IV
Would Anthime feel the calming effect of words so temperate and so wise?
Yes; during the first two courses (the dinner, which was good but plain, did not comprise more than three dishes altogether) and as long as the talk meandered in domestic fashion round about subjects that were not contentious. Out of consideration for Marguerite’s eye, they first talked about eyesight and oculists (the Baragliouls pretended not to notice that Anthime’s wen had grown); then about Italian cooking—out of politeness to Veronica—with allusions to the excellence of her dinner; then Anthime enquired after the Fleurissoires, whom the Baragliouls had recently been to see at Pau, and after the Comtesse de Saint-Prix, Julius’s sister, who was in the habit of spending her holidays in that neighbourhood; and then after the Baragliouls’ charming elder daughter, whom they would have liked to bring with them to Rome, but who could never be persuaded to leave her work at the Hospital for Sick Children, in the Rue de Sèvres, where she went every morning to tend the suffering little ones. Julius then broached the serious subject of the expropriation of Anthime’s property: Anthime, when travelling as a young man for the first time in Egypt, had bought a piece of land, which, owing to its inconvenient situation, had hitherto been of very little value; but there had lately been some question of making the new Cairo-to-Heliopolis railway pass through it. There is no doubt that the Armand-Dubois’ budget, which had suffered from risky speculations, was in great need of this windfall. Julius, however, before leaving Paris, had discussed the affair with Maniton, the consulting engineer of the projected line, and he advised his brother-in-law not to raise his hopes too high—for the whole thing might very well end in smoke. Anthime, for his part, made no mention of the fact that the Lodge, which always backs its friends, was looking after his interests.
Anthime spoke to Julius about his candidature to the Academy and his chances of getting in; he spoke with a smile, for he had very little belief in them; and Julius himself pretended to a calm and, as it were, resigned indifference. What was the use of saying that his sister, the Comtesse de Saint-Prix, had got Cardinal André up her sleeve, and in consequence the other fifteen immortals who always voted with him? Anthime then said a vague word or two of sketchy compliment about Julius’s last novel, On the Heights. As a matter of fact he had thought it an extremely bad book; and Julius, who was not in the least deceived, hurriedly put himself in the right by saying:
“I was quite aware that you wouldn’t like a book of that kind.”
Anthime might have excused the book. But this allusion to his opinions touched him in a sore place; he began to protest that they never in the least influenced his judgment of works of art in general, or of his brother-in-law’s novels in particular. Julius smiled condescendingly, and, in order to change the subject, enquired after his brother-in-law’s sciatica, which he inadvertently called “lumbago.” Ah! why had he not enquired instead about his scientific researches? Then it would have been a satisfaction to answer him. But his “lumbago”! It would be his wen next, most likely! But his brother-in-law, apparently, knew nothing about his scientific researches—he chose to know nothing about them.... Anthime was exasperated and his “lumbago” was hurting him. With a sneering laugh, he answered viciously:
“Am I better? Ha, ha, ha! You’d be very sorry to hear that I was!”
Julius was astonished and begged his brother-in-law to say why such uncharitable feelings should be imputed to him.
“Good heavens! You Catholics aren’t above calling in a doctor when one of you falls ill; but when the patient gets well, it’s no thanks to science—it’s all because of the prayers you said while the doctor was looking after him. You would think it a gross impertinence if a man who didn’t go to church got better.”
“Would you rather remain ill than go to church?” said Marguerite, earnestly.
What made her poke her oar in? As a rule she never took part in conversations of general interest, and as soon as Julius opened his mouth, she would meekly efface herself. This was man’s talk. Pooh! Why should he show her any consideration? He turned to her abruptly:
“My dear girl, kindly understand that if I knew that an instantaneous and certain cure lay to my hand, there—do you hear?—there!” (and he pointed wildly to the salt-cellar) “but that before taking it, I must beg the Principal” (this was his jocose name for the Supreme Being on the days when he was in a bad temper) “or beseech him to intervene—to upset for my sake the established order—the natural order—the venerable order of cause and effect, I wouldn’t take his cure. I wouldn’t! I should say to the Principal: ‘Don’t come bothering me with your miracle! I don’t want it—at any price! I don’t want it!’”
He stressed each word—each syllable. The loudness of his voice matched the fury of his temper. He was frightful.
“You wouldn’t want it? Why not?” asked Julius, very calmly.
“Because it would force me to believe in God—who doesn’t exist,” he cried, banging his fist down on the table.
Marguerite and Veronica exchanged anxious glances, and then both looked towards Julie.
“I think it’s time to go to bed, my darling,” said her mother. “Make haste. We’ll come and say good night to you when you’re in bed.”
The child, terrified by the dreadful words and diabolical appearance of her uncle, fled.
“If I am to be cured, I want to owe it to no one but myself. So there!”
“Then what about the doctor?” ventured Marguerite.
“I pay him for his visits. We are quits.”
“Whilst gratitude to God,” said Julius in his gravest, deepest voice, “would bind you....”
“Yes, brother Julius, and that is why I don’t pray.”
“Others pray for you, my dear.”
This remark came from Veronica, who up till now had said nothing. At the gentle sound of her well-known voice, Anthime started and completely lost all self-control. Contradictions and incoherences came jostling from his lips. “You have no right to pray for a person against his will, to ask for a favour for him without his leave. It’s treachery! You haven’t gained much by it, however. That’s one comfort. It’ll teach you what your prayers are worth. Much to be proud of. I’m sure!... But, after all, perhaps you didn’t go on praying long enough.”
“Don’t be alarmed! I am going on,” Veronica announced in the same gentle voice as before. And then, smiling quietly, as though she stood outside the range of his tempestuous anger, she went on to tell Marguerite that every evening, without missing a single one, she burnt two candles for Anthime and placed them beside the wayside figure of the Madonna standing at the north corner of the house—the same figure in front of which she had once caught Beppo crossing himself. There was a recess in the wall close by, into which the boy used to tuck himself, when he wanted to rest. Veronica could be sure of finding him there at the right time. She couldn’t have managed by herself, as the shrine was too high up—out of the reach of passers-by. But Beppo (he was a slim lad now of about fifteen) by clinging to the stones and to a metal ring that was in the wall, scrambled up and was able to place two candles, already lighted and flaring, beside the holy image.... The conversation insensibly drifted away from Anthime—closed over him, so to speak, as the sisters went on to talk of the simple, touching piety of the common folk, who love most to honour the rudest statues.... Anthime was completely engulfed. What! not content with feeding his rats behind his back, Veronica must needs now burn candles for him! His own wife! And, moreover, mix Beppo up in all this idiotic tomfoolery.... Ha, ha! We’ll soon see!
The blood rushed to Anthime’s head; he choked; his temples drummed a tattoo. With a huge effort he rose, knocking down his chair behind him. He emptied a glass of water on to his napkin and mopped his forehead. Was he going to be ill? Veronica was all concern. He pushed her away brutally, made for the door and slammed it behind him; they heard his halting step, accompanied by the dull thud of his crutch, clatter down the passage.
This abrupt departure left them perplexed and saddened. For a few moments they remained silent.
“My poor dear!” said Marguerite at last. This incident served once again to illustrate the difference between the two sisters. Marguerite’s soul was of that admirable stuff out of which God makes his martyrs. She was aware of it and with all her might yearned to suffer. Life unfortunately offered her little to complain of. Her lot overflowed with blessings, so that she was reduced to seeking occasions for her power of endurance, in the trifling vexations of daily life. She did her best to find thorns in the smoothest path and caught eagerly at anything that had the smallest resemblance to a bramble. It must be admitted that she was an adept in the art of managing to get herself slighted; but Julius seemed continually endeavouring to give her less and less scope for exercising her virtues. Is it to be wondered at, then, that her attitude towards him was always discontented and complaining? How splendid her vocation would have been with a husband like Anthime! She was vexed to see her sister make so little of her opportunities. Veronica, indeed, eluded every grievance; sarcasms and jeers alike slipped off her smiling unruffled smoothness like water off a duck’s back. She had no doubt long ago become reconciled to the solitude of her life; Anthime, moreover, didn’t really treat her badly—she didn’t grudge him speaking his mind. She explained that the reason he spoke so loud was that he found it so difficult to move. His temper would be less violent if his legs were more active; and as Julius asked where he could have gone to, “To the laboratory,” she answered, and when Marguerite added that perhaps it would be as well to go and see whether he hadn’t been taken ill after such a fit of anger, she assured her it was better to let him get over it by himself and not pay too much attention to his outburst.
“Let us finish dinner quietly,” she concluded.