Hugh Walpole: The Silver Mask

Miss Sonia Herries, coming home from a dinner-party at the Westons', heard a voice at her elbow.

'If you please--only a moment--'

She had walked from the Westons' flat because it was only three streets away, and now she was only a few steps from her door, but it was late, there was no one about and the King's Road rattle was muffled and dim.

'I am afraid I can't--' she began. It was cold and the wind nipped her cheeks.

'If you would only--' he went on.

She turned and saw one of the handsomest young men possible. He was the handsome young man of all romantic stories, tall, dark, pale, slim, distinguished--oh! everything!--and he was wearing a shabby blue suit and shivering with the cold just as he should have been.

'I'm afraid I can't--' she repeated, beginning to move on.

'Oh, I know,' he interrupted quickly. 'Everyone says the same and quite naturally. I should if our positions were reversed. But I MUST go on with it. I CAN'T go back to my wife and baby with simply nothing. We have no fire, no food, nothing except the ceiling we are under. It is my fault, all of it. I don't want your pity, but I HAVE to attack your comfort.'

He trembled. He shivered as though he were going to fall. Involuntarily she put out her hand to steady him. She touched his arm and felt it quiver under the thin sleeve.

'It's all right . . .' he murmured. 'I'm hungry . . . I can't help it.'

She had had an excellent dinner. She had drunk perhaps just enough to lead to recklessness--in any case, before she realised it, she was ushering him in, through her dark-blue painted door. A crazy thing to do! Nor was it as though she were too young to know any better, for she was fifty if she was a day and, although sturdy of body and as strong as a horse (except for a little unsteadiness of the heart), intelligent enough to be thin, neurotic and abnormal; but she was none of these.

Although intelligent she suffered dreadfully from impulsive kindness. All her life she had done so. The mistakes that she had made--and there had been quite a few--had all arisen from the triumph of her heart over her brain. She knew it--how well she knew it!--and all her friends were for ever dinning it into her.

When she reached her fiftieth birthday she said to herself--'Well, now at last I'm too old to be foolish any more.' And here she was, helping an entirely unknown young man into her house at dead of night, and he in all probability the worst sort of criminal.

Very soon he was sitting on her rose-coloured sofa, eating

sandwiches and drinking a whisky and soda. He seemed to be

entirely overcome by the beauty of her possessions. 'If he's

acting he's doing it very well,' she thought to herself. But he

had taste and he had knowledge. He knew that the Utrillo was an

early one, the only period of importance in that master's work, he

knew that the two old men talking under a window belonged to

Sickert's 'Middle Italian,' he recognised the Dobson head and the

wonderful green bronze Elk of Carl Milles.

'You are an artist,' she said. 'You paint?'

'No, I am a pimp, a thief, a what you like--anything bad,' he

answered fiercely. 'And now I must go,' he added, springing up

from the sofa.

He seemed most certainly invigorated. She could scarcely believe

that he was the same young man who only half an hour before had had

to lean on her arm for support. And he was a gentleman. Of that

there could be no sort of question. And he was astoundingly

beautiful in the spirit of a hundred years ago, a young Byron, a

young Shelley, not a young Ramon Novarro or a young Ronald Colman.

Well, it was better that he should go, and she did hope (for his

own sake rather than hers) that he would not demand money and

threaten a scene. After all, with her snow-white hair, firm broad

chin, firm broad body, she did not look like someone who could be

threatened. He had not apparently the slightest intention of

threatening her. He moved towards the door.

'Oh!' he murmured with a little gasp of wonder. He had stopped

before one of the loveliest things that she had--a mask in silver

of a clown's face, the clown smiling, gay, joyful, not hinting at

perpetual sadness as all clowns are traditionally supposed to do.

It was one of the most successful efforts of the famous Sorat,

greatest living master of Masks.

'Yes. Isn't that lovely?' she said. 'It was one of Sorat's

earliest things, and still, I think, one of his best.'

'Silver is the right material for that clown,' he said.

'Yes, I think so too,' she agreed. She realised that she had asked

him nothing about his troubles, about his poor wife and baby, about

his past history. It was better perhaps like this.

'You have saved my life,' he said to her in the hall. She had in

her hand a pound note.

'Well,' she answered cheerfully, 'I was a fool to risk a strange

man in my house at this time of night--or so my friends would tell

me. But such an old woman like me--where's the risk?'

'I could have cut your throat,' he said quite seriously.

'So you could,' she admitted. 'But with horrid consequences to

yourself.'

'Oh no,' he said. 'Not in these days. The police are never able

to catch anybody.'

'Well, good night. Do take this. It can get you some warmth at

least.'

He took the pound. 'Thanks,' he said carelessly. Then at the door

he remarked: 'That mask. The loveliest thing I ever saw.'

When the door had closed and she went back into the sitting-room

she sighed:

'What a good-looking young man!' Then she saw that her most

beautiful white jade cigarette-case was gone. It had been lying on

the little table by the sofa. She had seen it just before she went

into the pantry to cut the sandwiches. He had stolen it. She

looked everywhere. No, undoubtedly he had stolen it.

'What a good-looking young man!' she thought as she went up to bed.

Sonia Herries was a woman of her time in that outwardly she was

cynical and destructive while inwardly she was a creature longing

for affection and appreciation. For though she had white hair and

was fifty she was outwardly active, young, could do with little

sleep and less food, could dance and drink cocktails and play

bridge to the end of all time. Inwardly she cared for neither

cocktails nor bridge. She was above all things maternal and she

had a weak heart, not only a spiritual weak heart but also a

physical one. When she suffered, must take her drops, lie down and

rest, she allowed no one to see her. Like all the other women of

her period and manner of life she had a courage worthy of a better

cause.

She was a heroine for no reason at all.

But, beyond everything else, she was maternal. Twice at least she

would have married had she loved enough, but the man she had really

loved had not loved her (that was twenty-five years ago), so she

had pretended to despise matrimony. Had she had a child her nature

would have been fulfilled; as she had not had that good fortune she

had been maternal (with outward cynical indifference) to numbers of

people who had made use of her, sometimes laughed at her, never

deeply cared for her. She was named 'a jolly good sort,' and was

always 'just outside' the real life of her friends. Her Herries

relations, Rockages and Cards and Newmarks, used her to take odd

places at table, to fill up spare rooms at house-parties, to make

purchases for them in London, to talk to when things went wrong

with them or people abused them. She was a very lonely woman.

She saw her young thief for the second time a fortnight later. She

saw him because he came to her house one evening when she was

dressing for dinner.

'A young man at the door,' said her maid Rose.

'A young man? Who?' But she knew. 'I don't know, Miss Sonia. He

won't give his name.'

She came down and found him in the hall, the cigarette-case in his

hand. He was wearing a decent suit of clothes, but he still looked

hungry, haggard, desperate and incredibly handsome. She took him

into the room where they had been before. He gave her the

cigarette-case. 'I pawned it,' he said, his eyes on the silver

mask.

'What a disgraceful thing to do!' she said. 'And what are you

going to steal next?'

'My wife made some money last week,' he said. 'That will see us

through for a while.'

'Do you never do any work?' she asked him.

'I paint,' he answered. 'But no one will touch my pictures. They

are not modern enough.'

'You must show me some of your pictures,' she said, and realised

how weak she was. It was not his good looks that gave him his

power over her, but something both helpless and defiant, like a

wicked child who hates his mother but is always coming to her for

help.

'I have some here,' he said, went into the hall, and returned with

several canvases. He displayed them. They were very bad--sugary

landscapes and sentimental figures.

'They are very bad,' she said.

'I know they are. You must understand that my aesthetic taste is

very fine. I appreciate only the best things in art, like your

cigarette-case, that mask there, the Utrillo. But I can paint

nothing but these. It is very exasperating.' He smiled at her.

'Won't you buy one?' he asked her.

'Oh, but I don't want one,' she answered. 'I should have to hide

it.' She was aware that in ten minutes her guests would be here.

'Oh, do buy one.'

'No, but of course not--'

'Yes, please.' He came nearer and looked up into her broad kindly

face like a beseeching child.

'Well . . . how much are they?'

'This is twenty pounds. This twenty-five--'

'But how absurd! They are not worth anything at all.'

'They may be one day. You never know with modern pictures.'

'I am quite sure about these.'

'Please buy one. That one with the cows is not so bad.'

She sat down and wrote a cheque.

'I'm a perfect fool. Take this, and understand I never want to see

you again. Never! You will never be admitted. It is no use

speaking to me in the street. If you bother me I shall tell the

police.'

He took the cheque with quiet satisfaction, held out his hand and

pressed hers a little.

'Hang that in the right light and it will not be so bad--'

'You want new boots,' she said. 'Those are terrible.'

'I shall be able to get some now,' he said and went away.

All that evening while she listened to the hard and crackling

ironies of her friends she thought of the young man. She did not

know his name. The only thing that she knew about him was that by

his own confession he was a scoundrel and had at his mercy a poor

young wife and a starving child. The picture that she formed of

these three haunted her. It had been, in a way, honest of him to

return the cigarette-case. Ah, but he knew, of course, that did he

not return it he could never have seen her again. He had

discovered at once that she was a splendid source of supply, and

now that she had bought one of his wretched pictures--Nevertheless

he could not be altogether bad. No one who cared so passionately

for beautiful things could be quite worthless. The way that he had

gone straight to the silver mask as soon as he entered the room and

gazed at it as though with his very soul! And, sitting at her

dinner-table, uttering the most cynical sentiments, she was all

softness as she gazed across to the wall upon whose pale surface

the silver mask was hanging. There was, she thought, a certain

look of the young man in that jolly shining surface. But where?

The clown's cheek was fat, his mouth broad, his lips thick--and

yet, and yet--

For the next few days as she went about London she looked in spite

of herself at the passers-by to see whether he might not be there.

One thing she soon discovered, that he was very much more handsome

than anyone else whom she saw. But it was not for his handsomeness

that he haunted her. It was because he wanted her to be kind to

him, and because she wanted--oh, so terribly--to be kind to

someone!

The silver mask, she had the fancy, was gradually changing, the

rotundity thinning, some new light coming into the empty eyes. It

was most certainly a beautiful thing.

Then, as unexpectedly as on the other occasions, he appeared again.

One night as she, back from a theatre, smoking one last cigarette,

was preparing to climb the stairs to bed, there was a knock on the

door. Everyone of course rang the bell--no one attempted the old-

fashioned knocker shaped like an owl that she had bought, one idle

day, in an old curiosity shop. The knock made her sure that it was

he. Rose had gone to bed so she went herself to the door. There

he was--and with him a young girl and a baby. They all came into

the sitting-room and stood awkwardly by the fire. It was at that

moment when she saw them in a group by the fire that she felt her

first sharp pang of fear. She knew suddenly how weak she was--she

seemed to be turned to water at sight of them, she, Sonia Herries,

fifty years of age, independent and strong, save for that little

flutter of the heart--yes, turned to water! She was afraid as

though someone had whispered a warning in her ear.

The girl was striking, with red hair and a white face, a thin

graceful little thing. The baby, wrapped in a shawl, was soaked in

sleep. She gave them drinks and the remainder of the sandwiches

that had been put there for herself. The young man looked at her

with his charming smile.

'We haven't come to cadge anything this time,' he said. 'But I

wanted you to see my wife and I wanted her to see some of your

lovely things.'

'Well,' she said sharply. 'You can only stay a minute or two.

It's late. I'm off to bed. Besides, I told you not to come here

again.'

'Ada made me,' he said, nodding at the girl. 'She was so anxious

to see you.'

The girl never said a word but only stared sulkily in front of her.

'All right. But you must go soon. By the way, you've never told

me your name.'

'Henry Abbott, and that's Ada, and the baby's called Henry too.'

'All right. How have you been getting on since I saw you?'

'Oh, fine! Living on the fat of the land.' But he soon fell into

silence and the girl never said a word. After an intolerable pause

Sonia Herries suggested that they should go. They didn't move.

Half an hour later she insisted. They got up. But, standing by

the door, Henry Abbott jerked his head towards the writing-desk.

'Who writes your letters for you?'

'Nobody. I write them myself.'

'You ought to have somebody. Save a lot of trouble. I'll do them

for you.'

'Oh no, thank you. That would never do. Well, good night, good

night--'

'Of course I'll do them for you. And you needn't pay me anything

either. Fill up my time.'

'Nonsense . . . good night, good night.' She closed the door on

them. She could not sleep. She lay there thinking of him. She

was moved, partly by a maternal tenderness for them that warmed her

body (the girl and the baby had looked so helpless sitting there),

partly by a shiver of apprehension that chilled her veins. Well,

she hoped that she would never see them again. Or did she? Would

she not to-morrow, as she walked down Sloane Street, stare at

everyone to see whether by chance that was he?

Three mornings later he arrived. It was a wet morning and she had

decided to devote it to the settling of accounts. She was sitting

there at her table when Rose showed him in.

'I've come to do your letters,' he said.

'I should think not,' she said sharply. 'Now, Henry Abbott, out

you go. I've had enough--'

'Oh no, you haven't,' he said, and sat down at her desk.

She would be ashamed for ever, but half an hour later she was

seated in the corner of the sofa telling him what to write. She

hated to confess it to herself, but she liked to see him sitting

there. He was company for her, and to whatever depths he might by

now have sunk, he was most certainly a gentleman. He behaved very

well that morning; he wrote an excellent hand. He seemed to know

just what to say.

A week later she said, laughing, to Amy Weston: 'My dear, would

you believe it? I've had to take on a secretary. A very good-

looking young man--but you needn't look down your nose. You know

that good-looking young men are nothing to ME--and he does save me

endless bother.'

For three weeks he behaved very well, arriving punctually, offering

her no insults, doing as she suggested about everything. In the

fourth week, about a quarter to one on a day, his wife arrived. On

this occasion she looked astonishingly young, sixteen perhaps. She

wore a simple grey cotton dress. Her red bobbed hair was

strikingly vibrant about her pale face.

The young man already knew that Miss Herries was lunching alone.

He had seen the table laid for one with its simple appurtenances.

It seemed to be very difficult not to ask them to remain. She did,

although she did not wish to. The meal was not a success. The two

of them together were tiresome, for the man said little when his

wife was there, and the woman said nothing at all. Also, the pair

of them were in a way sinister.

She sent them away after luncheon. They departed without protest.

But as she walked, engaged on her shopping that afternoon, she

decided that she must rid herself of them, once and for all. It

was true that it had been rather agreeable having him there; his

smile, his wicked humorous remarks, the suggestion that he was a

kind of malevolent gamin who preyed on the world in general but

spared her because he liked her--all this had attracted her--but

what really alarmed her was that during all these weeks he had made

no request for money, made indeed no request for anything. He must

be piling up a fine account, must have some plan in his head with

which one morning he would balefully startle her! For a moment

there in the bright sunlight, with the purr of the traffic, the

rustle of the trees about her, she saw herself in surprising

colour. She was behaving with a weakness that was astonishing.

Her stout, thick-set, resolute body, her cheery rosy face, her

strong white hair--all these disappeared, and in their place, there

almost clinging for support to the Park railings, was a timorous

little old woman with frightened eyes and trembling knees. What

was there to be afraid of? She had done nothing wrong. There were

the police at hand. She had never been a coward before. She went

home, however, with an odd impulse to leave her comfortable little

house in Walpole Street and hide herself somewhere, somewhere that

no one could discover.

That evening they appeared again, husband, wife and baby. She had

settled herself down for a cosy evening with a book and an 'early

to bed.' There came the knock on the door.

On this occasion she was most certainly firm with them. When they

were gathered in a little group she got up and addressed them.

'Here is five pounds,' she said, 'and this is the end. If one of

you shows his or her face inside this door again I call the police.

Now go.'

The girl gave a little gasp and fell in a dead faint at her feet.

It was a perfectly genuine faint. Rose was summoned. Everything

possible was done.

'She has simply not had enough to eat,' said Henry Abbott. In the

end (so determined and resolved was the faint) Ada Abbott was put

to bed in the spare room and a doctor was summoned. After

examining her he said that she needed rest and nourishment. This

was perhaps the critical moment of the whole affair. Had Sonia

Herries been at this crisis properly resolute and bundled the

Abbott family, faint and all, into the cold unsympathising street,

she might at this moment be a hale and hearty old woman enjoying

bridge with her friends. It was, however, just here that her

maternal temperament was too strong for her. The poor young thing

lay exhausted, her eyes closed, her cheeks almost the colour of her

pillow. The baby (surely the quietest baby ever known) lay in a

cot beside the bed. Henry Abbott wrote letters to dictation

downstairs. Once Sonia Herries, glancing up at the silver mask,

was struck by the grin on the clown's face. It seemed to her now a

thin sharp grin--almost derisive.

Three days after Ada Abbott's collapse there arrived her aunt and

her uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Edwards. Mr. Edwards was a large red-faced

man with a hearty manner and a bright waistcoat. He looked like a

publican. Mrs. Edwards was a thin sharp-nosed woman with a bass

voice. She was very, very thin, and wore a large old-fashioned

brooch on her flat but emotional chest. They sat side by side on

the sofa and explained that they had come to enquire after Ada,

their favourite niece. Mrs. Edwards cried, Mr. Edwards was

friendly and familiar. Unfortunately Mrs. Weston and a friend came

and called just then. They did not stay very long. They were

frankly amazed at the Edwards couple and deeply startled by Henry

Abbott's familiarity. Sonia Herries could see that they drew the

very worst conclusions.

A week later Ada Abbott was still in bed in the upstairs room. It

seemed to be impossible to move her. The Edwardses were constant

visitors. On one occasion they brought Mr. and Mrs. Harper and

their girl Agnes. They were profusely apologetic, but Miss Herries

would understand that 'with the interest they took in Ada it was

impossible to stay passive.' They all crowded into the spare

bedroom and gazed at the pale figure with the closed eyes

sympathetically.

Then two things happened together. Rose gave notice and Mrs.

Weston came and had a frank talk with her friend. She began with

that most sinister opening: 'I think you ought to know, dear, what

everyone is saying--' What everyone was saying was that Sonia

Herries was living with a young ruffian from the streets, young

enough to be her son.

'You must get rid of them all and at once,' said Mrs. Weston, 'or

you won't have a friend left in London, darling.'

Left to herself, Sonia Herries did what she had not done for years,

she burst into tears. What had happened to her? Not only had her

will and determination gone but she felt most unwell. Her heart

was bad again; she could not sleep; the house, too, was tumbling to

pieces. There was dust over everything. How was she ever to

replace Rose? She was living in some horrible nightmare. This

dreadful handsome young man seemed to have some authority over her.

Yet he did not threaten her. All he did was to smile. Nor was she

in the very least in love with him. This must come to an end or

she would be lost.

Two days later, at tea-time, her opportunity arrived. Mr. and Mrs.

Edwards had called to see how Ada was; Ada was downstairs at last,

very weak and pale. Henry Abbott was there, also the baby. Sonia

Herries, although she was feeling dreadfully unwell, addressed them

all with vigour. She especially addressed the sharp-nosed Mrs.

Edwards.

'You must understand,' she said. 'I don't want to be unkind, but I

have my own life to consider. I am a very busy woman, and this has

all been forced on me. I don't want to seem brutal. I'm glad to

have been of some assistance to you, but I think Mrs. Abbott is

well enough to go home now--and I wish you all good night.'

'I am sure,' said Mrs. Edwards, looking up at her from the sofa,

'that you've been kindness itself, Miss Herries. Ada recognises

it, I'm sure. But to move her now would be to kill her, that's

all. Any movement and she'll drop at your feet.'

'We have nowhere to go,' said Henry Abbott.

'But Mrs. Edwards--' began Miss Herries, her anger rising.

'We have only two rooms,' said Mrs. Edwards quietly. 'I'm sorry,

but just now, what with my husband coughing all night--'

'Oh, but this is monstrous!' Miss Herries cried. 'I have had

enough of this. I have been generous to a degree--'

'What about my pay,' said Henry, 'for all these weeks?'

'Pay! Why, of course--' Miss Herries began. Then she stopped.

She realised several things. She realised that she was alone in

the house, the cook having departed that afternoon. She realised

that none of them had moved. She realised that her 'things'--the

Sickert, the Utrillo, the sofa--were alive with apprehension. She

was fearfully frightened of their silence, their immobility. She

moved towards her desk, and her heart turned, squeezed itself dry,

shot through her body the most dreadful agony.

'Please,' she gasped. 'In the drawer--the little green bottle--oh,

quick! Please, please!'

The last thing of which she was aware was the quiet handsome

features of Henry Abbott bending over her.

When, a week later, Mrs. Weston called, the girl, Ada Abbott,

opened the door to her.

'I came to enquire for Miss Herries,' she said. 'I haven't seen

her about. I have telephoned several times and received no

answer.'

'Miss Herries is very ill.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry. Can I not see her?'

Ada Abbott's quiet gentle tones were reassuring her. 'The doctor

does not wish her to see anyone at present. May I have your

address? I will let you know as soon as she is well enough.'

Mrs. Weston went away. She recounted the event. 'Poor Sonia,

she's pretty bad. They seem to be looking after her. As soon as

she's better we'll go and see her.'

The London life moves swiftly. Sonia Herries had never been of

very great importance to anyone. Herries relations enquired. They

received a very polite note assuring them that so soon as she was

better--

Sonia Herries was in bed, but not in her own room. She was in the

little attic bedroom but lately occupied by Rose the maid. She lay

at first in a strange apathy. She was ill. She slept and woke and

slept again. Ada Abbott, sometimes Mrs. Edwards, sometimes a woman

she did not know, attended to her. They were all very kind. Did

she need a doctor? No, of course she did not need a doctor, they

assured her. They would see that she had everything that she

wanted.

Then life began to flow back into her. Why was she in this room?

Where were her friends? What was this horrible food that they were

bringing her? What were they doing here, these women?

She had a terrible scene with Ada Abbott. She tried to get out of

bed. The girl restrained her--and easily, for all the strength

seemed to have gone from her bones. She protested, she was as

furious as her weakness allowed her, then she cried. She cried

most bitterly. Next day she was alone and she crawled out of bed;

the door was locked; she beat on it. There was no sound but her

beating. Her heart was beginning again that terrible strangled

throb. She crept back into bed. She lay there, weakly, feebly

crying. When Ada arrived with some bread, some soup, some water,

she demanded that the door should be unlocked, that she should get

up, have her bath, come downstairs to her own room.

'You are not well enough,' Ada said gently.

'Of course I am well enough. When I get out I will have you put in

prison for this--'

'Please don't get excited. It is so bad for your heart.'

Mrs. Edwards and Ada washed her. She had not enough to eat. She

was always hungry.

Summer had come. Mrs. Weston went to Etretat. Everyone was out of

town.

'What's happened to Sonia Herries?' Mabel Newmark wrote to Agatha

Benson. 'I haven't seen her for ages. . . .'

But no one had time to enquire. There were so many things to do.

Sonia was a good sort, but she had been nobody's business. . . .

Once Henry Abbott paid her a visit. 'I am so sorry that you are

not better,' he said smiling. 'We are doing everything we can for

you. It is lucky we were around when you were so ill. You had

better sign these papers. Someone must look after your affairs

until you are better. You will be downstairs in a week or two.'

Looking at him with wide-open terrified eyes, Sonia Herries signed

the papers.

The first rains of autumn lashed the streets. In the sitting-room

the gramophone was turned on. Ada and young Mr. Jackson, Maggie

Trent and stout Harry Bennett were dancing. All the furniture was

flung against the walls. Mr. Edwards drank his beer; Mrs. Edwards

was toasting her toes before the fire.

Henry Abbott came in. He had just sold the Utrillo. His arrival

was greeted with cheers.

He took the silver mask from the wall and went upstairs. He

climbed to the top of the house, entered, switched on the naked

light.

'Oh! Who--What--?' A voice of terror came from the bed.

'It's all right,' he said soothingly. 'Ada will be bringing your

tea in a minute.'

He had a hammer and nail and hung the silver mask on the speckled,

mottled wall-paper where Miss Herries could see it.

'I know you're fond of it,' he said. 'I thought you'd like it to

look at.'

She made no reply. She only stared.

'You'll want something to look at,' he went on. 'You're too ill,

I'm afraid, ever to leave this room again. So it'll be nice for

you. Something to look at.'

He went out, gently closing the door behind him.