“On the second occasion, it was very painful, very painful indeed.” He paused and looked round in order to make certain that we were alone. “She used to
I pointed out that she was a sensitive—but I got no further.
“Yes, yes! I know that argument, but it’s based on a fallacy. She’s deceptively frail-looking. I use the word ‘deceptively’ advisedly. You may not believe me, but, actually, she’s strongly built. Lithe—but strong. She looks far more frail in her clothes than she does—than she actually is.”
There he sat at the head of the table, a square, solid figure in old-fashioned evening clothes. He had a ponderous head, shrewd eyes, broad, capable hands. To see him was to know his friends. Everything I learned about Vivian only confirmed what I already knew. I never made a discovery.
Clockwork-regularity was his god. On Wednesday nights they dined at a restaurant, because the servants went out on Wednesday nights. Never did they enter a restaurant on any other night. On Saturday they went to the play, because Vivian did not mind being late on Saturdays as he did not have to go to the office the next day. On Saturday afternoons he had a Turkish bath, because the office was shut on Saturday afternoons. On Sunday from three to five he contemplated his coins. He had a remarkable collection and was very proud of it. He took the same house in the country every summer and went to it every week-end. His wife could stay there from May till September, if she chose. If not, she accompanied him every week-end. Every other year they went abroad for a month. Every morning he left the house at nine-thirty and returned at six o’clock. Every winter he suffered from bronchial trouble.
Rosalie was a prisoner among the prosaic.
On one occasion I referred to the amazing improvement in her health, adding that I took some credit for it as it coincided with our friendship.
“Oh yes, yes! She’s quite normal, really. All women have fads. But I always knew that a regular life must have an effect on her. One young fool of a doctor told me that she needed an outlet.”
He looked at me with heavy indignation.
“My wife needed an outlet! Did you ever hear such nonsense? Here she is, perfectly well again, and what outlet has she now which she had not then?”
I agreed that a regular life had had its effect on her.
My friendship with Rosalie did not disturb him in the least. In fact, in the winter, when his bronchial trouble asserted itself, he welcomed my presence, and frequently asked me to take Rosalie to the theatre on Saturday nights.
As to the question of possible infidelity, I am convinced it never crossed his mind. To him, she was not Rosalie. She was—his wife. Somebody else’s wife might be unfaithful to her husband, of course, but not his wife. Things like that did not happen to
I half believe that he thought it was my admiration for him which made me such a frequent visitor.
What would he do if he discovered? That was the only question relating to Vivian which I could not answer. Would he merely insist that she was never to see me again—then punish her in secret till the day one of them died? That would avoid scandal. Or would he divorce her, and bang the gates of his memory on her for ever? Would he commit suicide? Murder? It was impossible even to have an opinion. To discover that his wife had a lover would be a calamity so outside Vivian’s experience that his reaction to it was not to be imagined.
Rosalie believed that he loved her. I believed that he loved her as part of himself. I do not think he loved Rosalie. But I am quite certain he loved his wife.
I did not care whether he discovered or not. Danger has always fascinated me. It delivers me from that terrible interior weariness. It robs the days and nights of that fearful flat monotony in which everything is steeped in the leaden hue of mediocrity. Danger is the subtlest form of intoxication. It makes the most worthless life suddenly worth the living. It gives meaning to the meaningless. Boredom lies awake in a nightcap, but Danger sleeps with a sword by its side.