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Page 39
Sir Richard, as I have said, appeared to be an attentive and
appreciative listener, not above smiling at our mildest sallies; but,
watching him out of the corner of an eye, I noticed that my own
observations seemed to strike him with peculiar force--which led me to
talk _at_ him. Why not to him, with him? The interest was reciprocal;
he would have liked a dialogue; he would have welcomed a chance to
commence one; and I could at any instant have given him such a chance.
I talked _at_ him, it is true; but I talked _with_ Flaherty or Miss
Hicks, or _to_ the company at large. Of his separate identity he had
no reason to believe me conscious. From a mixture of motives, in which
I'm not sure that a certain heathenish enjoyment of his embarrassment
didn't count for something, I was determined that if he wanted to know
me he must come the whole distance; I wouldn't meet him half-way. Of
course I had no idea that it could be a matter of the faintest real
importance to the man. I judged his feelings by my own; and though I
was interested in him, I shall have conveyed an altogether exaggerated
notion of my interest if you fancy it kept me awake at night. How was
I to guess that _his_ case was more serious--that he was not simply
desirous of a little amusing talk, but starving, starving for a little
human sympathy, a little brotherly love and comradeship?--that he was
in an abnormally sensitive condition of mind, where mere negative
unresponsiveness could hurt him like a slight or a rebuff?
In the course of the week I ran over to Pau, to pass a day with the
Winchfields, who had a villa there. When I came back I brought with me
all that they (who knew everybody) could tell about Sir Richard
Maistre. He was intelligent and amiable, but the shyest of shy men. He
avoided general society, frightened away perhaps by the British Mamma,
and spent a good part of each year abroad, wandering rather listlessly
from town to town. Though young and rich, he was neither fast nor
ambitious: the Members' entrance to the House of Commons, the
stage-doors of the music halls, were equally without glamour for him;
and if he was a Justice of the Peace and a Deputy Lieutenant, he had
become so through the tacit operation of his stake in the country. He
had chambers in St. James's Street, was a member of the Travellers
Club, and played the violin--for an amateur rather well. His brother,
Mortimer Maistre, was in diplomacy--at Rio Janeiro or somewhere. His
sister had married an Australian, and lived in Melbourne.
At the H�tel d'Angleterre I found his shyness was mistaken for
indifference. He was civil to everybody, but intimate with none. He
attached himself to no party, paired off with no individuals. He
sought nobody. On the other hand, the persons who went out of their
way to seek him, came back, as they felt, repulsed. He had been
polite, but languid. These, however, were not the sort of persons he
would be likely to care for. There prevailed a general conception of
him as cold, unsociable. He certainly walked about a good deal
alone--you met him on the sands, on the cliffs, in the stiff little
streets, rambling aimlessly, seldom with a companion. But to me it was
patent that he played the solitary from necessity, not from
choice--from the necessity of his temperament. A companion was
precisely that which above all things his heart coveted; only he
didn't know how to set about annexing one. If he sought nobody, it was
because he didn't know how. This was a part of what his eyes said;
they bespoke his desire, his perplexity, his lack of nerve. Of the
people who put themselves out to seek him, there was Miss Hicks; there
were a family from Leeds, named Bunn, a father, mother, son, and two
redoubtable daughters, who drank champagne with every meal, dressed in
the height of fashion, said their say at the tops of their voices, and
were understood to be auctioneers; a family from Bayswater named
Krausskopf. I was among those whom he had marked as men he would like
to fraternise with. As often as our paths crossed, his eyes told me
that he longed to stop and speak, and continue the promenade abreast.
I was under the control of a demon of mischief; I took a malicious
pleasure in eluding and baffling him--in passing on with a nod. It had
become a kind of game; I was curious to see whether he would ever
develop sufficient hardihood to take the bull by the horns. After
all, from a conventional point of view, my conduct was quite
justifiable. I always meant to do better by him next time, and then I
always deferred it to the next. But, from a conventional point of
view, my conduct was quite unassailable. I said this to myself when I
had momentary qualms of conscience. Now, rather late in the day, it
strikes me that the conventional point of view should have been
re-adjusted to the special case. I should have allowed for his
personal equation.
My cousin Wilford came to Biarritz about this time, stopping for a
week, on his way home from a tour in Spain. I couldn't find a room for
him at the H�tel d'Angleterre, so he put up at a rival hostelry over
the way; but he dined with me on the evening of his arrival, a place
being made for him between mine and Monsieur's. He hadn't been at the
table five minutes before the rumour went abroad who he was--somebody
had recognised him. Then those who were within reach of his voice
listened with all their ears--Colonel Escott, Flaherty, Maistre, and
Miss Hicks, of course, who even called him by name: 'Oh, Mr.
Wilford,' 'Now, Mr. Wilford,' &c. After dinner, in the smoking-room,
a cluster of people hung round us; men with whom I had no acquaintance
came merrily up and asked to be introduced. Colonel Escott and
Flaherty joined us. At the outskirts of the group I beheld Sir Richard
Maistre. His eyes (without his realising it perhaps) begged me to
invite him, to present him; and I affected not to understand! This is
one of the little things I find hardest to forgive myself. My whole
behaviour towards the young man is now a subject of self-reproach; if
it had been different, who knows that the tragedy of yesterday would
ever have happened? If I had answered his timid overtures, walked with
him, talked with him, cultivated his friendship, given him mine,
established a kindly human relation with him, I can't help feeling
that he might not have got to such a desperate pass, that I might have
cheered him, helped him, saved him. I feel it especially when I think
of Wilford. His eyes attested so much; he would have enjoyed meeting
him so keenly. No doubt he was already fond of the man, had loved him
through his books, like so many others. If I had introduced him? If
we had taken him with us the next morning on our excursion to Cambo?
Included him occasionally in our smokes and parleys?
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