II
George and Hugo were in the drawing-room with Grandmother when we arrived. They were talking about Dostoievski. Grandmother did not like the Russian novelists.
‘My dear, a lunatic asylum,’ she said once. ‘It may be very true to life, of a sort, as you say, but I do not enjoy the society of lunatics.’
Hugo was saying:
‘We are all like that really, Aunt Gerry, only we don’t realize it, incredibly weak, and uncertain, and yet sometimes a bit heroic, only we don’t like to think we are like that, so we don’t think it.’
‘I certainly do not think it, Hugo. I hope that you are not like that, and I know that I am not.’
She laughed, and turning to us, held out her hands.
‘Here she is!’ she said, as though they had been speaking about me. I realized that evening how much she cared for me, and felt grateful to her. I bent down and kissed her, and shook hands with George and Hugo. I did not feel shy of Hugo now; it seemed, here in this room, just as it used to be.
George gave me his chair, and we all sat down.
‘How is my great-granddaughter?’ asked Grandmother, and I said she was very well.
George said:
‘I can’t imagine you with a daughter.’
Then Guy and Mollie came in together. They looked happy, and I thought:
‘They will be married soon,’ and I was glad.
Mollie said:
‘We have run all the way from Notting Hill Gate, we thought we should be late.’
Guy said:
‘Ralph is later. A diplomat should know better.’
‘Does Ralph count as a diplomat now?’ asked Mollie.
Guy said:
‘Yes, of the fifteenth class, I believe.’
And every one laughed, for it was a joke against Ralph Freeman that he was very punctilious.
Then he came in.
He apologized to Grandmother. He said he had been kept at the Office; there was anxiety over the murder of Franz Ferdinand.
‘Franz Ferdinand,’ repeated Hugo, ‘who on earth is he?’
‘The Austrian Archduke. Francis Joseph’s heir, you know. Haven’t you seen the paper?’
Guy said:
‘I saw something about it. Herzegovina, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, and Austria is sure to suspect Serbian influence.’
George said:
‘Trouble in the Balkans. Do you remember Old Moore’s prediction?’
Mollie said:
‘That was last year.’
George said:
‘Every year.’
Grandmother said:
‘I read about it this morning. The young man and his wife were both shot in their carriage—a very horrid affair.’
Ralph said:
‘My chief takes an exceedingly grave view of the situation.’
The dinner was ready and we went into the dining-room. When we had all sat down, Ralph began again.
‘You see,’ he said to Grandmother, ‘the tension between Vienna and Belgrade has been growing more acute every year. It was amazing to hear the Austrians talk, when I was out there. They would believe anything of the Serbs.’
‘No doubt the crime was political,’ Grandmother observed. ‘It is something to be truly thankful for that we have outgrown political crimes in this country; they are always futile.’
‘This may be worse than futile,’ said Ralph. He was looking serious and excited, and we felt amused; Ralph was always proud of his inside information.
‘Well, yes, worse than futile for the dozen poor devils who are put to death because of it,’ said George. ‘They have not got the man who threw the bomb, I see. There will have to be a demonstration.’
‘They are saying at the Office that it may mean War.’
‘War? between Austria—Hungary and Serbia?’
‘That would be short and decisive. I should think.’
Guy wrinkled his forehead.
‘You forget Serbia’s relation to Russia,’ Ralph put in; ‘we might very easily have war between Russia and Austria over this.’
Mollie said:
‘It all seems very remote.’
Grandmother said:
‘In Eastern Europe they are always fighting. I remember so many wars—Russo-Turkish, Bulgaro-Turkish, Russo-Japanese, Græco-Turkish and the Balkan Wars. One cannot feel as distressed, as no doubt one ought. If the Russians are all like Hugo’s friends they should not prove very formidable to Austrian troops. I used to know a good many Austrian officers—very charming people.’
We all had an impulse to rag Ralph Freeman. He took himself and his news so seriously, it made us want to take it lightly.
Hugo said:
‘Russian Ballet versus Hungarian Band. Much more “life force” in the Ballet.’
‘It is all very well to joke,’ protested Ralph, ‘but this may be the beginning of a European War.’
‘How often have we heard that, Ralph?’ asked Guy. ‘Everything may be the beginning of a European War—Dogger Bank, Agadir, Morocco—but fortunately, it does not begin.’
‘Sophia belongs to a society which shows European War to be impossible,’ said Mollie. ‘Economically impossible, in a modern world like ours, because of international trade, credit, and so on, and international banking. I went to some of the meetings with her once.’
‘I wish it were impossible,’ said Ralph portentously, and we all felt sure that he was very glad it was not impossible.
‘Russia and France,’ said George abruptly, ‘Austria and Germany—My God!’ Then he laughed. ‘It is fantastic,’ he said. ‘Why, we have an entente with France and Russia!’
‘Exactly,’ said Ralph.
I said:
‘You are talking like the Navy League, George.’
‘I know,’ said George. ‘I suddenly thought, Supposing the damned fools were right.’
Walter said:
‘It is quite inconceivable, I think, that Great Britain should be involved in a European War.’
He spoke with a note of exasperation in his voice, as though every one were being silly. I thought they could not all be silly, for they were saying different things.
‘It is inconceivable we could keep out,’ said Guy, ‘if France and Germany were at War.’
‘Come, come,’ said Grandmother, ‘don’t try to make my flesh creep, young people. I think we can trust the Austrians to settle up their own affair; it was all in their own country after all.’
She turned to Walter, who was on her other side, and asked him how his book was getting on; and after that we talked about plays, the Vedrenne Barker Season at the Savoy and Rheinhardt’s production of Œdipus. I had seen none of them, nor Walter of course, for we seldom went to plays, but all the others had, and I liked to hear about them.
After dinner we had coffee in the drawing-room; then Grandmother went to her memoirs, in her sitting-room upstairs, and we played Demon Pounce with two card tables joined together and five packs of cards. We called it Prawn Eye, and we often used to play it.
Guy generally won, and sometimes George; Hugo and Walter were the worst. Hugo laughed and looked across at Walter.
‘You and I are competing for the Donkey prize,’ he said.
Walter tried to laugh too, but he looked worried; I could see that he thought it a silly game, and that spoilt the fun for me.
I had to go home early to feed Eleanor. The others stayed on to play longer. I ran upstairs to Grandmother to say ‘good night.’ She was sitting by the fire, for she always had a fire in her room, with her book on her knee and her spectacles on the table by her side. She was not reading, and she looked very tired. I realized, with a sudden shock, that she was old.
She started when I came in, and then smiled.
‘I have come to say “good night,” Grandmother,’ I said.
She put both her hands on my shoulders, as I stooped down.
She said:
‘Dear child, bless you. I am happy about you.’
I said:
‘I am happy too, Grandmother.’
I waited; I wanted to say more, but I did not know what to say. I felt then that she was old, and perhaps lonely. It had not occurred to me before that my marriage had left her all alone. I wondered what it would be like to be old.
I thought:
‘We shall all be old some day, Guy and Hugo, and George, and Mollie and Walter, and I; how strange that is; quite certainly some day we shall be old.’
But it was not real to me even then.
‘Can I do anything for you, Grandmother?’ I asked. ‘Can I get you another book?’
‘No, dear, no; I shall go to bed soon. Are the other young people still there?’
I said, yes, they were going on with their game.
‘Say “good night” to them for me,’ she said; ‘they need not come up’; and she kissed me ‘Good night.’
I went downstairs slowly.
Walter was waiting in the hall.
There was a taxi at the door to take us home; Grandmother had arranged that. She would pay for it, she had said.
I ran back to the drawing-room to say ‘Good-bye.’
Hugo came with me into the hall, and George came out on to the steps.
‘When shall we meet again?’ he said. ‘Are you going away soon?’
I said:
‘Next week we are going, up to the Wall again. We shall be back in September.’
George said:
‘Good-bye, then, till September.’
He was smiling his wide, delightful smile.
I said:
‘What a nice evening it has been.’
George said:
‘Yes. Hasn’t it been jolly?’
Yet something in his face made me wonder.
I thought:
‘Is George not happy? Can something be worrying George?’
I never saw him again.