No More Parades by Ford Madox Ford (top 10 books to read TXT) 📕

find waiters and people to understand his French, she herself was going to leave him for good. They did not, in consequence, get away from the air-resort until the six o’clock train next morning. Perowne’s passion of rage and despair at the news that she wished to leave him took an inconvenient form, for instead of announcing any intention of committing suicide, as might have been expected, he became gloomily and fantastically murderous. He said that unless Sylvia swore on a little relic of St. Anthony she carried that she had no intention of leaving him he would incontinently kill her. He said, as he said for the rest of his days, that she had ruined his life and caused great moral deterioration in himself. But for her he might have married some pure young thing. Moreover, influencing him against his mother’s doctrines, she had forced him to drink wine, by an effect of pure scorn. Thus he had done harm, he was convinced, both to his health and to his manly proportions⁠ ⁠… It was indeed for Sylvia one of the most unbearable things about this man⁠—the way he took wine. With every glass he put to his lips he would exclaim with an unbearable titter some such imbecility as: “Here is another nail in my coffin.” And he had taken to wine, and even to stronger liquor, very well.

Sylvia had refused to swear by St. Anthony. She definitely was not going to introduce the saint into her amorous affairs, and she definitely was not going to take on any relic an oath that she meant to break at an early opportunity. There was such a thing as playing it too low down: there are dishonours to which death is preferable. So, getting hold of his revolver at a time when he was wringing his hands, she dropped it into the water-jug and then felt reasonably safe.

Perowne knew no French and next to nothing about France, but he had discovered that the French did nothing to you for killing a woman who intended to leave you. Sylvia, on the other hand, was pretty certain that, without a weapon, he could not do much to her. If she had had no other training at her very expensive school she had had so much drilling in calisthenics as to be singularly mistress of her limbs, and, in the interests of her beauty she had always kept herself very fit⁠ ⁠…

She said at last:

“Very well. We will go to Yssingueux-les-Pervenches⁠ ⁠…”

A rather pleasant French couple in the hotel had spoken of this little place in the extreme west of France as a lonely paradise, they having spent their honeymoon there⁠ ⁠… And Sylvia wanted a lonely paradise if there was going to be any scrapping before she got away from Perowne⁠ ⁠…

She had no hesitation as to what she was going to do: the long journey across half France by miserable trains had caused her an agony of homesickness! Nothing less!⁠ ⁠… It was a humiliating disease from which to suffer. But it was unavoidable, like mumps. You had to put up with it. Besides, she even found herself wanting to see her child, whom she imagined herself to hate, as having been the cause of all her misfortunes⁠ ⁠…

She therefore prepared, after great thought, a letter telling Tietjens that she intended to return to him. She made the letter as nearly as possible like one she would write announcing her return from a country house to which she should have been invited for an indefinite period, and she added some rather hard instructions about her maid, these being intended to remove from the letter any possible trace of emotion. She was certain that, if she showed any emotion at all, Christopher would never take her under his roof again⁠ ⁠… She was pretty certain that no gossip had been caused by her escapade. Major Thurston had been at the railway station when they had left, but they had not spoken⁠—and Thurston was a very decentish, brown-moustached fellow, of the sort that does not gossip.

It had proved a little difficult to get away, for Perowne during several weeks watched her like an attendant in a lunatic asylum. But at last the idea presented itself to him that she would never go without her frocks, and, one day, in a fit of intense somnolence after a lunch, washed down with rather a large quantity of the local and fiery cordial, he let her take a walk alone⁠ ⁠…

She was by that time tired of men⁠ ⁠… or she imagined that she was; for she was not prepared to be certain, considering the muckers she saw women coming all round her over the most unpresentable individuals. Men, at any rate never fulfilled expectations. They might, upon acquaintance, turn out more entertaining than they appeared; but almost always taking up with a man was like reading a book you had read when you had forgotten that you had read it. You had not been for ten minutes in any sort of intimacy with any man before you said: “But I’ve read all this before⁠ ⁠…” You knew the opening, you were already bored by the middle, and, especially, you knew the end⁠ ⁠…

She remembered, years ago, trying to shock her mother’s spiritual adviser, Father Consett, whom they had lately murdered in Ireland, along with Casement⁠ ⁠… The poor saint had not in the least been shocked. He had gone her one better. For when she had said something like that her idea of a divvy life⁠—they used in those days to say “divvy”⁠—would be to go off with a different man every weekend, he had told her that after a short time she would be bored already by the time the poor dear fellow was buying the railway ticket⁠ ⁠…

And, by heavens, he had been right⁠ ⁠… For when she came to think of it, from the day that poor saint had said that thing in her mother’s sitting-room in the little German spa⁠—Lobscheid, it must have been called⁠—in the candlelight, his