Chapter XVII

When, one early July afternoon, Daphne and her father arrived at the Hotel Frohnalstock, at Brunnen, on the Lake of Lucerne, she learned that the news of their coming was already abroad among the guests, and looked forward to her descent that evening into the lounge or on to the terrace where these interested people would be waiting for their dinner. There was the pleasing memory, too, of six very simple but very new dresses in her trunks. She selected in her bedroom the one of pale cinnamon, and had completed her dressing by seven o'clock, which was half an hour too soon. Much too soon, for she had determined that her father and she should not enter the lounge till five minutes before the meal, so that as many people as possible might be congregated there. Twenty-five minutes to wait.

The French windows of her bedroom opened on to a private loggia; and stepping out into an air of Egyptian warmth, she purposed to kill time by staring at the lake. To her this view from her bedroom balcony seemed the most wonderful on which she had ever gazed. From the gardens at the hotel's base, four stories below, the lake spread a width of tranquil water, brilliant in the evening sun, till it lost itself in the dark reflections of the pine-clad mountains opposite. To the left--for Brunnen was almost at the lake's end--the water appeared to finish in a dark corner, shut from light by the wooded slopes. Above the pines before her rose the white peaks of the Urirotstock. At their foot, where the mountains formed a headland, a white rock, not unlike a coarse obelisk, stood alone in the water. Somewhere in the trees was the Rutli meadow where, many hundred years ago, the representatives of Uri, Schwyz and Unterwalden swore their forest cantons into an eternal alliance--and Switzerland was born.

It was her father who had decided that they must come first to Brunnen. Was not all its surrounding country--Schwyz, and Einsiedeln, and the Rutli meadow, and the Tellskapelle--the cradle of Swiss history and the holy ground of Swiss legends? Never would she forget her approach to it by steamboat from Lucerne. The grandeur of the mountains and the serenity of the water had raised in her, as she sat staring over the rail, a longing for intenser emotions than she had yet known--love, she supposed, no matter whether it brought joy or tragedy. She felt that she was ripe for something like that. Her mind was not superstitious; she had no belief in destiny or that she had been brought to this incomparable place for a pre-ordained experience. She just wondered whether, since something must happen some day, it might not happen here. She was now nineteen.

Five past seven. And dinner was at seven-thirty. During the next twenty minutes she kept looking at her watch, like an actor before the calls, "House-lights," and "Curtain." At twenty-five past she walked into her father's room next door.

"Come along quickly," she said. "They all know you're here, and I want to show you off."

They descended the wide, soft-carpeted stairs, Daphne with that unusual quiet and dignity which the consciousness of evening dress can throw about those unaccustomed to wearing it. As they entered the lounge and she pretended to be looking for some chairs the flutter of interest among the people made her more self-conscious than ever. She knew that all were glancing at her father and herself over newspapers, liqueurs or pince-nez. This feeling of notoriety threw her into an over-acted naturalness, and she said rather loudly:

"Oh, there we are, Daddy; there's a table and two chairs. I'll bag them."

And she almost ran towards them. Then she sat down, and, picking up a French journal, tried to appear at ease. Sometimes, however, she swept her eyes around the guests. There was still in her mind the wonder if, by faint chance, he, the lover, was there. No, she didn't think so. Once she did encounter the eyes of a young man who immediately avoided hers and became lost in a book--proof that he had been staring at her. Not liking to look his way again, she kept her quick impression of fair hair, none too tidy and inclined to fall towards one eyebrow, a clear forehead, and a very ordinary, rather childish but rather "sweet" face. His dress seemed slightly different from an Englishman's. Later she snatched another glance at him, just as a draught from the open windows blew that falling hair right across his forehead, and she thought that Shelley--at least in brow and hair--must have been like that.

A gong sounded in some remote passage, and its din grew louder as it was brought towards the lounge. The young man rose, and she saw that his figure was other than she had expected: he was tall, stooped a little, and, though probably twenty-five years old, had not yet lost the gracelessness of seventeen. A girl, almost certainly his sister, joined him, and they walked together into the spacious white restaurant.

During dinner Daphne was more than once aware that he had resumed his study of her, though pretending to chat with his sister. It was always her, rather than her father, that he watched, so she began to doubt if it was the Bruno name that engaged him. It looked very like instant admiration. One could not but return an interest.

After dinner, on the broad terrace that overlooked the lake, she sat with her father listening to a string quartette and watching other people walk up and down. The youth was among them, walking with his sister and an older man, who was conceivably her admirer, and every time he passed Daphne he pretended to know nothing of her nearness, talking gaily to his companion.

Soon her father yawned and spoke about early bed after his disgusting night in a train, but she begged for permission to stay up at least till ten, and presently he left her there. She got up from her chair, and, going to the balustrade of the terrace, watched the changing light on the water. A primordial darkness possessed the Rutli trees, and a night that was almost frightening filled the corner where the lake ended.

Next morning she was very late in getting up, and breakfasted alone between half-past nine and ten. Hurrying over the coffee and rolls, she passed out of the restaurant's doors on to the terrace to see if her father were sitting there with a book. She saw him twenty yards away in interested conversation with the youth who was seated, with obvious reverence, at his side. Hastily she withdrew into the restaurant and walked into the lounge through its communicating doors. There in an easy-chair she browsed the pictures in some English magazines till her father, entering from the terrace, stared about the room as if seeking his daughter. She whistled a long, fluttering note with a curve at its end, and Mr. Bruno perceived her.

"Duffy," said he. "Do you want to play tennis?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Well"--he sat beside her--"there's an American boy here who came up to me this morning----"

"You mean Shelley."

"Shelley? No, Detmould he calls himself. He came up to me with a most becoming modesty and asked if he might make himself known as he was a great admirer of your father's books--and tried to write himself. We've been having a most stimulating talk. He's got brains; indeed, a remarkable mind, I fancy. I should think he'll do something one day." Daphne exhibited interest, although disappointed that it had been the Bruno name, after all, which attracted him. "But now he's just asked if I and my daughter play tennis. I told him my age, which I am glad to say surprised him, and then said I'd ask you if you'd like to play."

"Oh, rather!"

"Then I think if you'll whistle to him as you did to me just now he'll come to heel."

"You whistle to him," suggested she.

"Personally, I make a distinction between dogs and men," said Mr. Bruno, getting up and walking towards the terrace. "To men I generally cough." He coughed and h'med, and drew the American boy into the room.

"This is my daughter, Mr. Detmould." Daphne jumped up, incurably thinking of herself as a child. "She ought to play well, since she's fresh from school."

"I'm not fresh from school. I left over two years ago."

"She was more or less expelled two years ago, since when I've had her on my hands. Duffy, this is Mr. Detmould, who kindly says you may play with him and his sister."

"Oh, thanks. I should love to.... Shall I go and change?"

She asked this of the young Detmould, who seemed rather embarrassed, and stuttered:

"Sure; if you will, thanks; and I'll go and get Elsie and Clarkson."

His American accent pleased her.

When she returned in a white tennis coat to the lounge she saw the young Detmould in flannels, and talking deferentially to her father. With his white shirt open at the throat, his hair already blown and his rather childish features, he would have looked a growing schoolboy, had it not been for a set--almost pained--thoughtfulness in his eyes and mouth. He rose as she entered, said: "Well, good-bye, sir," to Mr. Bruno, and led the way to the tennis-court.

The tennis-court was of dried earth, and had been cut out of a wooded slope. On three of the banks, therefore, were trees: horse-chestnuts and figs, with firs behind, and under the branches a few old and blistered garden-seats. A beaten track climbed from the gate in the surrounding network to the garden seats. At the minute, on the pale, slate-coloured earth, Elsie Detmould was playing a single with Mr. Clarkson, their companion of the previous night. They stopped as Daphne appeared.

"It's awfully nice of you to come," said Elsie with her pleasant American drawl. "I'm afraid none of us are any good except Henry"--she nodded towards her brother--"and he's terrible."

Then Henry was his name--Henry Detmould--and he didn't fit either.

In the first set Daphne was partnered with Henry, and whether it was that she was excited by the all-conquering play of her partner, or aided by the weakness of Mr. Clarkson and Elsie, she knew not, but she played as she never remembered playing before. The set went to her and Henry at 6-0.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Elsie. "I guess you're a player. What's wrong with a change of partners?"

Flushed with her success, Daphne determined to play her hardest against Henry, and she and Mr. Clarkson fought a fine losing battle. The points were contested with such obstinacy that each time they were won or lost she threw up both her arms and shrieked with excitement. And at the set's close she said over the net to Henry Detmould:

"You've no business to play at all, playing as well as that."

He blushed, and his sister endorsed: "He is horrible, isn't he?"

Tired, they were moving towards the seats, Elsie Detmould and Mr. Clarkson in front, and Daphne and Henry following with the net between them.

"But you'll make a wonderful player yourself," said Henry.

"Oh, I'm no good," protested Daphne. "I didn't play all last year."

"You're a born player. All you want is a spell of singles with some one a little stronger than yourself."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes. Will you--will you play at least one set of singles with me every day. I should love to--to bring you out."

"Oh, may I? But won't it be horribly dull for you?"

"Not at all. I----" There he stopped, unable to phrase exactly what he was thinking. They were on the beaten path now, she leading, and when they reached the seat he picked up her white coat and silently helped her on with it.

After a rest they decided on a return set, and Daphne in her keenness ran first down the track on to the court. When all were placed for play, she frowned through the strings of her racket at Henry saying: "Now, don't you be too much of a beast this time," and he looked awkwardly away, but smiled. In this set she did not play so well, being anxious to justify his invitation, and, when it was over, felt compelled to say: "You can withdraw your invitation if you like."

"No," smiled he. "I've no desire to. In fact, if you play badly I shall put you through a longer course."

She answered nothing, but again walked ahead up the beaten path. That Henry Detmould, even as Roger six years before, had been attracted to her from the first glance, was plain enough, and that her own response was already troubling her. It was a different response. This American boy had not Roger's good looks to quicken her admiration and pride; she knew nothing whatever about him, and yet--Heaven only knew why--she fancied her heart was beating a little quicker for him.

Having returned to the hotel, she ran up all those stairs, dismissing the last of her breath, and, before preparing for lunch, entered in her diary: "Played tennis 10.30 to 12.30 with Miss Detmould, Mr. Clarkson, and Shelley."

She did not see him again till after dinner on the terrace. Then when the quartette was again playing they found themselves sitting side by side and watching the evening as it fell over the water or lit up behind the mountains.

The talk had begun with perfunctory remarks about their tennis, but it only became really interesting when the falling darkness inspired them to discuss themselves.

"Do you know," said Henry suddenly, "I'm really bowled over by meeting your father and you here. I've so long been a student of his books. In fact, I think they decided the course of my life."

Next to hearing praise of oneself the most uncomfortable thing is to hear praise of one's parents, and Daphne replied awkwardly:

"They are quite good, aren't they?"

"I think they're magnificent."

"Have you published any books?"

"Lord, no!" muttered he. "And I've very little hopes of any one ever publishing my stuff; but I'm always writing, and always shall do. Do you write, too?"

"I want to."

"Oh, you will, then. You're sure to."

"I don't know." Daphne's head shook. "I'm losing hope. I seem to have no powers of invention at all. I can't invent any plot that hasn't been done before."

"Invention! What do you want with invention? Invention's the opposite of true art."

Her face swung to his.

"How do you mean?"

"Invention, inasmuch as it is invention, must be insincere. Art isn't the invention of entertaining stuff, it's--it's--oh, it's the liberation, for your own relief, of all the emotion stirred in you by the spectacle of life. It's the transmuting into some art form of your reaction, as we say in America--your reaction to life."

"Regardless of whether any one will read it, or publish it?" queried Daphne.

"Absolutely.... Or no.... No, you do hope, when you've given a created form to your emotion, that there'll be those one day who will recognise it as akin to their own, and care to contemplate it, and even thrill to it.... But that mustn't be the thought that drives you to write."

This was the beginning. Henry poured out his views on art. Art wasn't entertainment.... The true artist gave but little thought to the spectator.... All he sought was expression--escape--release.... And these ideas, coming on a living voice, driven forward by a personality that attracted her, stood clear before Daphne. Never from her confused reading had they come out like this. She'd been wrong--she'd been all along wrong; half of her desire to write had been hunger for fame, and the other half imitation. Her reaction to life? She hadn't got one.... And yet there had been moments.... Yes, perhaps one-tenth of her desire had been the true impulse.

The talk became a confession where Daphne, as a penitent, sought counsel from her director. She confessed that, so far from having emotions and a view-point of her own, she was never thrilled by a noble passage in an author without wanting to write like him and from his view-point.

"Exactly," said Henry. "Your reaction has been to literature and not to life."

"And yet I don't know," demurred she. "There have been times----" And she told him the story of Taverney Churchyard. Henry listened, sometimes wrinkling his brow at the lake as he thought out answers, sometimes turning to watch her as she spoke. His reply lingered, and when it came was strange.

"Forgive me asking it, but have you suffered at all in your life?"

She smiled over the inevitable reply.

"Not much, I suppose."

"Because I've a fancy that it's not till we've suffered a great deal that our hearts, when they are moved like that, will be so charged with sympathy that it gives us much--everything to write."

And ambition. What was to be done about her ambition? Must she believe, then, that she was a sham--for she was sure, whatever he said, she would never expel it? "I do want to do all you say, but I do want to be famous, too, and soon, while all my friends are alive."

Henry thought long, and once ran his fingers into the hair that the breeze on the terrace was blowing across his forehead. "No, it must go," he said; and at that moment he threw the end of his cigarette over the balustrade as if it were Daphne's ambition. It must go. It was a corruptive principle. All that could remain of it was her hope to please the few who would understand.

"I am convinced that many true artists start from those two points of ambition and imitation, and work through, dropping the false values, one by one, till they discover their real selves."

Silence, till Daphne asked:

"But if you never get anything published at all?"

Henry looked along the emptying terrace. They must have been talking for hours.

"A really big thing, I fancy, always gets through--sooner or later. But, at any rate, people like you and me, if we're never able to produce anything big enough, at least can join the few who understand."

When she smiled "Good night" at him at the lift door and walked along the corridor to her bedroom, she had a sense that she had enjoyed the most wonderful conversation in her life. With no one else had she been able to talk like that. In such an intimacy was a serenity as delightful, as blissful--there was no other word--as when she walked with her thoughts in the glades of Montmorency.