6 An Evening with Varian

Affairs drifted, both those of the nation and my own, which, however humble compared with the interests of thirty millions, were none the less important to me. The new President, they said, showed gleams of a crude, but rather Western humour; he had even taken in good part, so it was reported, a suggestion made by a distinguished member of his cabinet that, inasmuch as he was inexperienced, he let the aforesaid distinguished gentleman perform for him the duties of his office, and thus reign, but not rule. It was said that he received the suggestion with becoming gravity and gratitude, although he declined the kindly offer. It was argued that this showed on his part at least a sense of the superior merit of others, and therefore he was not wholly undeserving.

Meanwhile the South increased her armaments, and the sluggish North still would not believe.

I saw Elinor several times in this interval of waiting, despite the cold and scrutinizing gaze of Mrs. Maynard, who seemed to have discovered reasons why I should be subjected to a critical analysis; but I have been charged with having a stubborn nature, and I resolved that Elinor’s aunt should be brought to a proper and realizing sense of my value.

About a week after the inauguration, when I had been out for a morning’s ride and was returning toward the city from the Rock Creek country, I overtook Elinor. She was breathing her chestnut mare after a sharp gallop, and her cheeks were brilliant with the exercise and the cold wind of early spring. We rode slowly toward the city.

I knew that she and her aunt expected to go home in a very short time, and I asked her if the day had been chosen. When she replied that it was only a week away I gave some suggestions about the mode of travel, feeling that I had a right to do so in such troubled times.

“But we shall not be alone,” she said. “Mr. Varian is also going to the West, and he has promised us his protection. You know that he has great influence, and I do not understand how he has obtained it, but Aunt Ellen says that the members of the new Government are ready to do much for him, if he will only ask.”

Her gaze met mine firmly, but the scarlet in her cheeks became brighter. I felt a burst of angry resentment because Varian seemed to have become indispensable to everybody for whom I cared, but I am thankful that I was able to control the impulse—and who was I to call free men and women to account for what they did?

“I wish often,” I said, “that I could have spent a few years in Europe. Perhaps we Americans are prone to undervalue some of the graces and courtlier usages which they seem there to think so important. I wonder if this finer finish really has so much weight with men. I am quite sure that women are willing to include it among the Ten Commandments.”

“I think that you are trying to draw an indictment of Mr. Varian, Henry,” she replied, the scarlet again deepening in her cheeks, “and that would indicate a fear lest he might be superior in some respect.” Then she continued more seriously: “This finer finish, as you call it, has its influence not only upon women, but upon men as well, much though they may deny it. We always speak highly of a rough diamond, but I should like to ask you if a rough diamond is any better than a diamond cut and polished, or as good? I do not think so, nor do I see why Mr. Varian alone should possess these qualities of which you speak.”

We were silent during the remainder of the ride, and I noticed the lithe and strong figure, and the firm face of the girl who rode beside me. She had been lately a puzzle to me. I fancy that all women are always a puzzle to us, but I felt that whenever she chose a course she would be likely to pursue it. Whether I liked, then, that quality in her I could not say.

I paid my promised visit to Varian on the evening of the same day. His rooms were the most beautiful that I had entered in Washington, and notable among all the articles gathered there from many regions was the collection of swords, daggers, and knives that adorned his walls. I believe that every nation and tribe had sent a weapon.

“Spolia opima, Kingsford,” he said, following my eyes and laughing; “but I hope you will not think my fondness for sharp edges is an index to my character. I wish to add, too, that this luxury which you see is merely for the eye. I really live like a soldier. Look through that open door there and behold my bedroom. Is it not furnished with entire simplicity?”

A faint apology seemed to be lurking in his tone, but I had never accused him even silently of effeminacy. There was nothing in his manner to suggest it, and, as he said truly, the luxury of his chambers was the luxury of the eye and not of the body.

I heard much laughter and talk in the next room.

“Our friends,” he said. “You are the last to arrive.”

We passed into the adjoining apartment, and I found that in truth a cheerful company was assembled there, and, as was fit and natural, its centre was Major Titus Tyler, of Mississippi, radiant with good humour and describing minutely and at length the manner in which he, assisted by some companies of soldiers, repulsed the great charge of the Mexican cavalry at Buena Vista. The listening circle was composed of Pembroke, Tourville, Charlie Mason, a Pennsylvanian, and two men whom I did not know. One of the latter was young and apparently a Frenchman, the other was middle-aged and certainly American. I liked the looks of the Frenchman, one of those yellow-haired, blue-eyed Gauls, from the north of France, but the American had heavy lowering features, thin, cruel lips, and teeth like a wolf’s.

“Monsieur Henri Louis Raoul Auguste de Courcelles, of Brittany and Paris,” Varian said ornately, nodding toward the Frenchman, “this is Mr. Kingsford; you are two friends of mine who ought to know each other.”

The Frenchman smiled and showed his white teeth as the syllables of his long name flowed off Varian’s lips. I judged that its length troubled him little, and knowing that I would like him, I hoped that he would like me as well.

“De Courcelles was a lieutenant of mine in some little diplomatic affairs abroad,” said Varian; “and he is to take my place here while I go South to get myself perforated by a Yankee bullet.”

Then he introduced the second man briefly as Mr. Covin Blanchard, also, more or less, an associate of his in a diplomatic way. Mr. Blanchard said nothing, but made his acknowledgments with a curt nod. He seemed to have the gift of silence, and I gave him credit for it, not wishing, however, to continue the acquaintance.

“The Mexican cavalry were advancing at a gallop, the pennons and steel of their lances glittering and flashing in the sunlight,” said Major Tyler. “The thunder of hoofs was like the roar of a coming hurricane, and drawing my sword, I——”

“While the cavalry are coming, suppose that we take a little wine, major,” said Varian, putting his hand on Major Tyler’s shoulder in the most friendly manner. “A stimulant will give strength at such a critical moment for the shock.”

“Just what I would have proposed,” replied Major Tyler, with zest; “and, Mr. Varian, you are a true military genius.”

A servant brought the wine, but Varian himself poured it, holding the bottle high and letting a thin, red stream flow into the glass.

“This wine had its origin on a German hillside, and it has found its flavour in a German cellar,” he said. “I fear, too, that your Government has collected no duty upon it. I make the avowal without shame, such an achievement being one of the weaknesses of human nature. Perhaps you do not drink much wine, Mr. Kingsford. Few Americans do. It is only the older and more advanced nations that use it habitually. I think that you can measure the civilization of any people by its taste in wine. In truth, it is the only infallible test. When a race is young, strong, rough, and boisterous, it likes whisky, beer, and other crude liquors, but when it grows old, polite, and discriminating, it develops a fine taste in wine. If you apply this test you will find that the French are the most highly civilized people in the world, a fact which can not be denied, and the Spanish and Austrians come next. It shows also that the English are the least civilized people in Europe, although they are at the same time the strongest.”

“And continuing your argument,” I said, “we, I suppose, are the last of all the white races in civilization?”

“Undoubtedly,” he replied; “but let me add, Mr. Kingsford, that civilization, in my opinion, consists chiefly of forms; and forms, as all of us know, are often deceitful. I would never undertake to say that the most highly civilized nation is the best. Your glasses, gentlemen! Mr. Kingsford, let us drink, each to his heart’s best wish.”

He looked straight into my eyes as he lifted his glass, and I met his gaze with a resolution that mine should not waver, for I understood his meaning. He paused when the glass was near his lips, and repeated, still keeping his eyes on mine: “Each to his heart’s best wish, Mr. Kingsford!” I drank, and repeated: “Each to his heart’s best wish, Mr. Varian!”

“Which ought to mean to those who are or expect to become soldiers,” said De Courcelles, “glory on the battlefield and a true sweetheart at home. Mr. Varian has just given to us Frenchmen the credit of the highest civilization, although he would seem to deny us the greatest morality, and perhaps we have acquired through the former a sense of discrimination which tells us what constitutes genuine happiness. France is too old to have any illusions about happiness, although she may be mistaken sometimes in her choice of means to obtain it.”

“Such distinctions are too fine for me,” said Major Tyler, shaking his head sorrowfully. “I only know that when the thunder of the Mexican cavalry grew louder, and our companies preparing themselves for the shock rallied around me, I——”

He was interrupted by Varian, who sat down at the piano and began to play. A year ago I would have considered a piano in a man’s rooms a mark of effeminacy, taking the thought from the surroundings of my youth, but I had learned better, knowing, too, as it had been told to me, that the rough diamond was not necessarily better than the cut and polished gem.

He played new music, a music that I had never heard before, a strange, wailing note that pierced the heart at first like a human voice in agony, but, growing louder and louder, changed into a song of joy, swelling like the crash of the sea, then dying away with a last faint echo.

“Who composed that?” asked Pembroke.

“A mad German musician,” replied Varian. “At least, the other composers call him mad, although I suspect the next generation will swear that he is a master genius.”

We asked him to play again, but he dismissed the subject with easy indifference, saying: “It is only a trifle or two that I know; I have no real skill, and I should be ashamed to touch a key in the presence of a master.”

Then he talked of books and art, and I noticed that wherever he led the conversation the others followed as if he had chosen the very subject of which they wished to speak. The charm of his manner was over them all. He had personal magnetism, and whatever he said they felt at once that it was true. I noticed, too, what the rest of the company did not, that always he spoke directly to me.

“Do you play, Mr. Kingsford? Perhaps you would oblige us,” he asked, nodding toward the piano.

I confessed that I could not, and I admitted, too, my unfamiliarity with other topics upon which he led the talk. Once he shrugged his shoulders slightly, but said nothing.

“We haven’t had time yet,” said Pembroke, “to acquire all the more graceful arts.”

“But you will acquire them,” said De Courcelles. “There is a dash of the French spirit in your nature which will make you an improvement on the Anglo-Saxon of Europe, a bulldog of a more handsome breed. We Frenchmen are egotistical, but how can we help it with such good cause?”

We laughed, and Varian, taking a foil, began to show us swordsmanship as it was practised in the best schools of Europe. He held, so he said, that the finer arts could not save if those requiring skill and courage were not practised at the same time, and we agreed with him. I admired the strength and suppleness of his wrist, the light balancing of his strong figure, and the alert eyes, as he showed us the latest tricks in thrust and parry.

“The sword is more ornamental than useful to an officer in battle,” he said, “and the duel has been abolished in England. Here, I understand, it is now practised only in the South, and even there is often an impromptu affair; but it has claims to consideration. I think sometimes that it should have remained a respected institution. It was the world’s most sovereign remedy for idle and malicious tongues, and the edge of the tongue has done more harm than the edge of the sword. Preserve the latter, and perhaps we should not have the former.”

He turned presently to me and said:

“You are a Kentuckian, Mr. Kirigsford, and they practise there all the manly arts, including the appeal to arms for the sake of honour. Perhaps you would try the foils with me a little? Do you know the sword?”

My father had been a swordsman in his time, and he trained me, not with the expectation of use, but as a gentle accomplishment. I do not think that Varian expected me to accept, but he smiled when I said that I would take a foil and stand before him.

“I would not do it, Henry,” said Pembroke in a low tone, when Varian went into the next room for the masks. “You will appear at a disadvantage.”

“Others doubtless think so too,” I replied, “but I may be a better swordsman than you think, Pembroke.”

Varian in a slight tone of instruction, which I did not appear to notice, advised me how to adjust my mask, and then, taking our foils in hand, we stood before each other.

“I will look after Mr. Kingsford,” said De Courcelles, “and by my lady’s smile, I like his position. Surely he learned that from some one taught in the school of the French masters.”

“Will you do a similar good work for me, Mr. Pembroke?” asked Varian, and Pembroke moved to his side of the room.

I felt my blood leaping higher than a mere friendly massage at arms gave warrant, and I tightened my fingers on the hilt of the foil. Varian’s eyes flashed between the bars of his mask, and I thought that I saw in them the glitter of malice. He would show his superiority, and I resented the intent.

“Not quite so tight,” said De Courcelles to me. “You strain the muscles and your wrist loses its elasticity.”

I nodded my thanks for his friendly warning, and relaxed my grasp a little. It had been the result of feeling and not of calculation. Then we began to fence, Varian thrusting straight at my heart, as if he would touch me there with the button and show what he really could do were the game in earnest. I parried, and his foil slipped off mine. The slight, ringing sound of steel was in the air. I had not taken my eyes from his and I saw them flash again through the bars of his visor, but with a look of surprise. And that look gave me joy. This may seem a little thing, but I had chafed at his air and manner as he intended that I should, and I summoned to my use whatever skill and strength I might possess, resolving that I would defeat him were it possible.

He thrust again, and a second time I parried, his foil slipping off mine. This left him unguarded, and I thrust quickly in return. Only an agile step to one side saved him, and the look of malice from the bars of the visor flashed upon me again. I felt a sudden great exhilaration, unwarranted, perhaps, by the circumstances, and yet not to be checked. We paused a few minutes, and Varian said politely:

“You fence well, Mr. Kingsford. I expected to find a pupil, but instead I meet a master.”

I bowed as I was bound to acknowledge such a graceful compliment, and De Courcelles said:

“I am proud of my principal. I am really happy to be his second.”

And De Courcelles looked as if he meant his words.

The interest of the others in our little mimic battle increased, and they hung upon it as if it were for life. We began again, and Varian became more careful, leaving no opening, and attempting to drive me back toward the wall. While cautious, he also pushed the combat, evidently wishing to end it with a quick victory. His attack was so strong that I retreated a yard or two, but I remembered two or three of the old tricks of my father’s. I lowered my sword for a moment, and when he thrust quick as a flash for the opening, I knew that my chance had come. His foil, caught on mine, was drawn from his hand to fall ringing upon the floor, and my button touched him fairly over the heart.

“Well done! well done! Monsieur Kingsford, by my faith, ’twas well done!” cried De Courcelles, clapping his hands in delight. “Had the duel been real, you would now be a dead man, Monsieur Varian!”

“Happily for me it was not real,” said Varian, taking off his mask, and offering me his hand. “You have now the victory, Mr. Kingsford, and I do not say it merely as an attempt to praise my own skill when I call you a good swordsman.”

His words and tone were graceful enough, and yet I detected some annoyance in his manner, as unreasonable, perhaps, as my own secret joy, and when we turned to other subjects he seemed to have lost part of his zest.

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