But Maureen? He looked about him. Even here where the light from the chandelier was fairly strong, you couldn’t very well see through the muslin; you could see the shadowy shapes of other tents, but you couldn’t tell who was inside them; in the case of those farther away, nearer the windows, you couldn’t tell if anyone was inside them. Maureen was so efficient, so practised socially; she would have found her niche—not with the bridge-players, for she wasn’t one, not—he smiled to himself—in one of the temples d’amour, for that didn’t interest her—she would be taking part in another conversation-piece, perhaps next door to his. While with the surface of his mind he gossiped with his fellow guests his inner ear was alert for the inflexions of Maureen’s voice; and so intent was he on listening that he didn’t see the figure that more than once passed by his curtain wall, stopping and peering in and circling round; and it was one of the others who first saw her and said, ‘Guardi, Enrico, isn’t that your wife who goes in search of you?’ At once Henry jumped up and excusing himself untied the ribbons and let himself out into the air.
‘What is it?’ he said, moving with her into a space between the tents that was out of earshot. ‘Anything I can do?’
‘Darling, I’ve got a splitting headache,’ she answered. ‘I really think I must go back. It came on suddenly—it’s the heat, I suppose. But I don’t want to spoil Annette’s fun, she’s having the time of her life, and I don’t want Loredana to know, she has so much on her hands already. So I’ll just slip out—she’ll never notice—and Luigi and Emilio can take me back to the hotel.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ Henry said.
‘No, darling, don’t do that. What I should like you to do, if you don’t mind, is to wait for Annette and bring her home. When you go you can explain to Loredana and make my apologies. I know it’s a frightful bore and you’re not feeling well either—but just this once! It really wouldn’t do to let Annette go back alone, we know she can be trusted but people would talk about it. I hate to ask you to, but it won’t be for long—what time is it?’
‘Just twelve,’ said Henry. ‘There’s the Marangona.’
They listened, and above the hubbub of voices and dance music they heard the solemn sound of the great bell tolling midnight.
‘I won’t tell Annette that I’m going,’ Maureen said, ‘and don’t you tell her either; it might spoil her fun. I’ll send the gondoliers straight back and tell them to wait for you. Now we mustn’t be seen talking together any more or it will look odd.’ Before Henry could speak she had turned away, and with slight inclinations of her head to left and right was making for the staircase.
Henry made a movement to follow her and then turned back. She knew her own mind, no one better. But what should he do? Irresolutely he looked towards the tent he had left—but was it the same tent? He couldn’t be sure, and anyhow another man had taken his place, leaving the flap open. Several of the tents had their flaps open, the occupants preferring air and light to freedom from mosquitoes. He picked his way among the tents. Which one should he invade? They all seemed full. Even the bowers of love, which were more opaque than the others, had darker shadows in them. He was shut out! For a moment he felt as a wandering Arab might, whose tribe had exiled him. But he mustn’t stand there moping: he would go down and watch the dancers.
Plenty of other guests were doing the same: on gilt chairs and settees they lined the walls; behind them the crimson brocade stretched upwards to the ceiling of painted beams; pictures and mirrors hung above them. His tired mind could not synthesize the scene. Better try to find Annette—ah, here she was, on the arm, or in the arms, of a young man. Her face was rapt and expressionless: she passed within a foot of Henry without seeing him. She was in another world, a world of youth into which he could not penetrate—a world which jealously guarded its own feelings, especially from lonely wallflower fathers. The music whined and groaned and thumped and stammered. Where was she now? There were other rooms, rooms for sitting out in, that led off the sala. He mustn’t seem curious about her, he mustn’t feel curious about her, she didn’t belong to him, she belonged to all those young men, the Nino’s, Nini’s, Gigio’s and Gigi’s, and the emotions they aroused in her: emotions which sometimes made her youthful face look stern.
Here she was again, on another arm, this time; and this time her face was not so much rapt as set, and in the lines of her body there was the tautness of strain, such as you see in a plant that is being forced to grow in a shape it doesn’t like. Was she a captive? He thought her eyes met his: he longed to say, ‘Oh, please come here and talk to me a moment!’ But he must not; if she had been in another continent she could not have been farther from him.
At most times she could see a joke as well as anyone, indeed she often laughed when he saw nothing to laugh at. But where her young men were concerned she was, it seemed to him, as impervious both to humour and to reason as her mother was in matters of social etiquette and observance. She took it all with deadly seriousness, even when she was laughing and flirting with her swains; and she resented any comment on her conduct, however sympathetic and well meant.
Does she really know what she is doing?’ he had once asked her mother. ‘She seems to think that love to-day is different from love at any other time.’
‘Oh, Annette’s all right,’ Maureen replied. ‘Besides, there’s safety in numbers. We mustn’t interfere, we must let her find her feet. If she was really serious about anyone, I should know.’
‘Yes, but this isn’t England,’ Henry said. ‘Autres pays, autres mœurs.’
Maureen shook her head. ‘We mustn’t spoil her fun,’ she said. It had become a slogan.
Henry did not like watching people dance, it pricked him with nostalgia and a sense of guilt that he, too, was not dancing; so after a while he went upstairs again. This time he spied a breach in one of the muslin fortresses: it widened, a head emerged and a voice urged him to come in. He obeyed. The flap was folded to, the bows were tied, the outside world withdrew. But it was only a brief respite. The other man of the trio looked at his watch: “Why, it’s two o’clock,’ he said. ‘Dobbiamo filare—we must be off!’ The warmth and graciousness of their farewells made Henry feel more lonely than before. Again he descended to the ballroom, this time he would risk Annette’s displeasure, beard the Nino’s and the Gigio’s and beg her to come back. ‘Your mother isn’t well!’—that should be his plea. But this time he couldn’t see her in the milling throng; she had vanished: face after beautiful face looked blankly down at his. Perhaps Loredana knows where she is, he thought, and diffidently approached his hostess where, fresh and animated as five hours ago, she sat, magnetizing the men on either side of her: but just out of range of her conscious glance he stopped. With a hundred or more guests about her, how could she know where Annette was? And it would be a clumsy, tactless question anyway; how Annette would hate the notion of a search-party, of being run to earth! And he might have to explain, prematurely, about Maureen, too. So he waved to his hostess as gaily as he could, and she shouted something out to him: Venetians always shouted at you—in ballrooms as well as from bridges—something he couldn’t catch: was it good night? Did she think he was taking his leave? Making it as inconspicuous as possible? He couldn’t tell, and slowly, availing himself of the silken rope, he climbed to the upper gallery.
It was in semi-darkness; in the splendid chandeliers only a few lights sparkled. Had all the non-dancing guests, the vecchietti, departed? The encampment hadn’t been dismantled; nothing had been put straight: the servants had left the task of tidying till the morning. Peering in, he saw the cards scattered on the card-tables. The more distant tents, the bowers of love, he could hardly see, still less tell whether they were tenanted. He passed by them towards the windows and saw, with a sudden rush of longing, the two tents set apart for the misanthropes. Either would be a refuge. He chose the farther one, in the darker corner; once inside, he felt rather than saw that he was its first occupant. Draw the flaps and make them fast; let the mosquitoes sing outside! Dimly the thud and whine of the music reached him; it had no power to disturb him now: it was a lullaby. Soon he fell asleep.