# The Story of a Mazurka

Extracted from English Illustrated magazine, v. 11, Nov. 1893, pp. 111-121. Accompanying illustrations by Gordon Browne may be omitted.
THE STORY OF A MAZURKA.
By E. F. BENSON
Author of “Dodo”
MR. TRIPPLE’S powers as a lawn-tennis player could not be considered of a very high order, but he had a certain capacity for contriving to send the ball back over the net, which made him a more formidable opponent than he appeared. Again, when the ball was returned to him in a far corner of the court, though the spectators could not be expected to admire the dash, the flicking back-hand stroke, which sometimes converts defence into attack, yet the more attentive of them would observe that Mr. Tripple’s shuffling run, combined with a slow painful scoop of his racquet, usually resulted in the ball pitching somewhere in his adversary’s court.
On this particular afternoon his methods were, if anything, more marked than usual. He more frequently tied himself into knots, and used his racquet as a landing net or a brick wall, as the exigencies of the stroke demanded, than he was accustomed to do. His slow twisting services, preceded by no ambitious fault, smashed into the net, were more wearisome than usual; the ball positively seemed to fall asleep after leaving his racquet, and to wake up when it reached the service court with a peculiar drowsiness. Mr. Tripple was in fact playing his very best, and his opponent, whose play was of the rather brilliant and most unreliable order, was beginning to lose his temper and find misgivings.
Mr. Tripple. had just won the fourth game of the second set, which gave him a lead of two games, after a protracted defence which had ended in his opponent sending the ball out of court, and he took off his spectacles and wiped them. Northwards of the courts the lawn sloped quickly up to a small club-house, where several players, men and women, were chatting together. Two tournaments—a gentlemen’s single and a mixed double—were in progress, but just now the game in which Mr. Tripple was engaged was the only match going on; for it was noticed that any single in which Mr. Tripple was playing always lasted longer than any other single.
A girl was standing a little apart from the others, eating strawberries.
“Well, Mr. Tripple,” she said, “did you win?”
Mr. Tripple was very short-sighted without his spectacles, and he peered about to see who had spoken to him.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon, Miss Brockhurst,” he said politely, “but I didn’t see who you were. Yes, I had the pleasure of winning the last game.”
“How far have you got?”
“Mr. Amherst won the first set,” said Mr. Tripple, “and I have secured three games to one in the second.”
“Goodness, we shall never finish! It’s half-past four already, and there are three ties of the double to be played.”
“I’m afraid we’re keeping the doubles waiting,” said Mr. Tripple, apologetically, “it is very unfortunate.”
“Grace, what are we to do?” said Miss Brockhurst, “Mr. Tripple is only in the middle of the second set.”
Grace Crookenden emerged from the summer-house. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“We shall never finish,” said Miss Brockhurst, dolefully. “It’ll be dark by seven, and to-day is positively the last possible day.”
Grace laughed.
“Put on your specs again, Tommy,” she said, “and I’ll manage it. Now it’s your service. Serve overhand and hard, and volley all you can. You’ll have to play quickly. I’m going to sit down by the net, and whenever I whistle it means you must hurry up.”
Whether it was the disturbing influence of Grace’s presence, or the constant apprehension of hearing her whistle, I cannot say, but a marked change for the worse came over poor Mr. Tripple’s play. Some balls he failed to reach, some he sent into the net; in fact, his subsequent exhibition resembled a show of damp fireworks, some of which fizzled and would not go off, while others shot high into the air; and the set, and with it the match, was speedily finished.
Grace, perhaps, had some inkling of what had happened, for when it was over she took his arm, and they walked back together to the summer-house.
“Poor old boy,” she said, “I didn’t flurry you, did I?”
Mr.Tripple wiped his large high forehead. “Oh, it’s of no consequence, dear,” he said. “I think perhaps if I had played a little slower, a little more carefully, I might have done better. But it’s of no consequence at all.”
Mr. Amherst lit a cigarette and offered one to Mr. Tripple.
“We had a very good match,” he said, magnanimously. “’Pon my word, I thought I was going to be beaten, but you see the pace told eventually. Always force a game, that’s my motto.”
“Thanks, I never smoke,” said Mr.Tripple. “Yes, I’m afraid I’m a very slow player. You were quite too much for me.”
“A pleasant, unaffected fellow,” thought Mr. Amherst.
The mixed doubles were set going at once, and Mr. Tripple was barely allowed time to drink a cup of tea before he was hurried off. Grace Crookenden and Mr. Amherst had been beaten earlier in the afternoon, and she proposed that they should take two chairs down to the further court in order to watch the game.
“We are so sorry to be leaving,” said he. “Our stay here has been so pleasant to us all.”
Grace paused.
“You should just come here in November or February, then,” she said. “See if you’d be sorry to leave then. It snows, and it it doesn’t snow it rains, and we go walks—walks, think of that—along dirty roads for the sake of our digestions. Doesn’t it sound exciting? And in the evening we play halma. If any one begins to play halma for money we shall stop playing it—at least we never play whist because other people play it for money. And on Sunday we sing hymns in the drawing-room, and look at sketches of the Holy Land. That’s so interesting. The Holy Land will drive me to the dogs if they don’t take care.”
“I shall certainly come here again in November,” said Amherst gravely. “I’m sure I should enjoy it. But why do you look at sketches of the Holy Land? Why don’t you shut them up and read a novel?”
“Ah, you don’t know,” said Grace. “You have to do it. I can’t think what would happen if I didn’t look at that old portfolio. At least, I do know what would happen really. My aunt would look at me through her spectacles in silence and then perhaps she would cry a little. The sketches are by my father, whom I never knew, but she was very fond of him. I should as soon think of not going to church.”
“And does the same thing apply to the walks?” asked Mr. Amherst.
“Not quite; but it would be equally impossible to transgress, though on lower grounds.”
“And do you always propose living here?” asked Mr. Amherst.
“Oh dear yes,” said Grace mournfully, “for ever and ever; and when I die I shall be buried in the churchyard here. Oh, it makes me furious. I should like to take out all the coffins of people who have lived and died here, and just give them a drive through London. Poor dears! How bewildered they would be!”
“The coffins?”
“Don’t be silly, Mr. Amherst. You know what I mean.”
“But might not marriage take you away from here?”
“No, how could it?” said Grace. “Tommy Tripple—isn’t it a silly little name—dear old thing, he’s got his business here, and here we stick. Besides, he would never leave the church where he sings tenor on Sundays.”
“Are you engaged to him? I didn’t know,” said Mr. Amherst, whose good breeding forbade him to lay the stress on “him,” which he felt that pronoun demanded.
“How odd you shouldn’t have known! Good gracious, we don’t call young men by their Christian names in Applethorpe unless we’re engaged to them, or are their cousins! I suppose that’s quite behind the times, too, isn’t it?” she added, not without a touch of malice.
“I really never thought about it,” said he, looking at her.
Grace’s hat had fallen off, and she made an admirable picture sitting on the bank, with her hair blowing about, and the least hint of amusement in her mouth. But presently she frowned and turned away with a little sigh.
“What’s that sigh for?” asked he.
“Oh, Applethorpe in general. You know we are very grateful, really, to all of you for waking us up this summer. And I really am quite sorry you are going.”
“May I claim a little bit of that sigh for myself, then?”
“Oh, yes, if you like. But it was for Applethorpe mainly. I want to take the whole town and shake it. They are all right really, but they do want shaking. They want to be shown that there is no harm in doing all the things I want to do. The place is all right and the people are all right, but they will not see that we are not all middle-aged yet. The middle-aged people tell us all what to do. Ah! I long to be middle-aged! Won’t I wake them up!”
“Would it wake them up to have a dance?” asked Mr. Amherst. “I wanted to consult you about it. My sister and I mean to give a dance next week if any one will come.”
“Oh, how delicious!” said Grace; “of course they’ll come when any one starts them. It’s only when they are left to themselves that they become so stupid. What a good idea!”
II.
It is perhaps unnecessary to state that Mr. Amherst’s suggestion about the dance was purely unpremeditated, and was inspired entirely by the sight of Grace Crookenden, who looked so astonishingly pretty as she sat by him on the lawn. There was something positively distracting about her beauty, because it was so hard to say exactly why she was so beautiful. He had even a moment’s sudden gamboling of the heart when she turned to him and said: “Oh, how delicious”; he felt a quite unexpected pleasure in giving her pleasure. Her account of the way Applethorpe spent November was invested with that pathetic plaintiveness which a lively young kitten assumes when it wants to be played with and can find no one to play with. Above all the idea that she was going to spend her life with the weak-eyed Tripple was intensely repugnant to him. It really was a pure waste. There were plenty of good and charming girls who would give the worthy Tripple all his heart could desire, whereas he felt quite sure that her peculiar charm would be quite thrown away on him. It was like using a bottle of ’64 port over a jugged hare. He was something of a connoisseur, and such a fate seemed to him, artistically speaking, a positive crime. But to say that during the month that he had stayed at Applethorpe he had fallen in love with this distracting piece of maidenhood would be misleading. He found her interesting, amusing, all the more so from the extreme sobriety of her setting; and, as he expressed it, he wished to let things take their course—in other words, the need of flirting with her was becoming imperative. On the other hand, it must not be supposed that he belonged to that class of young men who feel it a distinct advantage in a house if the housemaids are good-looking. Such a thing seemed to Gerald Amherst an unpardonable vulgarity; but when in the person of a pretty girl who by birth and education was his equal, he found interest and amusement, he felt disposed to cultivate her acquaintance.
His married sister, Mrs. Falconhurst, and her husband had decided to spend August at a house they owned near Applethorpe, and Amherst had been persuaded without much difficulty to join them. Financial considerations had compelled Mr. Falconhurst to let his small moor in Yorkshire, and it seemed a pleasant way of economising to live at Applethorpe, where, as he said, “you couldn’t spend any money if you tried.” But the place did not suit his wife, and the two months they had decided to spend there had been shortened into one, and they were to leave within a week.
On coming down to dinner Amherst found his sister and brother-in-law waiting for him in the drawing-room, and he apologised for being late.
“Oh, we won’t be hard on you, Gerald,” said she, “we all know that there is a greater attraction in the town than we can give you here.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gerald, taking her in.
“Oh, Mrs. Sibthorp has been here this afternoon,” said she, “and she told us all about it. What is Gretchen’s name? I forget.”
“I can’t conceive what you are talking about,” said Gerald, arranging his cuff, and speaking without a trace of annoyance.
“It’s really quite amusing,” said the lady. “I have more than half a mind to stop here and see the play out. I hear the girl is engaged too, to a Mr. Tripe, or Trip, or something.”
“Oh, now I see,” said Gerald calmly. “Yes, Miss Crookenden is the most charming girl. I had a long talk.with her to-day, and she described her life here in November; it really was quite amusing. By the way, I threw out a hint about giving a dance, just a little one you know. I think you said something about it the other day, didn’t you? and it appears that a dance will put the coping-stone on our perfections.”
[Illustration: “I DON’T THINK I CAN DANCE.”]
“One might do worse,” said Mrs. Falconhurst. “What do you say, Jack?”
“My dear, you may give a concert and a dinner party as well if you don’t bother me to make myself amusing or pleasant.”
“Dear old Jack,” murmured his wife appreciatively. “You may sit and smoke cigars in the billiard-room all the time if you like. When is it to be, Gerald?”
“It had better be the night before you go,” said he. “You will leave the servants here to clear up in any case, I suppose, as you are going to stay about for September, and that will give the people longer notice.”
“Yes, let’s have a small and early. We don’t want a crush; just twelve or thirteen couples; the hall floor is quite perfect. You’ll like a dance won’t you, Jack?”
“I shall prefer the other arrangements you made for me,” said Jack stolidly.
Meanwhile Grace Crookenden was announcing the fact of the ball to her aunt and Mr. Tripple, who was dining with them. Her aunt was rather deaf, and she had to speak loud.
“Aunt, dear,” she said, “the Falconhursts are going to give a dance next week before they go. Mr. Amherst told me. Tommy, you’ll have to come and practise your steps. You’re such an ignorant little gentleman. And if those are the best pumps you’ve got, why you must just get some new ones.”
They had finished dinner, and Mr. Tripple was standing on the hearthrug in the drawing-room, which, being of garish colours, showed off his large flat foot to much advantage.
“I don’t think I can dance,” said he, “except perhaps a quadrille or Sir Roger.”
“Good gracious,what an awful thing!” said Grace. “You’ll have to learn at once. I’m not going to let the Falconhursts think we are absolute dolts. Do you like Mr. Amherst?” she asked suddenly.
“I don’t think I do,” said Tripple.
“Now, Tommy, that shows you have a little, little mind. He is very charming, one of the most charming people I have ever seen. Say that after me.”
Mr. Tripple obeyed meekly.
“That’s two things you’ve got to do—to learn to dance, and to learn to like Mr. Amherst. You must say to yourself every morning, ‘I like Mr. Amherst;’ and every evening, ‘I have liked Mr. Amherst.’ Then about the third day you can get on more intimate terms with him and say ‘I like Gerald Amherst’; and so on. You dislike him just because he beat you to-day. That’s not worthy of you, Tommy.”
“Mr. Amherst is a light-minded young man,” remarked her aunt. “I don’t approve of him.”
[Illustration: “I HAVE MORE THAN HALF A MIND TO STOP HERE AND SEE THE PLAY OUT.”]
“No, dear aunt,” said Grace in loud clear tones, “I didn’t think you would. You see you never like young men—except Tommy, of course—because you think they are all light-minded. But why do you think he is light-minded in particular?”
“And Mrs. Sibthorp told me she heard him swear the other day,” continued her aunt, who had not heard this last question. “He was playing billiards and dropped the ball on to his foot.”
“Well, dear, it must have been very annoying,” said Grace. “I’m sure I should swear if I was a man.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not,” said her aunt, closing the conversation with this brilliant repartee, and taking up the paper.
Mr. Tripple sang palpitating sentimental ballads in a somewhat fruity tenor voice by heart, and playing his own accompaniment. To-night he had got a new song of a rather different type, which was hardly sentimental at all, and never palpitated. Grace, who held her own views about sentiment and palpitation, seldom listened to his singing, which she thought weak, but this new song attracted her attention.
“What a beautiful thing,” she said, as Mr. Tripple finished rather throatily on the tenor F. “Whom is it by?”
“The words are by Swinburne,” said Mr. Tripple, “and——”
“Yes, I know the words, but whom is the music by?”
“I was just going to tell you,” said Mr. Tripple. “The music is by G. A., that is all it says.”
“Why, it must be——” began Grace, and then broke off, remembering with a sudden thrill of pleasure an evening she had spent at the Falconhursts, when Mr. Amherst had sung to them after dinner. She had heard two songs that night which reminded her of this one, and just as she was setting off home again she had asked Mrs. Falconhurst, who with Amherst had come into the hall to see her off, who the composer was. Amherst had answered her.
“They are both by Tom Robinson,” he said, as he shut her carriage door; and she heard a short laugh from Mrs. Falconhurst who was standing at the door.
She met Gerald Amherst next morning in the town, and with certainty at her back said to him,
“I heard another of Tom Robinson’s songs last night.”
“Did you like it?” he asked.
“Yes, immensely. Do you know Mr Robinson?”
“Yes, very well.”
“Please tell him how much I enjoyed it,” she said, and went on her way.
Gerald felt a sudden fresh admiration for her as he watched her graceful figure passing up the street, turning once to smile at him as she went into a shop. Most girls would have said, “Oh, Mr. Amherst, I know who Tom Robinson is!” And he felt that this trivial bit of finesse pleased him in a way which was unaccountable except that it was all part of the really admirable Grace Crookenden.
Later in the day returning home, she found a rolled parcel waiting for her in the hall, and the certainty of what it contained made her smile as she opened it. On the outer leaf of the three songs there was just written, “From Tom Robinson”; and an attentive observer might have noticed that her pleasure showed itself not only in a smile, but in a blush.
III.
The inner hall at the Falconhursts’ house on the night of the dance certainly afforded an ample commentary to Mrs. Falconhurst’s pleased satisfaction as she went in to look at it after dinner. The floor was admirable, and a piano and two violins of quite average merit were entirely hidden behind the most charming bank of flowers at the further end. The night was warm without being sultry, and the beautiful terraced walk in front of the windows was really made for an occasion like this. The dance was rather larger than she had originally intended, for the Charvendens, who lived in the neighbourhood, were entertaining a houseful for the Crosscliff week, and Lady Charvenden had announced that her party would consist of at least twelve. Moreover, Mrs. Falconhurst knew very well that she had a genius for things of this kind; people always enjoyed themselves at her house; there were always enough ices; there were never any formalities; and her husband, who, to do him justice, was an admirable host and a perfect dancer, had changed his mind when he heard the Charvendens were coming, and had granted orchids, enough from the houses to satisfy even his wife.
It was also part, perhaps, of Mrs. Falconhurst’s genius that her guests happened on this night not to come straggling in at intervals, but in a compact quarter of an hour, so that there was no preliminary hanging about and racking of empty brains which desired to dance; and before half-past ten Lady Charvenden sailed into the room, towing behind her a large number of irreproachable young men and well-dressed young women. Grace Crookenden and her aunt came rather later with Mr. Tripple, who had on a new pair of pumps which pinched him terribly.
[Illustration: “AH, AT LAST,” HE SAID.]
Gerald Amherst had been somewhat inattentive to what went on round him, for he had been watching for her arrival, and in a very few moments he had made his way across the room to where she was standing with that brilliant natural smile on her face which became her so well.
“Ah, at last,” he said, almost involuntarily.
She looked up, startled for a moment, but well pleased to dance with him, and they made the circuit of the room twice before either spoke.
“I knew that you would dance well,” he said at length.
“That was very clever of you.”
“Not in the least, it was very easy to see that dancing was part of your mission.”
“You seem to have taken my measure with great accuracy.”
“I hope I may have opportunities of taking it with much greater accuracy.”
Grace did not entirely like a certain tone the conversation was assuming, but she laughed.
“By coming back in November, as you said the other day?”
“That would be one way.”
This time she frowned.
“Let us stop a moment,” she said; “I am rather giddy.”
He stopped instantly, and led her to a seat.
“Why did you say you were giddy?” he asked; “you weren’t giddy, you know.”
“Of course I wasn’t giddy,” she said; “but that did as well.”
“As well as what?”
There is something intoxicating in dancing, especially to those who do not dance often; the irresistible lilt of the music, the flash of fair forms, the whirling banks of flowers—all produce a certain sense of irresponsibility, a feeling that one may speak more freely than at other times; that in that perfect harmony of body moving rhythmically with body there is produced a legitimate cancelling of body on both sides, and the connection of one mind with the other becomes correspondingly closer. Stated in a less abstract form, it is worth notice that a large number of secrets are always told at dances, under the strictest confidence, and that young men often ask vital questions on these occasions.
“As well as what?” he repeated, finding he got no answer.
“As well as reminding you that we are comparative strangers.”
“Isn’t that rather a hard saying?” he asked.
“No, not at all,” she said hurriedly. “Come, I have got over my giddiness.”
“Ah, I am glad of that. I hoped you would.”
They waltzed on for a few moments in silence, and then Gerald was startled by hearing a low amused laugh from his partner.
“Giddy again?” he asked.
“No, I was only thinking what dreadful nonsense we’ve been talking, and how badly I do it. No one ever talks nonsense at Applethorpe, and I am out of practise. Ah, it’s over, is it?”
“There are other dances to come,” he said. “Next but two will be a waltz. May I——”
Grace bowed acquiescence, and was instantly claimed in a bashful, hesitating manner by Mr. Tripple for the next dance, which was a quadrille.
Gerald did not favour that gentleman by any sign of recognition, and resigned himself to Lady Charvenden. Grace pulled and pushed Tripple through a quadrille with less success than her strenuous efforts deserved; she felt somewhat preoccupied and her thoughts persistently strayed to the last dance, and to the next but one. This past month had really been almost exciting. The Applethorpe horizon had been extended; she felt like the duck who discovered that the world stretched to the end of the next field. But in a few days the old impassable paling would, so to speak, be put up again, and the next field would be as much out of reach as ever. She was looking at it practically for the last time, and then back to the old familiar poultry yard with its level dusty ground, and in the corner the little pond of somewhat green and stagnant water.
Mr. Amherst was a large part, she felt, of the next field; she was very sorry—or was it rather glad?—that he was shortly going to set like a star over the horizon. She was either very sorry or rather glad, and for the life of her she could not tell which.
He was not dancing the next dance, and as she waltzed round the room she twice passed him so close as he stood watching her that she felt her skirt rustle against him. Once she caught the faint smell of a gardenia with sudden distinctness in the scent-laden atmosphere, and looking back after she had passed she saw that he wore one in his buttonhole. She thought at the time how odd it was that she should have smelled it so distinctly; it was like a thin ray of light piercing the thick atmosphere of a general fog of flowers.
When the music stopped she found him standing near her, and he led her away.
“You would like an ice, or some cup,” he said.
“Yes, it is hot; I should like an ice very much.”
He found a place for her in the window-seat of an adjoining room, where several couples were cooling themselves, and went to get her an ice. When he returned he found the room entirely deserted except for Grace, who was sitting where he had left her, enjoying the cool breeze that came in from the open window.
“Don’t you find it too draughty here?” he asked.
“Oh, no; I like it.”
“Shall we take a turn on the terrace, then? It’s a lovely night.”
“Yes, that would be charming. Ah! there’s the music beginning again! I think I would rather dance if you don’t mind. Dancing is not so common here.”
She listened for a moment in perplexity.
“It’s not a waltz at all,” she said at last.
“No, it’s a mazurka. I ought to have told you. Don’t you dance it?”
“Yes—I mean no, I don’t.”
“Perhaps you would prefer a turn on the terrace then. I claim you till the dance is over.”
“Yes, let us go out.”
The terrace was quite empty. From within came the sound of the music, and figures kept passing the lighted squares of the windows as upon the sheet of a magic lantern.
The night was still and cloudless, but without a moon; from the east came the soft sound of the sea, like the rustle of one turning in his sleep; the countless little noises of night crept about them, and it seemed as if the earth was not sleeping but only lying still, waiting for something. To themselves they were in that vast immensity, the centre of things, lords of the earth and air.
There were a few chairs scattered about at intervals, and into one of these Grace threw herself with an air of slight fatigue. Gerald drew one up close to her and sat sideways observing her. The noise of the grating of a basket chair along gravel, even now, brings up to Grace the whole scene with an almost painful vividness. In the deep dusk her face was illuminated by the white sheen of her ball dress, and appeared almost as if it were giving out light. For some long moments neither of them spoke. Grace was struggling with a growing fear of herself and him, he with a growing desire.
At length his desire would be dumb no longer.
“I wonder if you are as sorry that I am going as I am to go?” he said.
The sound of his voice was exactly what Grace feared most. It had for her an extraordinary power, and she could not answer as lightly as she wished.
“Yes,” she said, “I really am very sorry, though I can’t pretend to gauge how sorry you are. You see you go on to fresh interests and amusements, and I—well, I don’t.”
“I am thinking of stopping here for a few days longer after my sister goes.”
Grace again could not decide whether she was glad or sorry. But she spoke naturally.
“That will be rather dull for you, will it not?”
“Not if you will say you are glad I remain.”
“Of course I am glad.”
“Won’t you leave out the ‘of course?’”
“Oh, yes, if you wish.”
She got up from her chair and stood looking out over the waiting earth; one hand played with her fan, the other hung limply down.
“Won’t you give me a word of encouragement?” he said, so low that she could hardly hear him. “Won’t you tell me I am right to wait?”
In a moment, as if by a flash of lightning, she saw where she was standing. She had wandered on and on as it were in the darkness, only hearing the pleasant murmur of his voice like the sound of some stream. But in that flash she saw she was on a dizzy rocky ledge overhanging a great wall of perpendicular rock, over which the pleasant stream plunged and was lost below.
She turned round on him suddenly.
“I think you have mistaken me altogether,” she said. “Will you please take me in and find Mr. Tripple? It is already late. I shall go home.”
[Illustration: “I THINK YOU HAVE MISTAKEN ME ALTOGETHER,” SHE SAID. “WILL YOU PLEASE TAKE ME IN AND FIND MR. TRIPPLE?”]
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1940, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 83 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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