once in the German Express, she would lean back, with
one hand to her side and her eyes closed. Well, she was a good
actress. And I would be in hell. In hell, I tell you. For in
Florence I had at once a wife and an unattained mistress—that is
what it comes to—and in the retaining of her in this world I had my
occupation, my career, my ambition. It is not often that these
things are united in one body. Leonora was a good actress too. By
Jove she was good! I tell you, she would listen to me by the hour,
evolving my plans for a shock-proof world. It is true that, at
times, I used to notice about her an air of inattention as if she
were listening, a mother, to the child at her knee, or as if,
precisely, I were myself the patient.
You understand that there was nothing the matter with Edward
Ashburnham's heart—that he had thrown up his commission and had
left India and come half the world over in order to follow a woman
who had really had a "heart" to Nauheim. That was the sort of
sentimental ass he was. For, you understand, too, that they really
needed to live in India, to economize, to let the house at Branshaw
Teleragh.
Of course, at that date, I had never heard of the Kilsyte case.
Ashburnham had, you know, kissed a servant girl in a railway train,
and it was only the grace of God, the prompt functioning of the
communication cord and the ready sympathy of what I believe you
call the Hampshire Bench, that kept the poor devil out of
Winchester Gaol for years and years. I never heard of that case
until the final stages of Leonora's revelations....
But just think of that poor wretch.... I, who have surely the
right, beg you to think of that poor wretch. Is it possible that
such a luckless devil should be so tormented by blind and
inscrutable destiny? For there is no other way to think of it.
None. I have the right to say it, since for years he was my wife's
lover, since he killed her, since he broke up all the
pleasantnesses that there were in my life. There is no priest that
has the right to tell me that I must not ask pity for him, from
you, silent listener beyond the hearth-stone, from the world, or
from the God who created in him those desires, those
madnesses....
Of course, I should not hear of the Kilsyte case. I knew none of
their friends; they were for me just good people—fortunate people
with broad and sunny acres in a southern county. Just good people!
By heavens, I sometimes think that it would have been better for
him, poor dear, if the case had been such a one that I must needs
have heard of it—such a one as maids and couriers and other Kur
guests whisper about for years after, until gradually it dies away
in the pity that there is knocking about here and there in the
world. Supposing he had spent his seven years in Winchester Gaol or
whatever it is that inscrutable and blind justice allots to you for
following your natural but ill-timed inclinations—there would have
arrived a stage when nodding gossips on the Kursaal terrace would
have said, "Poor fellow," thinking of his ruined career. He would
have been the fine soldier with his back now bent.... Better for
him, poor devil, if his back had been prematurely bent.
Why, it would have been a thousand times better.... For, of
course, the Kilsyte case, which came at the very beginning of his
finding Leonora cold and unsympathetic, gave him a nasty jar. He
left servants alone after that.
It turned him, naturally, all the more loose amongst women of
his own class. Why, Leonora told me that Mrs Maidan—the woman he
followed from Burma to Nauheim—assured her he awakened her
attention by swearing that when he kissed the servant in the train
he was driven to it. I daresay he was driven to it, by the mad
passion to find an ultimately satisfying woman. I daresay he was
sincere enough. Heaven help me, I daresay he was sincere enough in
his love for Mrs Maidan. She was a nice little thing, a dear little
dark woman with long lashes, of whom Florence grew quite
one hand to her side and her eyes closed. Well, she was a good
actress. And I would be in hell. In hell, I tell you. For in
Florence I had at once a wife and an unattained mistress—that is
what it comes to—and in the retaining of her in this world I had my
occupation, my career, my ambition. It is not often that these
things are united in one body. Leonora was a good actress too. By
Jove she was good! I tell you, she would listen to me by the hour,
evolving my plans for a shock-proof world. It is true that, at
times, I used to notice about her an air of inattention as if she
were listening, a mother, to the child at her knee, or as if,
precisely, I were myself the patient.
You understand that there was nothing the matter with Edward
Ashburnham's heart—that he had thrown up his commission and had
left India and come half the world over in order to follow a woman
who had really had a "heart" to Nauheim. That was the sort of
sentimental ass he was. For, you understand, too, that they really
needed to live in India, to economize, to let the house at Branshaw
Teleragh.
Of course, at that date, I had never heard of the Kilsyte case.
Ashburnham had, you know, kissed a servant girl in a railway train,
and it was only the grace of God, the prompt functioning of the
communication cord and the ready sympathy of what I believe you
call the Hampshire Bench, that kept the poor devil out of
Winchester Gaol for years and years. I never heard of that case
until the final stages of Leonora's revelations....
But just think of that poor wretch.... I, who have surely the
right, beg you to think of that poor wretch. Is it possible that
such a luckless devil should be so tormented by blind and
inscrutable destiny? For there is no other way to think of it.
None. I have the right to say it, since for years he was my wife's
lover, since he killed her, since he broke up all the
pleasantnesses that there were in my life. There is no priest that
has the right to tell me that I must not ask pity for him, from
you, silent listener beyond the hearth-stone, from the world, or
from the God who created in him those desires, those
madnesses....
Of course, I should not hear of the Kilsyte case. I knew none of
their friends; they were for me just good people—fortunate people
with broad and sunny acres in a southern county. Just good people!
By heavens, I sometimes think that it would have been better for
him, poor dear, if the case had been such a one that I must needs
have heard of it—such a one as maids and couriers and other Kur
guests whisper about for years after, until gradually it dies away
in the pity that there is knocking about here and there in the
world. Supposing he had spent his seven years in Winchester Gaol or
whatever it is that inscrutable and blind justice allots to you for
following your natural but ill-timed inclinations—there would have
arrived a stage when nodding gossips on the Kursaal terrace would
have said, "Poor fellow," thinking of his ruined career. He would
have been the fine soldier with his back now bent.... Better for
him, poor devil, if his back had been prematurely bent.
Why, it would have been a thousand times better.... For, of
course, the Kilsyte case, which came at the very beginning of his
finding Leonora cold and unsympathetic, gave him a nasty jar. He
left servants alone after that.
It turned him, naturally, all the more loose amongst women of
his own class. Why, Leonora told me that Mrs Maidan—the woman he
followed from Burma to Nauheim—assured her he awakened her
attention by swearing that when he kissed the servant in the train
he was driven to it. I daresay he was driven to it, by the mad
passion to find an ultimately satisfying woman. I daresay he was
sincere enough. Heaven help me, I daresay he was sincere enough in
his love for Mrs Maidan. She was a nice little thing, a dear little
dark woman with long lashes, of whom Florence grew quite
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