บท 6: Chapter VI
Mathilda Aldouin was in the process of a demanding day. Notwithstanding the fact that Guillory had, once again, come knocking on her door with the inquiry of her help that morning, she had, in the end, agreed to join him. And the prospect of a whole evening spent at Mrs Rousseau's was aggravating.
Mathilda Catherine Aldouin, as a person, liked to be ruled by the clock. Meaning that everything had to be punctual. Her days consisted of a regular succession of occasions changed only by the variety of the moment. She liked her days full and determined; to be idle, or to be idle without it being planned beforehand, was irrational in her eyes. Some would call it plain and dull: lacking the spontaneity of the moment that others might treasure. And yet, Mathilda Aldouin was everything but dull.
She was nothing if not inquisitive, interested herself in various topics, and considered herself very well-read. This was not quite true but Mathi liked to think of herself that way, and she especially liked other people to think of her that way. People, for their part, where as much of interest to her as they vexed her, and while she believed she abhorred the circus that was society, she could not envision herself not being part of it.
With her arm through James's, she was led towards the ballroom. The hallway opened into a high-ceilinged and well-lighted expanse, where a small orchestra was playing. The crowd's endeavours within the room were brilliantly lighted by various candelabras and great beaded chandeliers with wax lights which were suspended over the well of the room, illumining the sea of socialites: moving figures in frock coats with ruby cheeks, and mounds of braided hair atop heads. A pleasant chatter mingling between them.
Mr and Mrs Rousseau were receiving their guests.
James's eagerness for the event betrayed him, Mathilda reasoned as she straightened her posture. And she might very well take this chance to make an estimation of James's object of interest.
Generally, Mathilda did not think it proper that James should be left to the sole guidance of his own judgement. Certainly not on nights as these, when his overall common sense was so preoccupied. Stealing a glance at the eager young man, she found him somewhat amusing. And, leaning towards him, Mathi enquired:
"Did you finish it?"
James started: "Yes! —no. I'll be sure to do so tomorrow."
Mathilda made a discreet noise, throwing James a glance that said: 'you better.' She was then adressed by Mrs Rousseau:
"Miss Aldouin. Mr Guillory," the lady said. Her husband greeted them in similar fashion.
"Mrs Rousseau. Mr Rousseau," James inclined his head.
Gabrielle Rousseau was a woman Mathi knew to be mid-sixty, but deemed to look somewhat younger; finely cut features, light hair and dark eyes. Not particularly well-liked by Mathi personally — if not for her parties, on account of her kitchen — but she knew the woman to be intensely adored by some and deeply respected by many. Her manner was that of a person blind to their faults with an evident touch of vanity.
"My dear Miss Aldouin," Mrs Rousseau said to get her attention. "Your mother told me you were indisposed tonight. I am delighted to see you have decided to join us after all."
A faint sting went up Mathilda's back. She exalted a smile, "how could I possibly miss it."
"You have never been one to shy away, imagine my surprise when I heard it at first! Do come to us more often. My husband and I would be delighted to have you for dinner," she turned to James, "and, Mr Guillory, you are most welcome as well, off course."
"Much delighted," James said, and they were off.
Elegant settees with fine carving stood poised by the windows. Playful, attractive, painted faces regarded them from the walls. Light-hearted depiction of domestic life in the upper-class home of 1720 and elegantly dressed aristocrats at play, usually in pastoral landscapes, pranced from one tableau to the next. Mathilda regarded the crowd:
"Any interesting people?"
James pursed his lips. "There's Mr Magloire. He's engaging, if not interesting. And there's the Colonel."
"How are the Martin's looking?"
"As they always do — very brash and a bit vulgar."
Music rushed on as the chattering mass greeted loved acquaintances and loathed friends. Chairs were scraped back and forth, and glasses were generously filled. It was a fine evening. And it could even become a pleasant one; an evening harbouring the possibility of scandal and entertainment.
"Mr Rousseau's interesting," James remarked as they made a turn round the room. "A pity he has his duties as a host to keep him busy. Poor man. Never enjoyed it much, did he? — the excitement and all that."
Mathi thought him very wrong. In her assessment of Mr Rousseau, the man enjoyed it secretly and thoroughly.
She untangled their arms, claimed a drink, and decided upon the Louis XVI fauteuils situated close by a door leading to an open parlour. James remained standing beside her and she noted his fingers fiddling and fighting each other behind his back. Opening her fan, she muttered: "there are only two kinds of interesting people; those who know nearly everything and those who believe they know nearly everything."
The first one is captivating, Mathilda thought as James scowled in disaccord. The latter entertaining. And I often find myself wondering whether the first doesn't belong in the second category, and I am too ignorant to see it.
"Quit that. You're being a nuisance." There was a crooked half-smile to go with the words, a gentle rise of eyebrows, teasing and comfortable.
"Being a nuisance is in fashion these days."
"How unimaginative." James cried out. "What about being intelligent? Being beautiful?"
"Pity the wise and the beautiful."
"Where's that from?"
"Wilde, I think."
"I like Wilde. Makes me think of Verlaine."
"Verlaine? You're mad." She sampled her drink.
"You are mad."
"This is undrinkable," she passed the glass to James, who held the liquor to the light of the beaded chandeliers and shrugged. Mathilda continued: "wasn't he put off by him?"
"Initially. But he recognised his genius."
Looking round above her fan, she said: "I don't see anybody here tonight deserving of being called a genius. Or interesting."
"Poor you." James turned to her with the corners of his mouth pulled down in a satirical mask of dejection. Mathi made a disapproving noise.
Bound for them, Mathilda Aldouin spied a voluptuous, middle-aged woman. Mrs Isabelle Deslys was the perfect example of a member of society who took an interest in the most trivial discourse and always went to great lengths to invite one's curiosity in her mundane stories. All her movements being extremely graceful, she was a work of art, and greatly pleased herself in being so.
"Good evening, Miss Aldouin! Has my indolent son been here?"
Mathi smiled. "I don't know whether he will be joining us tonight."
Leaning towards her, his voice thinned to a hush, James said: "why does she call him that?"
'Is that really a question?' Her eyes told him. Then to Mrs Deslys, who had taken the liberty to sit down beside her, she said: "what has he done to deserve your ire?"
"Ah! He leads such an idle life!"
"Does he now," James said.
"Yes! Oh, Mr Guillory — how promising you are, how bright!" Mrs Deslys cried as a kind twinkle re-emerged in her eyes, "how lucky your father is to have you. And your mother! Such a charming woman and I can know! It is not often that I say so," — Mrs Deslys did often say so— "but she really is a charming woman. I was saying the same to Mrs Calvet earlier, such a charming woman as well. Pity of her husband. I called it you know— you frown, but I really did; I have an eye for these things. Mr Lachaud agreed with me having an eye for these things only this morning. They bought a second carriage, believe it or not, 'but why?' I said to him, but he wouldn't listen: 'I did,' he said to me, 'I find that cars upset me.' Well, in all my years—"
Mathi occupied herself by turning the bracelets round and round on her wrist while James looked about the room to find an excuse to leave the natterer's presence. Unable to find such a distraction at first, James nigh pulled her away in pursuit of what he claimed to be a canvass he simply 'must' inspect, and she was obliged to excuse herself rather rudely.
In the garden, it was fine, in disaccord with the season, and they stood regarding it from the broad parlour where everyone took shelter when it was wet. The expanse was illuminated by brilliant lights and heaters stood on either side of the flowery ornaments that covered the expanse. Where the dim light fell from the windows behind them, soft particles floated in the evening air. The ivy crept in between the seams of the white stone pillars that supported the structure, and far-off undistinguishable animals send their call out into the evening.
"Don't you need a cloak?" James enquired.
"I'm good."
Guillory took off and held out his jacket, a faux-pas, and Mathilda knew her friend not to be indifferent about it. She regarded him. James made an impatient noise and drew near:
"Half the people here are convinced we're secretly engaged. Just take the bloody jacket."
Mathilda shook her head in amused bewilderment but allowed him to drape it over her shoulders. They talked for a while in hushed tones, until Mrs Calvet — not able to resist the call for fresh air either, joined them outside. Both youngsters felt delighted upon meeting her, and, with all the enthusiasm that comes forth from admiration, Mathilda expressed her genuine approval for Mrs Calvet's recent work:
"—but are you not dismayed, to have the majority of your work hunted down by censors to the point where you are being refused by bookshops?"
"My dear— I am not. Censorship is the tool of the ignorant, and how could a noddy insult me. I consider them too uneducated for it." Mrs Calvet appeared amused, if somewhat wearisome; as if she had explained herself in the same fashion towards a lot of people already. Mathilda fretted at the possibility, still could do nothing but express her accord:
"I very much agree. Their fear is only their inability to face what is real."
"And should we not pity them, instead?" Mrs Calvet said. "Somewhere, in their upbringing, they were shielded against certain aspects of human existence. The great majority of these censors were only taught to look one way when many exist."
Mathilda brightened. James smiled. Mrs Calvet continued: "in a sense, I am honoured that I have written something that has awakened them from their toneless lives."
Then, as James opened his mouth to express his thoughts on the matter, a voice interrupted him:
"James Guillory!"
An elegant man about their age approached. He was modestly but gracefully dressed and made his entrance with a flagrantly that was clearly habitual. Mathi deemed him to appear refined without truly being so. He seemed particularly aware of himself, and although his smile was polite and enhanced his features, he appeared somewhat reserved.
"Richard," said her companion, "you're late."
"I never am. I find being on time very important." A clear accent seeped between his syllables as the young man spoke.
"Or so you say."
"Did you miss me, perhaps?" he turned round on his heels as he said so, having a brief, uninterested survey of the parlour. Then the young man turned toward James with a trace of exhilaration in his tone; there was the faintest beginning of a smile in his words: "I like being missed by you."
"Immensely," James said, though it seemed lost to the Englishman. Mathilda thought her friend suspicious. It was as though he were holding his breath as he talked and she was still more suspicious of the expression of peculiar tenderness and excitement with which, as James had greeted Mr Crawford, he had said 'immensely'.
James turned to her as if only now realising Mathilda and Mrs Calvet were still beside him. She would have felt insulted if it had not amused her. James cried: "but I have been most ungracious! Mathilda, Mrs Calvet, meet a recent friend of mine."
"Richard Crawford— a pleasure," he bowed.
She held out a gloved hand. "The pleasure is all mine, Mr Crawford. Mathilda Aldouin."
The young man's eyes widened. He took her hand, modestly touching the back with his lips. "Miss Aldouin."
Mathi studied Mr Crawford briefly and knew to have seen him before. Or rather, knew James to have talked of him. Then Mrs Calvet extended her hand and likewise greetings were exchanged. James, content with having fulfilled all minor requirements that accompanied introductions, revived their earlier subject. Turning to Mrs Calvet, he said:
"I believe your work to hold major significance in today's society, Mrs Calvet. Obscenity in literature has long enough been disputed. You have given us a work that is rational and practical— and in doing so, Mrs Calvet, you have not only charted a labyrinthine branch of the horror that is called contemporary literature, but have written it as a master of prose. The precedent you have established will do much to rescue the public from censors who have striven to turn basic human functions into euphemisms, and will help to make it the strong, provocative fare it ought to be—"
Mr Crawford listened motionless, with parted lips and eyes strangely bright as Mrs Calvet appeared mostly just amused. Mathilda smiled and regarded James kindly.
By society, James Guillory was deemed a gentleman of elegant character. In conduct he was proper and in temperament he was kind. He was much indulged in the appreciation of the arts and claimed to be able to become a painter himself, if not for his family who claimed him to have a bright future in politics. While she continued to amuse herself with the mental image of seeing him in the senate, she did have to confess that — no matter his artistic tendencies — he had a great voice. People listened when James Guillory spoke, and they did so with great pleasure. No matter how tedious a topic one might propose, he could paint a formidable scene with words alone, never mind how capable he claimed to be was he given a pencil in hand. And, Mathilda knew, it was one of the reasons she enjoyed having him around.
Mrs Calvet listened to James with a dubious smile adorning her visage. "You flatter me, Mr Guillory. I am astounded you've had the time to read any of my recent work. I believed you to be rather occupied these past weeks. You must tell our dear Mr Moreau to spare you— what are we to do when you aren't here?"
"I seldom go anywhere," James said in a burst of casual honesty. "Sick of the gentry."
This brought forth a laugh among the circle of acquaintances. Little did they know that James perfectly meant what he had said.
"I adore polite society," Mrs Calvet said. "It allows me to find out what others want me to think of them."
Suddenly, as she had not realised he had neared, Mr Crawford whispered beside her: "It is entirely composed of charmers, idiots and bores."
This brought a smile to her lips, and James nigh choked on the tacky drink before he enquired: "What category are we?"
Crawford regarded him with a shy look of wonder. "Ah! We have one of our own."
"And what category is that?"
"I'll tell you when I know."
"And yet," James said with a graceful wave of his hand, "I never minded seeing myself as a beautiful idiot."
"But are you?"
A polite voice intervened, originating from a livered attendant: "Mr Guillory? Mr James Guillory? I have Mr Louis-Henry Guillory for you."
"Ah! —of course," James tensed before recomposing himself and giving a firm, stiff bow towards the assembled. "My apologies, I won't be long."
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