# Madame Claire/Chapter 20

Judy's letter was followed by one from Stephen. Madame Claire felt that it was from some one very close at hand. He seemed to be coming nearer to her daily, and she no longer visualized him as separated from her by so many miles of land and water. He was accessible now. They were more readily accessible to each other by thoughts. She felt more confidence in his health, too, and in his determination to come to England again. She had been wise in sending Judy to him!
"It's amazing," Stephen wrote, "how much there is of you in Judy. She has your way of understanding what one wants to say almost before one has said it. She doesn't make me feel an old man. We talk as equals. She is very human and is gifted with real humor, which means that she enjoys the humorous side of mankind. I think that her not very happy youth—for it's obvious that she has been far from happy at home—has given her a certain depth and insight.
"She is much amused by an old friend of mine, ​an American named Colebridge. We met years ago in the Argentine, and he considers that he has reason to be grateful for something in the past. Together, the two are a source of great entertainment to me. Judy becomes every moment more British, and he—well, he couldn't become more American. He admires Judy enormously, and I think he is ready to lay a not inconsiderable fortune at her feet. I wish I could remember their talk. Yesterday we motored to Grasse, and coming home we passed peasants returning from their work in the fields. Simple, contented people, with clothes colored like the earth.
"'In America,' says Mr. Colebridge, 'all these folks would own Fords.'
"'Then thank God for Europe!' says Judy; and so they go on, until at last Mr. Colebridge turns to me and says, 'Say, I guess I'm ready to agree to anything Miss Pendleton says. She's got more sense than any woman I ever met.' Which takes the wind out of Judy's sails. They make me feel years younger. Colebridge wears the most Philistine clothes, and never looks at the scenery. He sees nothing.
"Judy often goes to the Casino, and she tells me she saw Chiozzi there last night. He was with Mlle. Pauline, whom Judy describes as a ​most exquisite creature. She was struck with the contrast between them—Chiozzi so dark and hideous, and the woman so fair and pretty—and she asked some one who they were. She says Chiozzi is extremely jealous and was constantly watching his companion. She also says that he was losing a great deal of money—Connie's money, perhaps?—at the tables. He has left this hotel, so I never see him now.
"Miss McPherson seems to think I will be able to travel in less than a month. A month, Claire! Only thirty days. It's nothing. And yet, it's an eternity. I might have another stroke—no, no! I feel sure I won't. Not with Judy here. I think it was sheer boredom that brought it on before. That, and a hopeless feeling that I should never quite reach you. Now I seem to have accomplished half the journey.
"I have said nothing to Judy as yet about a settlement. It is a difficult subject, and I feel I must tread lightly. All the same, I mean to have my way. If the young deny us these pleasures, what is left for us? Of course, if she were to marry Colebridge she wouldn't want it, but that I feel almost certain she will not do. They are poles apart. It's not because of their nationality. It's because of their outlook on life. It wouldn't ​do. If Judy were less sensitive, less feeling, less intelligent, it might.
"Well, I am aweary of this eternal sunshine. And when the sun does not shine, it all seems very drab. One is constantly reminded here of too much that is rich—and gross. And yet it is lovely, I suppose, very lovely.
"It's you I want, Claire, and London. For the first time in my life I'm unspeakably, unutterably homesick. I long to see the rain on London streets, the lamps' yellow eyes through the deep blue haze and smoke. I want crocuses and primroses instead of mimosa. I want little, homely, decorous shops, and people who put on their clothes merely to cover them and to keep warm. I want your fireside and you and Dawson, and crumpets for tea. What an old fool I am! I would like to hear the old talk of the London that I knew; these memoirs, that play, such and such a speech; what So and So said to Blank when he met him in the lobby of the House; who is talked of as the next Speaker. I hardly dare look at the papers, Claire, for then I know how many years there are between the old talk and the talk of to-day. The jingle of hansom bells seem to run through it all, and faint, forgotten old tunes.
​"But it will all be preserved, summed up, epitomized in you. I will find it all again in you.
"It is Judy who has brought back this love of London. It is she who has made it fresh again.
"She says your hair is perfectly white. How pretty it must be!
"Good-by! I grow verbose, lachrymose, and comatose.
"Stephen."
Well, he would find London changed, though it had changed less than most Western cities. But he would find that it had retained its old character even though it had assumed new manners. And after all, why pretend that it had not improved? It had improved. It was easier to get about now than it had been in Stephen's day. There was more to do. There was less misery among the poor. One needn't feel so suicidal on Sundays. There were better shops, better libraries, and—yes—more and better books. Better preachers in the pulpits, too, better food, better music, better teachers in the schools. And if one regretted the hansom bells and the old tunes, that was because one regretted one's youth, and the friends of one's youth. But the present couldn't be blamed for that. The present was ​full of promise, let the old fogies say what they pleased. The sea was rougher, perhaps, but the port was nearer . . . and after all, seasickness wasn't often fatal, and was very often beneficial. Not that there weren't alarming symptoms—there were. . . .
Stephen and she could still go to the Temple and see the old, unchanged gray stones, and the vivid grass making a carpet for the delicate feet of spring when she visited London; and she loved to visit London, that beloved guest, as though she delighted in contrasting her fleeting and perennial loveliness with what was gray and immutable. The old, slow river, too, and the towers of Westminster—they could look at them and see little change there.
And after all, they hadn't stood still themselves. They had gone on. If they hadn't, she wouldn't have fitted into the picture to-day, as she knew she did, nor would Stephen have found so much in common with Judy. No, she had long ago said good-by to the hansom bells and the bustles and the bad doctors and the inferior plumbing—let's be honest—and the extremely uncomfortable traveling, and she had said good-by without regret.
She was writing to him the following afternoon, ​putting these thoughts on paper while they were still fresh in her mind, when Major Crosby called. She had hoped he would come. Certainly he wouldn't go to Eaton Square for news of Judy. He would come to her. She wondered how far he would commit himself. Here was another simple man, but simple in a different way from Eric's way. Major Crosby's was the simplicity of the hermit, Eric's of the clear thinking man of action who had no use for subtleties. She hoped he would feel that he could unburden himself to a woman of her age.
That, evidently, was one of the things he had come for. Madame Claire wanted to be able to make up her mind about him to-day. She had liked him before, but to-day she hoped to be able to say, "Yes, that's the man for Judy."
He very soon asked for news of her.
"She's being extraordinarily good for my old friend Stephen de Lisle," she told him. "It's well, Major Crosby, to keep one's hold on the present generation. Mr. de Lisle had almost lost his, and he was slipping back. That's why I sent Judy to him."
"Will she be back in time to see her brother before he goes?" he asked.
​"Oh, yes, I'm sure of it. She'll be very lonely without Noel."
What nice eyes the man had! Blue-gray eyes, rather misty, like the eyes of a kitten or a baby. The face was serious—a little too serious, she thought. She liked it though. It was a good face. She liked the thin, rather aquiline nose, the close-cut, brown mustache, the mouth with its expression of peculiar sweetness. She could picture him performing acts of curious bravery, unconscious of any heroism. A man who could study Druidism in the trenches! . . . But life was passing him by, as it would pass Judy by, unless she made up her mind to grasp it.
"Tell me," she said, "how nearly finished is that prodigious book of yours?"
"It's practically done. I'm still polishing it up though. It won't be a popular book, Lady Gregory. In fact I think it will be very unpopular."
"With whom will it be unpopular?"
"Oh, with people who lay much stress upon ritual and creed. I think they will dislike knowing how much of the pagan ritual has come down to us, and how closely our own beliefs are bound up with those of savage peoples. And there are others who don't like hearing that Christianity ​is, comparatively speaking, modern, and that there are other vastly more ancient revelations. And there are people who won't like what I've said about the belief in reincarnation, nor be willing to accede an important place to the so-called modern religions, such as Christian Science, New Thought, and Spiritualism. The book will be banned, undoubtedly, by one great church, and public libraries will think twice before circulating it. And yet I had to write it, and I'm glad I've written it. I only wish it were fuller and more convincing. It lacks what print must always lack—the power to persuade."
"And you wish to persuade us . . . of what?"
"The need for tolerance."
"You think we are still intolerant? And yet there are plenty of people who say we have grown too tolerant."
He shook his head.
"There is only one tolerance that I deplore."
"And that is?"
"Tolerance toward the man who believes in nothing at all."
"Why have you singled out that unfortunate?"
"Because we have much to fear from him." He got up and stood with his back to the fire. "When men believe in nothing, they rot. If his​tory teaches us anything, it teaches us that. The world has had its greatest moments at the times of its greatest faith. Then when belief goes, the decline begins. But first these people who believe in nothing set up idols of their own making. They call them by fine names—liberty, perhaps, or communism, or the freedom of the proletariat, or the gospel of anarchy, or mob rule. But they very soon tire of worshiping even them. Then fear enters their hearts. They believe in no hereafter and no god. They see that life here is short and uncertain. They see that there are good things in the world—fine food, fine clothes, money, power. They want the cash. The credit can go. The people who lay up treasures in heaven are fools. Well then, let them lay up their treasures in heaven—and let them go after them. They themselves mean to have what they can see, feel, touch, smell. They begin trampling, stampeding, cursing. Get, get, get, they cry. What do they attack first? The churches. Away with restraint, away with rules, away with sickly faith. They want more concrete things and they mean to get them. Then blood incites them further. They kill and kill and kill. Killing and grabbing—they are occupied with nothing else. Some for the sake of appearances or because they like the sound of ​words go about shouting their phrases. But sooner or later they turn on each other; or their followers, sick of blood, turn upon them. And then, when there is a little peace, faith creeps back into people's hearts again, and a belief in God. And they wonder how the madness came, and they try to wipe out the blood stains and live sanely again. And they go back to work in the fields and stop hating each other. Perhaps they have learned something. Not always. But they have got tolerance again, and a belief. And with those two things they can begin once more. To believe in something beyond this world, to have faith in the destiny of the soul . . . that's everything."
He looked at her, suddenly abashed.
"I've been talking to you," he said, "as if I were addressing a meeting. I'm so sorry."
"I've liked it. Go on. So your book shows——"
"Shows that any faith is good. Shows that all beliefs are so intermingled that they are almost inextricable. It shows that what matters is their common foundation—the belief in a Divine Creator. Without these various revelations that are the foundations of religion, the world would have been chaos. Destroy them, and the world ​will be chaos. Christianity is the light on the path of the Western world. Other worlds, other lights. But to say that we can walk without light, or to shut our eyes and say there is no light—that is the great insanity, the great evil."
"Yes, I think that's true," she agreed.
"I'm not a religious fellow, in the ordinary sense of the word," he explained, "and yet I'm more interested in religion than in any other subject. I do go to church, but more as a student than a worshiper. I like to think about the psychology of a congregation, and the possible—the probable benefits of worshiping all together in a building with four walls and a roof."
It wasn't so difficult, after all, to draw him out. She liked making him talk. And when she thought she had drawn him out enough she rang for tea.
"Of course this work of yours is tremendously interesting, but at the same time I feel more than ever that you need diversions. The dancing wasn't altogether a success, I gathered."
"No," he agreed, smiling, "I'm afraid it wasn't. But when we were discussing hobbies the other day, I forgot to tell you that I had another, besides religions. And that's the stage."
Madame Claire laughed.
​"You extraordinary man! What aspect of the stage?"
"I like writing plays. I've written several, but I don't think they're any good and I've never tried to do anything with them. I don't think my people would be real—especially the women. I wonder—I'd like—would you read them some time? You're critical, but you're very kind, too."
"I long to read them! Bring them. The sooner the better. I love plays and I love the theater, and though my criticisms may not be valuable, you shall have them. I often wish Judy had gone on the stage. She has the looks and she has talent, too. But of course it would have killed her parents."
It was then that he took the plunge. She had felt for some time that he was preparing to take it.
"Miss Pendleton," he said, "is the only woman I have ever met who has made me wish I were a rich man—or a successful man. Not that she would consider me if I were."
"I'm beginning to think you're human!" cried Madame Claire. "The stage; and now you're in love with Judy. I'm delighted, Major Crosby! Delighted. Now we have two excellent diversions for you. Plays, and love."
​Her old eyes twinkled.
"But I've no talent for either."
"Oh, let some one else judge of that! Let Judy judge."
He looked somewhat confused.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have said what I did."
"Why not? I sha'n't give you away."
"If I had any prospects at all . . ."
"It's amazing," she interrupted, "how strong and how weak men can be! There's my son Eric, for instance. A born fighter. In war, in politics, no compromise. But in love—in love he has the courage of a . . . of a schoolgirl. If he had only managed his wife! What he needs is a course in nettle-grasping. And so do you, Major Crosby."
"But I don't think for a minute that Miss Pendleton——"
He paused, hoping, she saw, that she would help him out.
"That Miss Pendleton is interested?"
"Oh, interested . . . she might be, just a little, out of the kindness of her heart."
"Major Crosby, let me tell you that women are only kind when it gives them pleasure to be kind. A woman will rarely put herself out, I'm afraid, for a man who bores her."
​"But even if she were—interested—even if she did think twice about me, which I find it very difficult to believe, I've nothing whatever to offer her."
"You mean you can't offer her money."
"That's only one of the things I haven't got."
He stood in front of the fire again, as if to give himself the advantage of higher ground. He wanted to be convincing even while he hoped to be convinced.
"All I ask you to do," said Madame Claire, "is, for your own sake, to give yourself a chance. There are obstacles, admittedly, but don't begin by throwing up earthworks as well. Don't make obstacles. Mind you, I'm not encouraging you. I only know that Judy likes you more than she likes most people. Beyond that I'm completely in the dark. Yes, Dawson?"
"Please, m'lady," said Dawson from the doorway, "can you see Miss Connie?"
"Yes. Ask her to come in. No, don't go, Major Crosby. You've met my daughter, Countess Chiozzi."
"I must go," he said, holding out his hand. "But I'd like to come again soon, if I may."
"If you don't," she said, smiling up at him, ​"I shall think I have lectured you too much. And the plays—don't forget them!"
He exchanged a few words with Connie as he passed her in the hall, and she was graciously polite to him. She never forgot for an instant, in the presence of a man, that she was a charming woman. After she had kissed her mother, however, she felt that a remonstrance was justifiable.
"Mother, you're not encouraging that man, I hope?"
"No, Connie, my dear, I assure you I'm not. I think that the difference in our ages is really too great."
"Oh, mother! I meant for Judy, of course."
"Ah! But before I answer that, let me tell you of something Eric and I thought of a few days ago. Something to do with you."
Before Connie had left her, an hour later, she had agreed to give up her rooms at the hotel as soon as Noel went to Germany, and go and keep house for Eric.
She had been wondering how she was going to bear her life after Noel left, she said.
"If Eric really wants me, of course I'll go. I'm not a very good housekeeper, I'm afraid. I'm so out of practice."
"It will be a change for him," Madame Claire ​told her. "Louise is rather too good. She fusses. And besides, Eric won't be difficult. He has very simple tastes."
"I think," said Connie, "that from what I've heard, I shall be a better hostess than his wife has been."
"I'm convinced of it," answered Madame Claire.
When Connie had gone, she telephoned at once to Eric, to tell him what she had done.
"It's so obviously the best thing all round," he agreed, "that I simply never thought of it. If it suits Connie, it suits me."
"It suits Connie very well. But of course you'll say nothing to Louise. It will be time enough for her to know when she's settled comfortably at Mistley."