me to The Everlasting,” he said and then, after kissing
her abruptly, he turned and disappeared quickly down the stairs, so that she
could not see his tears. For Robert was, unlike the others, sentimental,
though he had never once allowed his mother the joy of discovering it. It
was a thing which he thought shameful.
Even he had caught a sense of her terrible desolation.
There is a rhythm in life, a certain beauty which operates by a variation

of lights and shadows, happiness alternating with sorrow, content with
discontent, distilling in this process of contrast a sense of satisfaction, of
richness that can be captured and pinned down only by those who possess
the gift of awareness. Old Gramp in his solitude knew well its workings,
and Ellen, in Paris, had become, as the tempo of her own life began to lose
its intensity, to understand it dimly. For Hattie, in the fretful ebb and flow of
her existence there could never be such knowledge. This rhythm, this
beauty, existed outside her, a thing apart, beyond the wall of her
consciousness.
Gramp, in his solitude, knew too that there were in each life hills and
valleys and, rising above them all, one peak which pierced the clouds. Out
of the depths of his uncanny perception he came to understand that Hattie’s
life had passed its solitary peak. It had begun now to slip down the other
side; what remained could be but a gradual falling away, a gentle decline
until the end. What he knew from the summit of a monstrous detachment
came to Hattie vaguely through her senses; she knew it as she knew the
approach of damp weather by its effect upon her rheumatism. It was that
sense of having passed from one room into another, with the door behind
her closed and bolted forever.
And Ellen.... She too stood now on the summit, for ambition had been
the beginning and end of her existence. She had accomplished; she had
won. There would never be another peak so lofty, so enveloped in heady
invigorating air; nor one so lonely. But there remained the things which lie
always on the opposite slope of the peak—the things which the wise, like
Gramp, place above all the hurry, the scramble, the headlong turmoil of the
long ascent. There were the gentle pastures of reflection, of kindliness, of
warmth and fine thoughts, all the rewards which succeed the terrible
struggle. Ellen, he knew, had crossed the summit; and she was still a young
woman.
58
O NE bright spring morning as Hattie sat looking out into the street while
she sewed and thought, round and and round, over and over again,
those same thoughts which stole in upon her so frequently in these days
of idleness, the postman brought a letter from Ellen. It was a brief letter,
written it seemed in haste, but it contained two bits of news that changed
the whole face of the world.
Ellen was to be married, and she wanted Hattie to come to Paris and
make her home there.
“I have talked it over with Lily,” she wrote, “and she is delighted with
the plan. Her house here is enormous and comfortable, and Lily is rarely in
it save in the spring and autumn. You could do as you chose with no one to
annoy you. And you need never think or worry about housekeeping. I am
sending a cheque, and Rebecca’s uncle Mr. Schönberg is arranging for
tickets. It is difficult to travel nowadays, but I have talked to Mrs. Callendar
and she has written to a friend of hers, Malcolm Travers, the banker, who
will arrange passports for you. You will hear from him within a few days
after this letter.”
And about her own plans she wrote, “I am marrying Richard Callendar,
the son of the same Mrs. Callendar. You remember her? You met her on the
night of my first concert in America, a small, fat dark woman covered with
dirty diamonds. You may have read of the family in the papers, for they are
well known. They are very rich. He is four years older than me. I have
known him for nearly ten years. He wanted to marry me before, years ago.
(And then a sudden flash of the old Ellen who had walked away in the
sunlight to skate on Walker’s Pond.) Fancy me, marrying a millionaire!”
So, in an instant, everything was changed and Hattie’s world grew bright
once more. It was all so preposterous—to have Ellen arranging everything
in this grand manner, the tickets, the passports, as if her mother were a
queen whose journey was to be made as simple and free of trouble as
possible. And the cheque and the millionaire husband! Yet, when the sense
of excitement had abated a little, she remembered that she had always
known her children were not of ordinary flesh and blood. There had been
something extraordinary about them. Look at Ellen! Famous and rich and
now marrying a millionaire.
But her satisfaction was not free from the old doubts. Was he—this
Callendar—good enough for her? Clarence had never been. It was a good
thing, she reflected, that he had died. What could she have done with him
during all these years ... Clarence, a poor thing at best, always complaining
of his health.
But this Callendar. Who was he and why had she never spoken of him
before? Surely she was a strange girl who kept such secrets so passionately
hidden. Where had he come from? Was he of good healthy stock? What had
his life been? For a time she paced up and down the room in a ferment of
curiosity. She tried to imagine what sort of man Ellen would choose to
marry. (This time she must be marrying only for love; there could be no
other reason.) She tried again and again to picture him and she found
herself baffled. It was impossible to imagine....
And when she had grown more calm and the sense of the dreary flat was
borne in upon her once more, she remembered The Everlasting. He was
ninety-five, and yet not really an old man; his mind had never faltered in its
course. But he was feeble and needed care. She could not desert him now.
She deceived herself into believing that it was her duty to care for him until
he died; and only the Almighty knew when that would be. No, she must
take him with her. She could not leave him, as Ellen suggested, in some
home for the aged. That would be wrong; it would be, in a sense, indecent.
He was after all the father of her husband, the grandfather of her children.
One could not do a thing like that. She debated the matter with herself for
hours, thinking, strangely enough, only of reasons why she should take him;
and it never once occurred to her that she really had no desire not to take
him. The arguments against it were simply the habit of an intermittent civil
war that had endured for more than thirty years. She could not bear to leave
him behind, any more than she could have borne it to leave behind the old
clothes, the worn shoes, and the Bible she had given Fergus on his tenth
birthday. Gramp was a fixture now, a part of the past. Without him she
would feel lost and lonely.
When she told him the intoxicating news, the old man, with a wariness
that placed no trust in their unreal truce, looked at her sharply and said,
doubtfully, “I don’t know, Hattie. I’m too old and too feeble. I think perhaps
I’d better stay behind.” He opposed the idea in the belief that if he opposed
it she would insist upon its being carried through.
But she was firm. She would not even argue the matter. He must go with
her to Paris. He would be quite as well off there as anywhere else and he
would at least be where she could look after him.
“Much better off,” thought Gramp, whose only desire was to see Paris
again before he died. But he still maintained a resentful air as if he opposed
the idea with his last breath but was far too feeble to offer any real
resistance.
59
I N Paris the house in the Rue Raynouard was got ready for the arrival. It
had begun again to take on a little of the old gaiety and sense of life, for it
had passed through the depths of its depression in the days which first
Lily and then Ellen had spent there alone in their sorrow. All things pass in
time and so the grief and loneliness had begun to pass from the house. Lily,
as the shrewd Rebecca predicted during her first quarrel with Ellen, found
in time some one to console her for the loss of César. It was impossible that
one so simple, so without complexities, should have gone on mourning;
Lily lived as much in the present as Ellen lived in the future. Her consoler
was the grave, dignified Monsieur de Cyon (the same white-haired
gentleman connected with the government, whom Fergus had met at tea)
the widower of “Tiens! Tiens!” de Cyon, whom Ellen had loathed long ago
when she first came to the Rue Raynouard. He was glad no doubt to have
been freed by death from the crêpe-laden “Tiens! Tiens!” and satisfied to
have found so agreeable a creature as Lily—a woman whom he described
to his friends as dignified, worldly, cultivated and beautiful, not omitting
the fact that she was very rich and that she was an American, a factor of
political importance at a moment when America was so necessary to
Europe in general and to France in particular.
And Lily too was, in her casual way, content with such a marriage. In the
room, smelling of scent and powder, where she had exchanged other
confidences with Ellen, she said, “He is a gentleman and distinguished.
Perhaps he may be in the next cabinet. I am rich. I can help him. And as for
me....” She laughed softly, with a touch of the old abandon in her voice.
“He will not bother me much. He is an old man.” But she was grave too
when she spoke again. “And I ... I am no longer young. I am forty-three. I
must begin to look about for something to take the place of youth. I shall
make him a good wife. I shall be able to entertain and give dinners that will
help him and I will have a position that I have never had before.”
And then she grew thoughtful and added, “It will be good for Jean too. It
is time he had a father ... a thing he has never had. It is time that I stepped
out of the picture and made way for him.”
She had lived, if not a life beyond reproach, one that was at least discreet
and marked by good taste, and so the other things, since the world is as it is,
did not matter. Of those who had really known her secret only three
remained ... Ellen and Hattie and Jean. César and Madame Gigon and Old
Julia were dead. It did not, of course, occur to her to include The
Everlasting, who had known all the while.
Jean too was happier now, for he had grown used to wandering about on
crutches and had become accustomed to a new leg, made so admirably that
he could still ride as much as he liked. It would have been impossible for
him to have remained depressed; there was too much of Lily in him and, it
must not be forgotten, he resembled Fergus greatly. The old friendship
between him and Ellen waxed stronger than ever. It seemed to her at times
that Fergus had returned or had never died at all. In the evenings while his
mother sat talking quietly in the big soft drawing room with Monsieur de
Cyon, Ellen joined him at the piano in playing with four hands the wildest
songs out of the music halls. Rebecca in rare moments of good humor
added to the gaiety with imitations of poor old Sarah Bernhardt or
Mistinguette or Spinelly.
Rebecca had long since come to make herself at home in the big house.
She was settled now in one of the rooms opening on the long gallery and
she was perpetually with them, for it never occurred to Lily to offer
objections to one more guest; but, having nothing to occupy her time, she
grew irritable and restless. Her occupation had gone suddenly and there
remained nothing to absorb her energy. Ellen remained stubborn and
mysterious. She would not return to America where there was a fortune
awaiting her.
“I have enough,” she said. “I need not work myself to death. I am rich
now. I am through with struggling. Whenever I see fit I can return.”
But to Rebecca, it must have seemed that Ellen had slipped somehow out
of her reach, beyond the control which she had once held over her. She
would not even quarrel as they had once done so often and with such vigor.
She would simply repeat, “No. When I am ready, I will tell you. I am going
to rest for a time.”
It was her contentment that clearly had the power of disturbing Rebecca.
She seemed at times almost happy. The old wilfulness and caprice were
gone, and when she sat at the piano with Jean, there were times when it
even seemed that she was enveloped by a hard, bright gaiety, touched, it is
true, by hysteria and bitterness. She was unmanageable in a way she had
never been.
“You are deceiving me,” Rebecca reproached her. “There is something
that I don’t know. You are keeping something from me.” And she would
grow tearful and descend to the rich depths of Oriental sentiment. “Me,”
she would repeat, beating her thin breast, “who have given my life for you
... who have worked myself to the bone ... given all my time.... For no other
reason than to make you a success. It is shameful.”
And Ellen, in her new wisdom, might have answered, “Because you
have found the thing you were born to do. Because you were aimless till
you fastened upon me.... Because you found happiness in taking possession
of me and my life.”
But she said none of these things because it seemed to her that quarreling
was useless. She only laughed and replied, “And you told the most
wonderful lies about me.... You created Lilli Barr but Lilli Barr is having a
rest now. I am being myself ... Ellen Tolliver ... for a little time.”
Still Rebecca, too wise to be put off with such answers, only looked at
her with suspicion and remained sulky. She could not run off now to visit
Uncle Otto and Aunt Lina in Vienna nor the aunt in Riga nor the cousins in
Trieste. She could not even make a round of the watering places, for all
those which were not closed or filled with wounded soldiers lay on the
other side of the circus parade that had begun to draw near to the end. One
could almost hear the distant toots of the steam calliope, manned and
manipulated by politicians, that fetched up the rear.
July had passed and with it the last peril to Paris, but still Callendar did
not return. She heard from him whenever he had time to write. They were
busy now (he wrote). They were beginning to look toward the end. The
arrival of the Americans had done much for the French, not that they
counted for much because there were not enough of them, but because,
simply, they were there. He had kept on the qui vive for her other brother—
Robert—but he had not come across him. It was not strange since his own
division was nowhere near the Americans. Still he might see him.... One
could never tell.... They expected to be shifted soon eastward in the
direction of the (here the word was deleted), quite near to the Americans. It
was easy for him to make himself acquainted since he was, after all, half-
American.
And he would write again and again, “Do not worry about me. I have the
most incredible luck—always. There are some men who go through the
thing knowing that nothing will ever happen to them. I know it. It’s a feeling
that is in the bones. In the worst messes, I have that feeling ... so strong that
it is physical. ‘Nothing will happen to me ... nothing whatever,’ I find
myself repeating over and over again.”
And as she read this, it occurred to her again that such a belief belonged
to the part of him which had always been strange to her—the part which
escaped in some nameless fashion even the limits of her imagination. It was
mystical and profound and uncanny. At the very moment that she knew he
must be right in his faith, she was terrified too because he was so certain.
She could not believe with such intensity save in herself. Her beliefs were
related always to the power, the force which she herself had at her own
command; and in all the senseless, miserable killing there was no power
which lay in one’s self. It was simply a monstrous game of chance with the
odds all against one.
But she found a happiness in those letters of a sort which she had never
imagined. It seemed to her that in some way a part of herself was there with
him enduring the same hardships and dangers, and for the first time in all
her life she touched the borders of the satisfaction which comes of sharing
an experience. She was troubled no longer by doubts; now that she had
given her word, it never occurred to her to change. There was relief in the
knowledge that all the years of indecision were at an end. There was
satisfaction in feeling that the thing had been settled.
But she was abashed at the bold passion with which he wrote,
shamelessly, assailing the wall of her fierce reserve. She was abashed and
yet triumphant, for in all the years of struggle she had forgotten at times that
she was a woman and young. His letters made her know for a little time
some of the joy which Lily had possessed since the beginning.
He wrote at length that Sabine’s divorce was completed. “I am free now
and will have a leave soon, so we can try then to make up for all the wasted
years. Because they have been wasted. We should have been married long
ago. We should have been courageous enough to have cut through the
tangle and set things right. We were cowardly then. It is tragic that we only
learn through long experience that wastes so much of joy, so much of
happiness. But you are mine now ... mine forever. I shall never lose you
again....”
But the letter troubled her strangely; it invoked with each line some
disturbing memory of the past. The allusion to courage.... Who could say
what had been courage and what cowardice? If the matter had rested with
Callendar alone, it would have been solved because he had had what he
believed was courage. He would have thrust poor Clarence aside and
trampled upon him, to take ruthlessly what he himself desired. It had been a
courage different from hers, whose foundations stood rooted in self-denial.
Yet she had saved no one in the end, not even Clarence. Some power, in
which Callendar placed such faith, had brought them together in the end,
destroying Clarence despite anything she could do to save him. And it
seemed to her that all the trouble, all the sorrow went back to that winter
evening on the shore of Walker’s Pond when she had said “Yes” to Clarence
and felt for him at the same moment a queer, inarticulate pity—a pity which
she was beginning at last to understand.
She experienced again a fierce satisfaction, almost a pleasure, which
Callendar, in the strangeness of his blood, would never know. It was the
satisfaction in having dominated even one’s own body.
But in the last lines there lay an echo of the old conflict. You will be mine
... mine forever. I will never lose you again. It was an arrogant speech, so
like the way he had come to her years ago in the Babylon Arms, not asking
what she desired but simply taking for granted that she would do as he
wished. The memory of that afternoon disturbed her again with the sense
that this love of which he wrote was an obscene, middle-aged emotion worn
by a too great experience. The freshness was gone and with it all the glow
of their meetings in the open windows of Sherry’s and the walks through
the Spring in Central Park.... It was this knowledge perhaps more than any
other, that made his passionate phrases seem shameful. All of that first
youth was gone from them, yet he posed, he wrote her still in the same
ardent phrases, grown threadbare and unconvincing, of a love that had once
been clean and fresh and despite all that she knew, even then, virginal.
There was a touch now that bordered upon the professional....
He told her that Sabine was in Paris and might pay her a call, as much
out of a gossip’s curiosity as from her curious passion for knowing the
truth, for knowing with a blazing clarity exactly how things stood.
Sabine did call, in her small, expensive motor, accompanied by little
Thérèse, an awkward, sickly girl of ten, but Ellen sent word that she was
out. She had no desire to see Sabine, perhaps because she feared what
Sabine had to tell her. And she could not turn back now; for too many years
she had followed a straight unswerving path.
60
I T was a fantastic journey for Hattie and The Everlasting. On passports

arranged by Thérèse Callendar they were borne along a way made easy
by all the power behind Thérèse Callendar’s fortune, through all the
hubbub and turmoil of the war. Their companions on shipboard were
correspondents and doctors and nurses and soldiers and congressmen
(bound for the front to garner out of the very graves material for new
campaigns). The others aboard the ship must have found them a strange pair
concerning whom it was possible to speculate endlessly—this handsome,
grim woman and the old, old man in her charge. It is probable that no one
ever learned precisely who they were or whither they were bound, for
Hattie was a suspicious traveler who placed no trust in fellow voyagers. She
warned them away by her looks; and Gramp, of course, had not the faintest
desire to enter upon conversation. He read his books and once a day made a
circuit, under the escort of Hattie, of the entire deck, his coonskin coat
(from which he refused to be separated) blowing in and out against his
skinny old body. He never spoke, even to Hattie, even in reply to such
remarks as, “Now, Grandpa, you must not eat that,” or “Now, Grandpa, you
had best move your chair, there’s a draft in that corner.”
(All this to Gramp who had never denied himself anything and had a
perfect digestion; who had never thought of drafts since he was born.)
Indeed, there was something touching in the spectacle of the middle-
aged woman, tending so carefully the old, old man. It was as if she feared
that he might by some ill chance be blown from the deck into the open sea
or fall down a companionway and shatter forever the brittle old bones that
had defied time itself. No one could have guessed that they were enemies,
that despite the temporary truce they could never be anything but enemies
by the very nature of things. Hattie treated him still as if he were some
fragile piece of old glass which she must deliver safely to Lily’s house in
the Rue Raynouard.
It was only after she had seen him safely to bed in his cabin that she was
able to give range to all her passionate energy and walk round and round the
deck, her ostrich plumes blowing in the gale, her strong, buxom figure
outlined against the luminous blue of the Atlantic night. At such times she
was almost happy again for it seemed to her that in the winds and fogs
Fergus was somewhere close at hand, just beyond reach, waiting for her.
And she was going now to take up once more the threads of life. Ellen
was to be married.... Ellen was to be married.... She must have a child....
She must have a child.... These things she thought over and over again until
she came at length to repeat them aloud to herself as she walked, bracing
her body against the gale, through the darkness. She had joined Thérèse
Callendar in this passionate desire for a grandchild, but it was not for the
same reason. To Hattie a grandchild would alter everything. It would be for
her like being young again, almost like bearing a child of her own.
She had never traveled before; she knew not a word of French and The
Everlasting saw fit not to reveal his knowledge of the tongue; but she was
undaunted. In some way, by an heroic effort touched with a profound scorn
for a nation which chattered such an abominable tongue, she managed
everything ... the customs at Havre, the accommodations in hotels already
crowded to the doors and, last of all, the journey from the port into the Gare
du Nord. (Lily had sent a courier to meet her but the meeting never
occurred.) She was indomitable and she was almost happy again in all the
business of managing tickets and meals and luggage, shepherding The
Everlasting and his precious books. For Hattie believed that nothing was
impossible....
From the corridor of the crowded train, where she stood protecting
Gramp and jostling her fellow passengers, Hattie saw them standing on the
platform of the smoking cave called the Gare du Nord.... Ellen and Lily and
a dark man in a blue uniform; and as the train jolted to a halt, her own car
(for she thought of it thus) stopped almost abreast of them so that she was
able to see that they talked earnestly with grave faces and an air of
preoccupation. Wedged between a poilu slung round with a dozen musettes
and wine bottles, and a trim English colonel with white mustaches and a red
face, she was held immovable, unable to signal to them though she pounded
upon the glass and shouted to them through windows open by some miracle
against the stifling September heat. To Hattie, nothing existed in all that
echoing cavern save those three figures, standing together amid mountains
of luggage.
In the resounding shed steam hissed and engines squealed in ridiculous
Gallic fashion; soldiers shouted to one another and a cocotte just beneath
her window cried ribald jests to a lover somewhere in the same car who
joined in the shouts of laughter. They looked up and down the platform—
those three. It seemed that years passed before Lily, turning languidly in the
heat, caught a glimpse of Hattie’s red and agitated face and Gramp’s sharp
nose and inscrutable eyes.
They moved toward her; the English colonel whose toes had been
trampled gave way in indignation and Hattie, bearing an immense amount
of luggage and followed indifferently by Gramp, descended to the platform.
Ellen kissed her and then Lily, and at last she heard Ellen saying, “This
is Richard, Ma. He is on leave.”
Above all the flurry and the conversation, she and Callendar regarded
each other searchingly, the one with a piercing gaze of appraisal, the other
with an air almost of astonishment. He had not, perhaps, pictured her as
such a handsome woman, nor one, despite the grimness on which one could
not put one’s finger, of such immense gusto. She accounted for Ellen’s
strength and vitality, but there was clearly nothing subtle in her and nothing
cold: the answer to all that lay elsewhere—perhaps in the ancient man who
peered at them all like a spiteful mouse through his dim spectacles.
As for Hattie, her eyes asked only one thing, “Was he—this man—good
enough for Ellen?” His foreign blood showed itself more plainly than she
had expected. It troubled her that her daughter should be marrying a man of
foreign blood; for, vaguely, all foreigners were associated in her mind with
those dark, sullen, violent men who worked in the black Mills surrounding
Shane’s Castle.
There flashed between the two—Callendar and Hattie—no spark either
of understanding or enmity. Rather it seemed that the opinions of both were
colored by surprise and a touch of suspicion. In Hattie’s eyes there was a
fire of pride and possession, the look of one who would fight for her
children, passionately; and in the gray eyes of Callendar there was only the
opaque, inscrutable expression which only Ellen, of them all, had ever seen
dissolve or change.
But they were grave, all of them, in a fashion that presently entered
Hattie’s spirit and made her feel that their welcome was lacking in
enthusiasm. Perhaps (she thought) it was the war; they were so close to it
and Ellen, like herself, must be thinking always of Fergus. Perhaps they did
not really want her there ... any of them. Yet they had written her with so
much eagerness. It was a doubt that filled her with a sharp terror of growing
old and useless and dependent.
Lily (whom she had not seen in years, Lily who was now Madame de
Cyon) seemed scarcely changed at all. She could not be (Hattie, watching
her, hastily calculated the years) she could not be a day less than forty-five;
yet there she was, a woman who had sinned, looking young, almost fresh,
scarcely a day older than Ellen who was twelve years younger ... more
plump than Ellen and, strangely enough, more soft. Still, Hattie reflected,
with a grim satisfaction, she had painted her face, and her hair, it was
certain, had been “touched up.”
Perhaps in Paris all life was different; perhaps such a life as Lily’s made
not too great a difference. Looking at her cousin, so beautiful, so charming
and so unnaturally young, all the deep rooted respectability of Hattie’s
nature rose and bristled. And as she stood on the steps of the Gare du Nord
waiting for Callendar to fetch the gray blue Government motor to drive
them to the Rue Raynouard, it swept over her that it was a strange and
ridiculous turn of affairs which had brought her of all people “into the
wickedest city in the world,” to live in the house of Lily whom she had
always distrusted. She had not thought of it until this moment when she
stood looking out across the Place Roubaix.
The motor came abreast of them with Callendar—a stranger, a foreigner
—at the wheel, driving with a cool recklessness. It was all weird and unreal,
so preposterous that Hattie grew suddenly frightened. She was aware briefly
of a terror at the spectacle of this new, strange city where every one spoke
an ungodly language. A little while before she would not even have thought
of such things. It occurred to her that she must be growing old.
“I never felt younger in my life,” she repeated aloud to Lily who stood
waiting for her to enter the motor.
All this time The Everlasting had said nothing. Watching the others he
had kept his own silence, but he had not overlooked the Paris that lay all
about him, so changed now, so different, from the Paris of his youth. He
heard none of their talk, made almost laboriously against the inexplicable
depression, as they drove through the Rue Lafayette. How could it have
interested him who was concerned with another world ...? A world of
gaslight and crinoline, imperials and the waltzes of Strauss and Waldteufel?
To him, who had no future, this new Paris must have been less than nothing
... this new Paris in which Lily with all her money out of the black mills in
the Middle West had a house and lived as if she had been born a Parisian;
this new Paris in which his own granddaughter played a brilliant part. It was
a Paris.... How could one describe it?
Yet, as he rode over the sweltering asphalt, his eyes, his ears, his nose
drank in the sights and sounds and smells ... the sudden cry of “L’Intran!...
L’Intran!” and “Le Petit Parisien!” the withered dying chestnut trees of the
Boulevard Haussmann (he could remember when it was new), the little
tables.... Because youth was after an insidious fashion returning to him,
Gramp, the bitter, the aloof, grew sentimental. It had been here, in this
Paris, that he had climbed to the pinnacle of all his life, the summit from
which all else had been a gentle decline. He had not died like Fergus. He
had gone on and on until at last life itself had lost all its savor....
They had turned now round Arc de Triomphe, and Ellen, sitting quietly
by the side of Callendar, frowned. She had been silent throughout the drive,
thinking, thinking, thinking bitterly with a savage secrecy because she
dared not betray herself even by the flicker of an eyelid. She sat there
silently, pondering how she might break the news which she herself and no
other must in the end relate. It seemed to her that the whole affair was too
cruel, too horrible. It was not possible that she should be forced twice to do
the same terrible thing.
The sound of her mother’s voice, cheerful and rich, as she talked to Lily
came to her over her shoulder.... “And the man wouldn’t open the window
so in the end I opened it myself and then he began to chatter and yell at me
in some ridiculous language ... French perhaps.”
“How was he dressed?” asked Lily, and Hattie described his uniform.
“Oh,” replied Lily in mirth. “He was Portuguese.... You must never mind
the Portuguese.”
“Well, I don’t know whether Portuguese smell worse than other
nationalities but the air in that train was enough to suffocate a strong man.”
... And now they were coming nearer and nearer to the Trocadéro. They
were quite near now. Ellen turned away her eyes. They had passed the
house in the Avenue Kléber. She caught a swift glimpse of the doorway
which she had not seen since the bright morning she closed the door on the
frivolous little room of Madame Nozières. Ah, she knew how it looked! She
knew each tiny thing about it, and the gray courtyard with the summer
furniture heaped into one corner. It was cruel, incredible ... what she had to
do.
Before they drew up to the door of the house in the Rue Raynouard,
Hattie too had grown silent under the gray depression which claimed all the
little party.
They had tea on the white terrace where they found the black dog and
poor tottering old Criquette and were joined by Jean and Monsieur de Cyon,
and Rebecca, whose sulkiness did nothing to raise the spirits of the party. It
was, Lily remarked, as she sat behind a table laden with silver and flowers
sent up from Germigny and the most delicate sandwiches of pâté and
cheese and jam, like a great family reunion. The big house was full now;
Lily was married, even with distinction. There were no more secrets. In
some ways life had grown simple, yet in others its complexity had been
increased, again and again.
Ellen, sitting there in her own pool of tragic silence, watched them all
with the old knowledge that their lives were all in some way entangled and
bound up together ... all that absurd and ill assorted group, Monsieur de
Cyon, gentle and white haired, Hattie, Rebecca, Jean, Lily, Callendar and
herself; and even Gramp who had disappeared already into the solitude of
the room which Lily had given him. Here they all were, most of them—
even de Cyon, himself, a foreigner—living on the wealth poured out by the
black mills of a town in the Midlands of America. And she it was who had
brought them together.
Watching her mother, it occurred to her that the indomitable Hattie was
no longer young. She would ask presently to be shown the room where
Fergus had died, and Ellen, still lying, would show it to her, and her mother
would weep and be satisfied in a pitiful fashion with the deception. It was
better sometimes to lie, better to deceive.
But the other thing.... She rose presently and walked away down into the
garden where she was joined after a little time by Jean on his crutches and
Hansi, panting and restless at being kept in the summer heat of the city. And
when she had gone Rebecca drifted away with an air of resentful
martyrdom. She would have been nasty to Hattie, if she had dared, just as
she had been nasty to Callendar who was only amused by her and took
pains to show her in a thousand small ways that Ellen belonged to him now,
and that she, Rebecca, no longer counted. But Rebecca could wait; there
was the same blood in both and Rebecca understood how his game was
played. She could wait, she thought bitterly, as she went up to her own
room. The game was not yet over and she had not yielded the victory. She
knew, perhaps better than any of the others, even Ellen, what to expect of
Callendar. There was no part of him which remained a mystery to her, for
she knew the men of her own family ... the Uncle Ottos and Maximilians
and Gustaves, all with a touch of the Levant. But Ellen would never believe
her; she would believe only that Rebecca was jealous of him (which was
true) and that what she said was uttered only out of spite. She would not
believe that he was really cruel and domineering and thought of women as
creatures who belonged in a harem.... Sabine could have helped her, but
Sabine whom she had never met had been turned away from the door.
No, she had not yet lost the battle. She must save Ellen as much because
she herself needed her as on Ellen’s own account. She climbed the long
stairs and left Lily and de Cyon, Hattie and Callendar together on the
terrace, talking under the guidance of Callendar, who led them gracefully
here and there, finding, it seemed, a strange satisfaction in ignoring the
terrible knowledge which he shared only with Lily and Ellen. Lily,
watching him, must have thought him inhumanly cold. Perhaps it occurred
to her again, in the depths of her wisdom and experience, that this marriage
of Ellen could end in only one way.
Meanwhile under the old plane trees Ellen, who had been walking up
and down in silence with Jean and the dogs, took the departure of Monsieur
de Cyon for the white pavilion (which Lily had had fitted up for him as a
sort of study) as a signal to return. On the terrace she said to Callendar, “I
shan’t come down until dinner. If you want to see your mother before she
sails, you had best go now. I’ll be free later,” and so dismissed him.
Then, turning to her mother, she said, “Come Ma, we’ll go up and get
you settled in your room,” and led her away leaving the garden to Lily and
Jean and fat old Criquette.
Hattie, who had noticed nothing either in the streets or in the house itself
(for, as Ellen knew, she did not see its beauty but saw it only as the house
which it might be said belonged to Ellen), noticed as she walked through
the big drawing-room that it resembled Shane’s Castle in its warm, soft
beauty. The portrait of old John Shane with a white setter at his feet, and the
glowing Venice of Mr. Turner which had once hung in the house among the
Mills now found places against the satinwood paneling. She fancied too that
she recognized the Aubusson carpet, connected dimly in her memory with
the picture of old Julia, hawk-like and bitter, tracing the outlines of the
extravagant flowers with her stick of ebony and silver.
“It’s like the castle,” she murmured to Ellen, who hurried on up the stairs
without heeding her.
They turned off along the gallery and, as they passed one of the doors,
the squeaking of Gramp’s rocking chair (unpacked and long since placed in
readiness by Lily) came to them through the paneling. Time went on.
People were born and people died, but The Everlasting and his rocking
chair remained the same.
“He’s better now than he used to be,” observed Hattie. She did not
mention him by name, for Ellen knew well enough whom she meant;
together they had passed his door, together they had heard the same
rhythmical squeaking a thousand times. In a sense the sound of the decrepit
rocker bound them to each other in a way that nothing else could have done.
It was the one thing that remained constant, unchanged, out of all the past.
Hattie’s room—the room to which she had come to spend the rest of her
life—was large and airy with two tall windows which opened on the garden
where Lily had taken Ellen’s place and was now walking up and down, up
and down, with her tall red-haired son. He was a man now and it made
Hattie tremble to think how little difference his improper existence had
made. There in the garden, under the old trees, it seemed of no importance
that he had never had, in the proper sense, a father. He belonged there, with
Lily. There was a rightness about the whole thing which Hattie sensed from
afar off but was unable to explain ... a vague feeling that Lily’s life had
been, despite everything, a life complete and in the proper key, like a
beautiful painting superbly drawn and executed with all the boldness of a
sure hand. Lily perhaps had led the life for which she was born. Hattie saw
that she was telling the boy something which had led her to weep, for she
lifted her handkerchief to her eyes and the boy halted to face her with his
brow crinkled into little furrows. He was so like Fergus....
And in the next instant she knew what it was that Lily had said. Ellen put
her arms about her mother and murmured in a low voice, “I have some bad
news, Ma.”
And Hattie, looking at her in a queer stony fashion, replied, “I know
what it is. Robert too is dead.”
It was true. Little by little, while her mother sat listening in the same
stony silence, Ellen told the whole story. It was Callendar who had brought
the news. He had come from the front on leave this very morning. There—
somewhere in the Argonne—he had come across Robert’s regiment and
there they had become acquainted. And then on the night before Callendar
left, he had been sent for by one of the Americans. He had gone to a
dressing station, but Robert was dead when he arrived. He had been
wounded while saving one of his own men caught among the barbed wire
between the German lines and his own. The man had been saved; he would
live. It was he who had told Callendar the whole story, he who in a sort of
delirium had described the whole affair with a fantastic poetry ... the fog
that had settled over the lines, the swift, brilliant flare of the Veery lights,
the faint, malicious, pop! pop! of the gas shells as they buried their noses so
neatly in the earth. It was in this wild, unearthly setting that Robert had
given up his life. Robert (thought Hattie) who had said, “There’s nothing
romantic about war.... The side which is the most efficient.... There won’t
be any nonsense.... I’ll look out for myself.”
When Ellen had finished they were both silent for a time and at last,
Hattie, still dry eyed, said in a firm voice, “It is a judgment ... I love my
children too well ... better than my own God and now they have been taken
from me.”
(If only it had been Robert.... And now it was Robert too.)
She lay down on the great bed, a strange, incongruous figure—this grim,
primitive, black-clad woman—in the midst of all the luxury that Lily had
provided. And presently she said, “I’d like to be alone for a time, Ellen. I’ll
call you ... later on.”
So Ellen left her mother in solitude, but as the door closed behind her
she knew that it was herself upon whom the remnants of her family—Hattie
and The Everlasting—now depended. It was she who, after all these years
in which she had neglected and forgotten them, had become the rock, the

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