Valerie French (1923) Read Online Free
Author: Dornford Yates
as the pitiful dead, Valerie was warranting the comparison. Desire had failed.
Let us see for ourselves.
Upstairs, in a lavender wrap, hairbrush in hand, Valerie sat in her chair and stared at her glass.
An Eve stared back.
A painter once said of Miss French that she had never been born. He was meaning, I fancy, that she had sprung, like Cytheræa, out of the loins of Nature. Indeed, she did not look a daughter of men: and if Cytheræa rose from the foam of the sea, Valerie French came stepping out of the heart of a forest one sweet September morning, twenty-six years ago.
Nature's treasuries had been ransacked to make her lovely. The cool of the dawn lay in her fingertips; the breath of the mountains hung in her nostrils. Violets, dew, and stars went to the making of those wonderful eyes. Her skin was snowy, save where the great sun had kissed her— on either cheek; her mouth was a red, red flower. Her voice was bird's music; her dark hair, a cloud; her carriage, that of a deer. As for her form, straight, clean-limbed, lithe, its beauty was old as the hills. In a word, Valerie French threw back to Eden.
Valerie gazed and gazed....
After a long while—
"Not a grey hair," she said slowly. "Not one. By rights, my hair should be white. By rights, my eyes should be staring.... They're not even strained. I ought to be thin, pale as a ghost, with great rings under my eyes.... I looked a million times worse before— before it happened.... And now, when nothing matters, when everything's gone— smashed— finished, I look my best.... I suppose it's because I can't care ... the power of caring is gone. I’d give my life to cry, but it can't be done." Her gaze fell to the table. "First, the golden bowl; then the cord— that beautiful, silver cord; then the pitcher of life; and now the wheel at the cistern.... Yes. The wheel's broken. I can't draw up any tears." She fell to brushing her hair absently. "We should have been married now, and he'd've been dressing, too. The door'd've been open, and he 'ld 've come walking in. Perhaps he'd've played with my hair.... bent back my head and kissed me ... laid his cheek against mine.... Instead, he's lying at Girdle, under the ground. No one was there to hold his head at the last ... to give him water ... tell him it wouldn't be long. Perhaps the dog was with him ... whining ... licking his face. I wonder what Patch did when— when it was all over.... I'll bet he cared, poor scrap. But I, his queen ... no. I'm not allowed. The wheel's broken."
THREE slow-treading hours had gone by since Valerie looked at herself, and now Lady Touchstone and she were listening to an admirable orchestra rendering the duet from Cavalleria Rusticana with real emotion.
A silence had fallen upon the frivolous crowd. Beneath the music's spell the hubbub of mirth and chatter had sunk to a murmur of talk; in turn the murmur had died; only one voice had survived, nasal and drawling.... For a moment it seared the music.... Then some one touched its owner upon the shoulder. The drawl snapped off short.
Step by step the air climbed to the pinnacles of Glistering Grief, trailing its audience behind. The exquisite atmosphere became rarer, more difficult to endure. A merciless fellowship of wizards, the band slaved at its charm, sobering vanity, finding souls in the soulless, plucking out hearts right and left and clapping them upon sleeves. Lips began to tremble, hands to be clenched; eyes stared upon the floor.
Lady Touchstone blinked back her tears.
Valerie sat still, watching a moth that was busy about a lantern, and wondering where they would go when they left Dinard.
Suddenly, six feet away, a girl broke down.
Her chin on her fists, her elbows propped on a table, blowing furiously at a cigarette, she strove to carry it off. All the time tears coursed down her cheeks. The man beside her bent forward.... She shook him away fiercely. Her gleaming shoulders began to shake convulsively. A quivering sob
Let us see for ourselves.
Upstairs, in a lavender wrap, hairbrush in hand, Valerie sat in her chair and stared at her glass.
An Eve stared back.
A painter once said of Miss French that she had never been born. He was meaning, I fancy, that she had sprung, like Cytheræa, out of the loins of Nature. Indeed, she did not look a daughter of men: and if Cytheræa rose from the foam of the sea, Valerie French came stepping out of the heart of a forest one sweet September morning, twenty-six years ago.
Nature's treasuries had been ransacked to make her lovely. The cool of the dawn lay in her fingertips; the breath of the mountains hung in her nostrils. Violets, dew, and stars went to the making of those wonderful eyes. Her skin was snowy, save where the great sun had kissed her— on either cheek; her mouth was a red, red flower. Her voice was bird's music; her dark hair, a cloud; her carriage, that of a deer. As for her form, straight, clean-limbed, lithe, its beauty was old as the hills. In a word, Valerie French threw back to Eden.
Valerie gazed and gazed....
After a long while—
"Not a grey hair," she said slowly. "Not one. By rights, my hair should be white. By rights, my eyes should be staring.... They're not even strained. I ought to be thin, pale as a ghost, with great rings under my eyes.... I looked a million times worse before— before it happened.... And now, when nothing matters, when everything's gone— smashed— finished, I look my best.... I suppose it's because I can't care ... the power of caring is gone. I’d give my life to cry, but it can't be done." Her gaze fell to the table. "First, the golden bowl; then the cord— that beautiful, silver cord; then the pitcher of life; and now the wheel at the cistern.... Yes. The wheel's broken. I can't draw up any tears." She fell to brushing her hair absently. "We should have been married now, and he'd've been dressing, too. The door'd've been open, and he 'ld 've come walking in. Perhaps he'd've played with my hair.... bent back my head and kissed me ... laid his cheek against mine.... Instead, he's lying at Girdle, under the ground. No one was there to hold his head at the last ... to give him water ... tell him it wouldn't be long. Perhaps the dog was with him ... whining ... licking his face. I wonder what Patch did when— when it was all over.... I'll bet he cared, poor scrap. But I, his queen ... no. I'm not allowed. The wheel's broken."
THREE slow-treading hours had gone by since Valerie looked at herself, and now Lady Touchstone and she were listening to an admirable orchestra rendering the duet from Cavalleria Rusticana with real emotion.
A silence had fallen upon the frivolous crowd. Beneath the music's spell the hubbub of mirth and chatter had sunk to a murmur of talk; in turn the murmur had died; only one voice had survived, nasal and drawling.... For a moment it seared the music.... Then some one touched its owner upon the shoulder. The drawl snapped off short.
Step by step the air climbed to the pinnacles of Glistering Grief, trailing its audience behind. The exquisite atmosphere became rarer, more difficult to endure. A merciless fellowship of wizards, the band slaved at its charm, sobering vanity, finding souls in the soulless, plucking out hearts right and left and clapping them upon sleeves. Lips began to tremble, hands to be clenched; eyes stared upon the floor.
Lady Touchstone blinked back her tears.
Valerie sat still, watching a moth that was busy about a lantern, and wondering where they would go when they left Dinard.
Suddenly, six feet away, a girl broke down.
Her chin on her fists, her elbows propped on a table, blowing furiously at a cigarette, she strove to carry it off. All the time tears coursed down her cheeks. The man beside her bent forward.... She shook him away fiercely. Her gleaming shoulders began to shake convulsively. A quivering sob
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