One hour earlier, quite unaware of all that had taken place in his absence, Harrington Brande stepped from the east-bound train at Barcelona Central. Carrying his valise, he pushed through the clamorous ring of porters and passed rapidly along the archway which gave access to the Estacion Hotel. Here an indolent clerk assigned him to a room on the second floor overlooking the courtyard. It was not a good room but, contrary to his habit, he made no protest—at least, it afforded him the quiet which, above all things, he desired. In the crowded compartment all the way from Madrid he had been unable to focus his thoughts properly, but had sat there dull and heavy, his teeth grinding, his cheeks furrowed by a fixed and painful frown.
“Shall you want dinner, señor?”
Brande gazed, almost stupidly, at the man who had brought him up.
“No, nothing.” Then he recollected he had not eaten since breakfast. “ Yes … bring me something … anything … coffee and cold ham.”
“Certainly, señor.”
As the man turned to go the Consul stopped him.
“Wait. I wish you to take a telegram to the office.”
From his desk he picked up a pad of forms and wrote out the message:
To Garcia, Villa Breza, San Jorge.
Meet me with car San Jorge station early train 7.45 a.m.tomorrow Tuesday. Harrington Brande.
He tore off the form, handed it to the porter, spoke in a tone of authority:
“See that they send this at once. And leave word for them to call me at six o’clock in the morning.”
The man inclined his head.
“Assuredly, señor.”
When the door closed Brande began to pace up and down the room, his fists clenched, his eyebrows drawn together in a brooding line, demanding of himself, for the hundredth time, why he had been deceived by the wording of that official letter. It was a natural conclusion that he had drawn; he could not blame himself in any way. And yet … how blindly confident he had been. As he recollected how he had spoken to Burton, to little Nicholas, before his departure, how he had built a glittering structure upon hopes which proved purely illusory, a sweat of bitter anguish broke out all over his body.
By a tremendous effort, he controlled himself, recalled to reason by a sense of his own weariness and the sight of his haggard, unshaven face reflected in the wardrobe mirror. He opened the valise, took out some toilet articles and went into the bathroom. While he ran the bath, he shaved, then lay, for some time, in hot water as though trying to soak out a physical hurt.
Afterwards, in dressing-gown and slippers, he sat down at the tray which had been placed upon the writing-table by the door. Quickly, he gulped down two cups of coffee, ate a buttered roll and a slice of ham. His appetite was soon satisfied. He got to his feet again and rang for the waiter to clear away.
The man came and went. Then the Consul was alone again, alone with his thoughts, with the burning memory of his humiliation. A nervous tic started in his cheek as he turned again to the writing-table, placed several sheets before him on the blotter, seized a pen, and began:
Estacion Hotel,
Barcelona. Monday, 10.30 p.m.
Dear Halevy,—I write from this hotel, driven by the desire to unburden myself to you—my friend and physician—and by the urgent need for your counsel and support.
You are well aware of the injustices which have dogged my official career—indeed, you have often complimented me on the dignity and fortitude with which I have sustained them. From my letters of last month, you knew of my efforts to settle down and make the best of my recent transference to the Costa Brava. There, on Friday last, I received a communication from Leighton Bailey, advising me that George Tenney, First Consul in Madrid, had suffered a paralytic stroke, and requesting my presence in the capital at once.
I am not a vain man, Halevy, as you well know. I never jump to conclusions. And I can assure you that the wording of this letter made it quite apparent that I had been chosen to replace Tenney. I proceeded with all dispatch to Madrid.
On Saturday, when I arrived, to my astonishment, I found it impossible to see Bailey—he had gone to the country for the week-end. And on Monday, when he returned, he stunned me with the announcement that I had been summoned merely as a stopgap, that Herbert Meyer, now in Warsaw, was to succeed Tenney and that ‘he would be obliged if I filled in’ on the secretariat till Meyer arrived.
I need not tell you how bitter was this blow. Yet I did not take it without protest. I dwelt, with some heat, upon my past services, upon the excellence of my record. I pointed out that my promotion was overdue. I asked him flatly to reconsider.
For a moment, Halevy, he did not answer. Then he said: ‘You have quite an opinion of yourself.’
This impertinence was too much for me. I drew myself up. I declared formally that I had my own work at San Jorge, that I had there, in my invalid son, a family tie of the most exacting nature and that, if I were not to have Tenney’s post, I must ask him to excuse me from remaining in Madrid.
When I concluded, there was a silence. I had expected an angry outburst, but to my surprise Bailey began to smile as though, unaccountably, his perverted sense of humour had got the better of him. Then he said:
‘You’re a queer bird, Brande. I’ve often heard about you. You’re a byword in the service. But you have to be seen to be believed. I ought to report you, of course. But I won’t. Go back to San Jorge. And for God’s sake try to be a human being. Lose some of your smugness, your colossal egoism. Bring yourself a little up to date. It may not get you promotion. But at least it might get you a bit more out of life.’
What could one reply to such a tirade? I bowed coldly, turned and left the room. Without hesitation or delay, I departed by the eleven o’clock train. And now, here I am, my good friend, in such a turmoil of bitterness, desolation and just resentment, I must throw myself upon your bounty, your skill as a healer of minds.
At this point Brande broke off, with a sudden engorgement of the veins upon his forehead. Could he continue? For his own sake, whatever the pain to himself, he must. How often, in the past, relaxed upon the Professor’s couch, in the narrow consulting-room off the Rue des Capucines, the sound of traffic muted by the thick, drawn curtains, he had found benefit in complete, uninhibited self-revelation and in submitting, with closed eyes, to the murmured injunctions of the skilled psychiatrist, seated in the obscurity behind him. Now, even at this distance, he felt the urgent need of some such solace. Setting his teeth, he resumed:
What I must tell you is this, Halevy, although I do so at the risk of losing my self-respect. When Bailey spoke these outrageous words to me a dizziness overcame me, and I had the strange, the horrible illusion that it was my wife who uttered them. In the mist which swam before me, I seemed to see her, in the rain, as she emerged that night, alone, from her lodging on Thirty-ninth Street in New York. I had followed her there, had waited outside, for at least two hours, convinced that she had been receiving the visit of a lover. When I stepped out of the shadow and confronted her, the lamplight shone full upon her pale face, upon her incredulous eyes, and she said … but, my God, there is no need for me to torture myself … you must remember that incident, for I revealed it to you in full—as though tearing it from my heart—the first time I submitted myself to you for analysis.
You see, my friend, how deeply this has upset me. No doubt there is scant importance in Bailey’s insulting words; they are too absurd to be credible. But what of my reaction to them? Will these still bleeding wounds which you alone know of, and have probed so gently, never heal? Will my desire to be loved, to be loved tenderly, passionately, exclusively, never be fulfilled? Am I one of these figures, destined always to be misunderstood, misjudged, mistreated by lesser spirits? Will due recognition of mind and heart never be mine?
And what, dear friend, of the future?
I cannot deny that I value in some degree the status which attaches to the rank of Consul. Moreover, I consider that I am naturally fitted to carry out the official duties and functions thereby involved. Nevertheless, there is a point beyond which one cannot force the most willing heart, when one must draw up and in a solemn tone cry, ‘Halt!’
You know that my work on Malbranche is now practically complete and will, I expect, be issued to the world within the next three months. Without presumption, one cannot but believe that this monumental creation, now almost a part of myself, will cause a stir in the intellectual and philosophical circles of both continents. If so, should I not resign from the service and devote myself exclusively to literature? I have some means of my own which would relieve me from a vulgar dependence upon the public. And above all I have to consider the welfare and best interests of my dear son.
At a time like this, Halevy, when the human soul is sunk in deep despondency, one cannot but thank God for the blessing of Nicholas. From what I have revealed to you, under the seal of professional secrecy, you must realise how much the tragedy of my marriage has been compensated for by the sweet, pure, and overflowing love which my son bears for me. Were I a free agent—for one may ply one’s pen in any latitude—might this not be reflected favourably upon my child’s delicate health? We could visit those spas most likely to improve his nervous diathesis. (Indeed, my own highly-strung system would probably benefit thereby also.) I should be able to devote myself exclusively to him, to safeguard him from all adverse and evil influences in the difficult years of puberty … ah, yes, to watch over and protect the blooming of my tender flower.
You alone, my dear doctor, can advise me upon such a decision. Therefore I entreat you to advance your promised visit to the Casa Breza. You had arranged to visit us in June. Instead, come now, or at least within the next two weeks. You will be made royally welcome. It is not as though you were dependent upon the exigencies of ordinary practice. And one of your colleagues can take over at the clinic. Do not fail me.
It is nearly midnight. I must get some sleep … even if it means taking four of these tablets which you gave me and which now, alas! seem to be losing their effect. Surely I have written enough to convince you of my need. I repeat, do not fail me. I look forward within the next few days to your reply. Meantime, I shall take things quietly with Nicholas, lick my wounds, as it were, and renew myself in the sunshine of his smile.
Your devoted and suffering friend, Harrington Brande.
With his head supported by spread-out fingers, the Consul sat motionless except for the imperceptible twitching of his facial nerve. A surging self-pity, that familiar, swelling sense of martyrdom, still suffused his breast. Yet he felt better for having written the letter, purged of something of his distress. It was, in a minor degree, the same ‘cleansed’ feeling which came to him after these cathartic séances in the Professor’s consulting-room. He sighed, and gradually his chin elevated itself in a gesture of renewed fortitude. Without haste, he rose, went out of the room and, at the lift shaft, posted the letter. An hour later, aided by the drug, he was sunk in the oblivion of sleep.