# The Tattooed Countess/Chapter 10

Later that night, in her own chamber, while the Countess slowly divested herself of Monsieur Worth's creation, she felt strangely elated, exhilarated, exalted. As the bouffant tulle billowed in magenta waves about her feet she caught a glimpse of her happy face in the mirror over the bureau. Affecting Sanderson in Thaïs, she prayed to the glass, O, mon miroir fidele, dis-moi que je suis toujours belle,—que je serai belle éternellement;—que rien ne flétrira les roses de mes lèvres;—dis-moi que je suis belle et que je serai belle—éternellement! éternellement! Still smiling, she untied the strings of her corsets and removed them. Then, comfortable and silent, she stood in her filmy, ruffled and embroidered under-garments; silent, but not unsentient. A complicated maze of thought possessed her mind, dominated by a figure who awakened every pleasant emotion she was capable of experiencing. In the midst of this tender reverie her eye met the photograph of Tony on a donkey which, in its engraved silver frame, was a permanent adornment of her writing-table. Raising the picture in her hand, she gazed at it intently. Not to her surprise, perhaps, certainly not to her disap​pointment, she discovered that its magic had vanished. No further in the past than that very morning she had been unable to contemplate this trumpery paste-board without the tears flowing; now she found herself able to regard it with the utmost equanimity, even indifference. She was amused, indeed, now that this sordid adventure had lost whatever esoteric significance it had held for her to this point, to examine the face of this vulgar little cabot in the critical spirit. There was, she learned, nothing fresh about this face, in spite of Tony's youth; a kind of stupid sophistication, the sophistication of a bête paysan, lingered around the eyes; the mouth was soft and sensual, lacking in form or purpose; the nose too small; the ears too large. For the first time, she observed clearly that the boy's clothes were cut in a ridiculous outer-boulevard fashion, and that the pattern of the cloth seemed repulsively loud. This, then, she admitted, with a touch of cynicism unusual to her nature, was the paragon who had shared her bed for so many months, and had occupied her thoughts ever since. She shuddered, and perhaps a little ashamed, but at the same time quite calmly, without haste or rage, removing the photograph from its frame, she tore it into bits, which she scattered in the waste-paper-basket.
For a few seconds, possibly for the better part of a minute, the Countess Nattatorrini unlocked the secret chambers of her soul which she had kept ​locked for many years, in the manner, if report may be relied upon, of a person descending for the third time towards an ocean grave. Ruthlessly, she examined her past. She recognized, indeed, that what had happened was what had happened before in the case of Cyril, the young English boy whom she had met at Cannes in 1889, what had happened in the case of Fernand, the Frenchman of an unspeakable class, with whom she had made clandestine rendezvous by Bartholdi's copper lion in the Place Denfert-Rochereau, rendezvous which had resulted in the levying of blackmail. She recalled how one day the demanded banknotes had been returned to her in an unopened envelope and the detective she had engaged to solve the mystery had reported that Fernand, trapped in some other turpitude, had been sentenced to one of the French penal colonies for life. There was Perseo, the young bersagliere with whom she had passed a few days of exquisite pleasure at Verona. There was . . . Why, she asked herself, go on? It had always been the same. And she brutally reminded herself that in certain comprehending circles she had been dubbed the artichoke. At this point she closed'the portals of her memory.
She had been, she realized, younger when these other men had captured her attention; she had been more hopeful about the future when she lost them. After Tony there had risen no immediate diversion to quell the riots of outraged passion which had ​overwhelmed her. On these other occasions solace in the usual form had usually quickly offered itself. She sighed as she considered her weakness and for a moment she envied Tamara, that Georgian queen who lured her lovers to her palace in the mountains, where they danced, ate, drank, loved, and then were stabbed by the satiated monarch, who caused their bodies to be tossed into the roaring torrent beneath her window. Only for a brief space did she envy Tamara, for almost immediately it was apparent to her how much more satisfactory was her own manner of desire; her own love was so lasting, gave her pleasure for so many months; even the subsequent pain, the tragic metamorphosis to disillusion, was not an emotion to be lightly regarded. Sometimes, indeed, in retrospect, the Countess almost believed that it was the pain that gave her the most vital happiness; that it was for this that she seemed destined, realizing dimly what was always ahead of her, to interminably repeat the pattern. However that might be, she summed up the whole matter in a single phrase: what had happened, it came to her with an anticipatory thrill, both delicious and agonizing, both perturbed and undisturbed by the knowledge that this affair would assuredly end as the others had ended, was what had always happened, always would happen: she had again fallen in love. She weighed herself: her capacity for experiencing the amorous passion appeared to be immeasurable; she saw herself as a ​toothless hag, still pursuing some youthful phantom, searching satisfaction, always searching, and never completely finding. This was not alone her destiny but also, paradoxically, the secret of her involuntary persistence: she always hoped. There was, however, a curious confusion of bald clairvoyance and self-deception in her nature. Even as she reviewed her life she could not resist the belief that she had never really loved before.
An apparition, a few words: that was all. Always, that had been all that was necessary to inflame her, to send her staggering and spinning down the rough but exciting erotic highway. The thought made her tremble, made her see clearly, at the moment, what was inevitably ahead of her, her, already a middle-aged woman. Ah! tais-toi, voix impitoyable,—voix qui me dis: Thaïs, tu vieilliras! But, she consoled herself, it is my age which gives me my power, my knowledge of love. How much more I understand now than I did in my youth! It has been said that it is impossible for any actress to properly play Juliet until she is too old to look Juliet. This opinion corresponded exactly to the Countess's theory of love.
She regarded herself again in the mirror, this time more carefully, admiring her rounded hips, swelling beneath her chemise, the firm curve of her breasts, of which she had always been properly proud, the fine, bold carving of her shoulders, gleaming white in the bright illumination of her chamber; ​then, with considerably less assurance, she stole a glance at her face. Little puffs, pencilled with fine lines, had formed under her eyes, but the happiness in her heart, she knew, would soon drive these away, as it had before. O, she was happy!
Only an apparition and a few words, but what a handsome lad! How different from the others! He had thought of her; he had questioned her about herself. He was the first to do this (the first man, at least; she had not quite forgotten Lennie Colman) since she had arrived in Maple Valley. No one else; not one of her old friends or new acquaintances had seemed to be at all interested in her. They wanted her to flatter the town; they wanted to exploit her for their own glory. To think that here, in this God-forsaken hole full of stupid fools, she had experienced again the only emotion which was precious to her. To think that, in her impatience and despair, her utter hopelessness, she had been on the point of leaving this place and going away. She shivered as she considered what the consequences of this rash act might have been.
Drawing a dressing-gown over her shoulders, she extinguished the lights, applied a match to a cigarette, and sat down in front of the open window, drawing back the shutters to allow the summer breeze to play through the heavy, starched lacecurtains, which hung from a brass rod overhead and swept the carpet beneath. Had Mayme Townsend noticed anything? she wondered. The ​Countess knew her symptoms under the conditions of the first impact, knew how the colour flushed her forehead, how the light flashed in her eyes. She knew that for the remainder of the evening she had been a different person, chattering, laughing, with an almost insane gaiety. Yes, she must have seemed quite mad to these people, including her sister, who had never assisted at one of these scenes before. Lou, indeed, on the way home had appraised her strangely, a little disapprovingly, Ella thought, but had not ventured to make any comment.
The Countess reminded herself that in any case she did not care what happened amongst these provincials who had so much regard for surfaces, but who all wore hidden scars. I am tattooed on my arm while they are tattooed on their hearts, she realized with a smile. She did not care what they thought, what happened, because she could go away and take him with her. She recalled, with joy, that there were places in the world where they could live with freedom, do what they desired, where she could embrace Gareth with safety, hold him in her arms as long as it pleased her to do so. The world might smile, but elsewhere, away from Maple Valley and other towns like it, there would be no protestations of horror.
But Gareth? She had not, until now, taken into account his possible reactions to her plan. What manner of boy was he? Fresh, innocent of life, probably. He had grown up in the midst of this ​rabble and would know nothing. She could not approach him as she had so readily and simply approached the others. She must, she was aware, be more wary, await her opportunity, but this prospect, on reflection, did not altogether displease her. This experience would be novel, and the pleasure she would take in the foreseen outcome would give every second of the pursuit a kind of thrill, a ruddy, amorous glow.
She had, she remembered, managed to stammer out an invitation to call. Would he heed her request? Why, she wondered, had she not met him before? To what circle of local society could he belong? Had she, in these provincial eyes, broken another law? When she had asked him to come to see her she had noted amazement in Lou's expression, something a trifle stronger, perhaps, in Mayme Townsend's. Who was this youth? Why had she never encountered him before? Who were his father and mother? Johns? Had she met a Mrs. Johns? She could not recall the name.
The Countess peered out upon the lawn, silver and green in the moonlight. If only he might realize that she was waiting, the blood tingling in her veins, her heart pulsing, waiting like Juliet for him to appear in the orchard below. Gareth! she whispered softly. Gareth! she called more loudly, as loudly as she dared call, leaning far over the casement. There was no reply. A faint odour of honeysuckles was wafted to her nostrils; far in the ​still distance she heard the hoot of an owl; a bat sailed back and forth past the window. Sighing, she drew back into the room. Extinguishing her cigarette, she completed her disrobing, donned a filmy, rose night-dress, carefully chosen to fit her mood from a neat pile in her bureau drawer, and slipped into bed. That night the Countess Nattatorrini did not close her eyes.
In the morning the Countess descended the staircase, singing:
She wore a dress of pale, mauve lawn, all flounces and ruffles and shirrings, with a high collar of purple satin and Valenciennes lace. The aroma of heliotrope hovered about her hair. It was still early; Lou had not yet come downstairs, and the Countess went out to the garden, where she plucked a cluster of pink sweet-peas which she inserted in her purple satin waist-band. She had not fallen asleep during the entire night, and yet, for the first time since her arrival in Maple Valley, she felt refreshed. Her face radiated her happiness. She comprehended her destiny only too well: she knew that at best she might count on a few months of happiness, at worst on a few weeks, and she deter​mined to enjoy herself thoroughly during this period. In any event she would not go away from this delightful town, the most delightful, she was beginning to feel, that she had ever visited, unless it should so happen that she could persuade him to go too.
She returned to the breakfast-table, collecting the Morning Star on the way and, as she ate the richly flavoured, fresh raspberries, submerged in thick clots of cream from Lou's own Jersey cow, she propped the newspaper up against the coffee urn and read the account, extremely diverting she found it, of last night's entertainment. There was a long passage devoted to a description of her costume, characterized, of course, as "very fin de siècle"; there was a complete report of the address made by the Honourable Judge Porter; there was a long paragraph celebrating the "magnificent art of Clara Barnes, Maple Valley's gifted daughter, who is soon leaving, we understand, for Chicago, to study for Grand Opera"; and there was an interminable list of the notables present, which the Countess scanned meticulously three times before she assured herself that Gareth's name was not included in it.
While Ella was sipping her coffee and munching her crisp, buttered toast and her liver and bacon, Lou came in, appearing rather tired, the Countess thought.
Good morning, Ella, she said. How well you are looking! You must have had a good sleep. It ​was the longest time before I could get to sleep after all the excitement. That is a pretty dress, she added, as she sat down. I don't believe you've worn it here before.
The Countess was conscious of a new note in Lou's voice, a new sympathy in Lou's manner. It occurred to her to wonder if her own mood had created this illusion.
I'm feeling extraordinarily well, the Countess replied, and her tone was hearty and replete with veracity. It was a marvellous night, she added.
I should think so, commented Lou. What does the Star say?
O, there are columns.
Lou seized the paper and began to scan the pages, emitting, now and again, little chuckles of pleasure. I don't believe, she asserted, that any one else has ever been so honoured here before.
I'm really glad it's over. It was embarrassing, the Countess declared.
Lou leaned forward; her manner was warm, appealing.
Ella, she said, you do like it better here now, don't you? I watched you last night. You seemed to have changed; something seemed to have come over you.
Lou, you are keen. Last night, for some strange reason, I actually began to enjoy myself. . . . Not that you haven't been good to me. You've done everything you could . . . wonders, really, but ​there was . . . well, I don't know how to put it. . . . It was different, that's all, from the life I have been accustomed to. It was probably my fault. . . . Suddenly, she burst out: It's because of that boy, Lou; what was his name—the boy Lennie Colman brought to our box?
It was impossible for her to keep these words from passing her lips. She could not forgo the pleasure of hearing his name uttered again.
Gareth Johns!
Yes, that's it: Gareth Johns. Lou, he is the first person I've met since I've been here who has showed any interest in me. O, I love you, Lou, and it's nice to be home again, but I'm tired of the creatures asking me how I like the water-works and the new depot!
Lou appeared to be rather chagrined and a little puzzled.
You ought not to mind that, Ella, she said quietly, after a moment. I suppose, she added, it's really on account of their diffidence. They are shy with you. They don't know what to say.
The Countess was in no mood to continue this discussion. I don't mind, Lou, I don't mind at all, especially now, she hastened to explain.
Now that you've opened the subject, Ella, I can speak of something that would, perhaps, have been difficult otherwise: You asked him to call?
Yes.
But I scarcely know his mother, and isn't ​he rather young? I'm afraid people will talk.
Let them. I can't help it. I want to see him. He interests me. Surely nobody can talk merely because he calls. . . .
No, I suppose not, Lou replied, doubtfully, as she returned to her scansion of the newspaper.
What are you doing today, Lou? the Countess queried after a pause. I want to do every blessed thing you do today.
Why, usually . . . Lou sufficiently exhibited her astonishment.
I know. Usually, I go up to my room after breakfast to read Marcel Prevost or Anthony Hope or Edward Bellamy, but today I want to do everything you do!
This morning I'm going marketing . . .
I'm going with you!
And then to Babcock's for some denim. You know we are meeting the ladies at Mayme Townsend's this afternoon to sew for the Orphan's Home.
I'll go and sew. I'll make millions of garments for orphans!
A little later, the Countess returned from a trip to her room with a round straw toque, trimmed with violets, black feathers, and green ribbons, on her head.
I'm ready, she announced. Have you called William?
I thought we'd walk, Lou apologized. You know this is the day William mows the lawn.
​All right. I'd love to walk.
They started out in the bright sunglare of a very hot day. Ella held a lace parasol between herself and the burning rays.
Good morning, ladies.
Good morning, Mrs. Baker; Lou addressed her prim neighbour, whom they had encountered on the walk.
That awful woman! the Countess commented. But I don't hate even her today.
They passed two or three boys on bicycles, who doffed their caps; and then a woman on a bicycle, wearing bloomers.
You see, Ella, Lou remarked, with one of her infrequent, feeble attempts at humour, we have the new woman here, too. I don't think bloomers are very fin de siècle, do you? Woman's greatest charm—she was perfectly serious now—is her dignity, and no woman outside long skirts is dignified.
I agree with you, the Countess responded heartily. I like dresses with long trains, the longer the better. I wish they were wearing them longer now. The present Paris fashions decree that robes shall just touch the ground, and that is all.
Now they were passing the double-house sheltering Mrs. Bierbauer and Mrs. Fox. As usual, those two females were rocking backwards and forwards on their porches.
Who are those ridiculous women, Lou? Ella ​queried. They're always there, rocking, rocking. . . .
That's all I know about them, Ella, Lou replied, except that it seems as if they'd always been there. I can't remember when they weren't. I don't know them. Nobody knows them. Their husbands are travelling salesmen, I think I've heard.
There is something about them that is very weird, Lou went on, but I don't know what it is. I suppose it's their permanence. They're always rocking, and one's so fat and the other's so thin. Ugh! They give me the creeps!
They crossed the tracks and entered the business section of the town, listless, dull, lazy-appearing in the morning. A few farmers' wagons stood by the kerbs, their horses hitched by halters to iron rings stapled in stone posts; a few ladies were abroad in search of food-stuffs or dress-goods; a few boys were attending to chores for their parents or employers. Presently, Lou and Ella entered the grocery store of William Ives.
The proprietor, a little man, nearly bald, with a boil on the back of his neck, bustled up to them. He was clad in a long, clean, white apron.
Good morning, ladies, he beamed, in an almost falsetto voice, and what can I do for you, this morning? The raspberries is very nice. Fresh peas has just come in.
Lou permitted a mess of wax-beans to slip through her fingers.
Give me three quarts of these.
​Ella noted how much more professional Lou seemed, how much more at home she was, in this environment than elsewhere, like a painter who talked stupidly enough in society, but who became a great personage when one saw him at work before his canvas.
Yes, Miss Poore. Mr. Ives wrote the order on a pad that he carried.
Eight pounds of butter.
Yes, Miss Poore.
Five pounds of coffee. You know, mocha and java mixed.
Yes, Miss Poore.
At this point Clara Barnes entered the's store.
O, Countess! Miss Poore! I'm so glad to see you, the girl exclaimed. Last night was quite a success.
You helped to make it so, was the Countess's kind response.
I did what I could. I'm always glad to sing for charity, or . . . she went on rapidly . . . for a cause like this. When I am a grand opera singer I shall always be delighted to donate my services to help others. But that Faust aria! It's so difficult. Do you suppose any one here knows that? No, to them it's just another ballad. You know it. You must have heard Faust (the whole opera, I mean) some time or other in Paris, but in Maple Valley they don't care for classical music, especially in foreign languages. They like songs like I don't ​want to play in your yard better. Why, Dr. Sinclair always asks me to sing After the ball, that old chestnut! It's just years old, but he likes it and I do it for him, though I much prefer to sing classical music like Tosti, or O, promise me, which I sing in the soprano key (you know it was written originally for Jessie Bartlett Davis).
Your voice is charming, the Countess found opportunity to say, and I hope you will make a great success.
. . . . ten pounds of granulated sugar, two pounds of pulverized sugar . . .
Yes, Miss Poore.
What kind of greens have you?
I'd like to sing for you, some day, just for you, Clara announced to the Countess. Could I bring some music to the house?
I'd love to have you, the Countess replied.
The beets is very nice, Miss Poore, the grocer cajoled in his treble pitch.
No, I don't want any beets. I guess that'll be all. O, no, I forgot the corn-meal. I want to have fried mush for breakfast tomorrow.
Yes, Miss Poore. How much?
Good morning, Clara.
Good morning, Miss Poore.
Good morning, Miss Barnes.
Good morning, Countess. Will you wait on me now, please, Mr. Ives.
​The ladies visited the butcher, where pork tenderloins, bacon, and a leg of lamb were purchased; then, at the dry-goods store, they sought out yards of denim, to be cut into uniforms for orphan children.
After dinner, about twelve-thirty, in the extreme heat of the day, the sisters retired to their respective rooms for naps. Ella, at last, found that she could relax. She had taken a book with her to bed to pass the time if she were unable to sleep, but this quickly dropped from her hands. Murmuring a hallowed name to herself, she fell into a deep, refreshing slumber.
At four o'clock the ladies began to gather in Mayme Townsend's big living-room, under the portrait of her father, who had fought as a Colonel in the Civil War, and had been painted in his uniform by some contemporary artist. The ladies were soon encircled by rows of work-baskets and yards and yards of blue denim, which they cut and basted, while Mrs. Sinclair at the sewing-machine swiftly joined the seams.
Did you enjoy yourself last night? Mayme Townsend demanded of the Countess.
Immensely, was Ella's reply.
I could have killed old Judge Porter. He wants to get on the school-board and he used the occasion to launch his boom.
​O, I didn't mind that. I rather enjoyed his speech.
Mayme, I haven't any scissors, Mrs. Munger complained.
I'll find you a pair.
As Mrs. Townsend left the room, Effie Chase leaned forward in a confidential manner, first casting a glance towards Mrs. Sinclair's back. The machine was humming.
Edith pays no attention to anything. The doctor's behaving outrageously. I wonder if we ought to tell her.
Certainly not, Effie, it's not our business.
But, Ella, she ought to know. Everybody else knows.
She may prefer not to know.
I wonder Mayme doesn't take Sarah in hand. You notice she's not here today. I'll bet she's with the doctor this very minute.
Mayme Townsend came back into the room. I wonder, she began, if there's going to be war with Spain. Edward thinks there will be. McKinley is doing his best to avoid it, but we can't overlook another insult. That Ruiz murder . . .
Hard times . . . there's almost a panic . . . Alfreda Mitchell's mouth was full of pins.
Pass me the scissors. Thank you. If the corn crop is good . . .
The new tariff . . . McKinley . . .
​Joe saw Fred Baker in Chicago last week. He was sitting at a table in the Auditorium, drinking beer!
Beer! Was he alone?
Joe just won't tell me!
I wonder if any one from here is going up to the Klondike. They say it's rich with gold . . .
My new cook makes the best Boston brown bread . . .
I'd like to get the recipe.
These remarks and more of the same order fell like a dead burdening on the ear of the Countess. The lively, insistent imp, who really held her attention, sang one name to her constantly: Gareth! Gareth! Gareth! At every reiteration she vibrated with pleasure, and, when some one asked her a question, she was obliged to hesitate for a moment to clear her mind of the name, temporarily, before she replied.
It was half after six before the ladies folded up their work, put on their hats, and began to make their farewell speeches. It was nearly seven before Lou and Ella entered the doorway of their home.
I wonder if any one has called, Lou speculated, glancing at the silver card-tray which always stood on a table near the vestibule door. There were two new cards on the tray. She held the first to her near-sighted eyes, reading aloud, Mrs. Ray ​Cameron. The second, after examination, she passed, without a word, to her sister.
The Countess trembled with regret, with rage, with excitement, with impatience, and yet with pleasure, as she read the name of Gareth Johns on the paste-board.