Caroline did as she was bidden, and they spoke for a little while of fashion, gossip, mutual acquaintances and other agreeable and unimportant things.
A little before dinner was served the door opened and a youth of about sixteen came in. He was already tall and lean, as if outgrowing his strength. He had his mother’s wide blue eyes and dark hair. His skin was still soft; it would be some time before he needed to shave. He was composed, but his slightly awkward silence, the uncertainty what to do with his hands, betrayed his shyness. That much at least was sharply reminiscent of his father, and Caroline could so easily imagine Ralph Marchand at the same age.
“How do you do, Mrs. Fielding,” he replied when they were introduced. She wanted to engage him in conversation so he would not have to search for something to say to her. What manner of subject would interest a boy of his age? She must not seem condescending or intrusive, or make him feel as if he was being examined.
He looked at her steadily because he had been taught it was rude not to meet people’s eyes when you spoke to them, but she could see he was highly uncomfortable doing so, only waiting for the moment he could disengage himself.
She smiled. Complete candor was the only thing that came to her mind.
“I am very pleased you joined us, Lewis, but at a loss to know what to say to you. I’m sure you are not the least interested in the latest births, deaths and marriages in society, or the fashions either. I do not know sufficient of politics to discuss them with anyone except in the most superficial manner. I am afraid I have become rather singular in my interests lately, and that may make me very tedious.”
He drew in his breath to make the denial courtesy called for, and she cut him off. “Please don’t feel the need to be polite. Instead, tell me what you would most like to speak of, were you to initiate the conversation and not I.”
“Oh!” He looked startled and a little flattered. A warm color flushed up his cheeks, but he did not seek to move away.
“Papa tells me Mr. Fielding is an actor. Is that really so?”
“Are you still being courteous?” she said, teasing him very gently. “You really would wish to speak of the one thing I am obsessed with myself? Or are you trying to make me feel at ease, just as I am with you? If so, you are remarkably sophisticated for one so early in his career. You will be an enormous success in society. Ladies will love you.”
He blushed scarlet. He opened his mouth to say something and quite obviously could think of nothing adequate. His eyes were shining, and it was a moment before she realized he was making an intense effort to look only at her face, not even for an instant to allow his gaze to slide as far as her neck or shoulder, let alone the smooth skin above her bosom.
Mr. Marchand cleared his throat as if about to speak, then said nothing.
Mrs. Marchand blinked.
Caroline was aware of an oppressive silence. The sudden crackling of the fire was almost explosive.
“Yes, he is an actor,” she said more abruptly than she intended. “Do you like the theatre? I expect you are studying plays in your schoolwork?”
“Oh yes,” he agreed. “But mostly Shakespeare, I’m afraid. Nothing very modern. That is all very. . well, some of it is outrageous. Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that Mr. Fielding. .”
“Of course you didn’t,” she agreed quickly. “I expect Shakespeare was considered outrageous in his time, at least by some.”
“Do you think so?” He looked hopeful. “It all seems so. . historical! Sort of. . safe. . the histories happened. . and we know they did.”
She laughed. “I expect even Mr. Ibsen will be a classic one day, and perfectly ‘safe’ as well.” She knew that was what Joshua would have said. “And we don’t know what really happened in the histories, only what Shakespeare told us for the sake of his drama.”
He was surprised. “Do you think it wasn’t true?” It was obviously a new thought to him. “I suppose it doesn’t have to be, does it? Maybe there was no one to stop libel and blasphemy then.” He was frowning. “Only it wasn’t, of course. . I mean, not Shakespeare. Maybe all the things that were have been stopped. . either by some censorship, or because we learned they were untrue, so we didn’t watch them anymore.”
“I should think it is more likely we became so used to them, we now believe they are the truth,” she replied, and then instantly wondered if perhaps she was speaking too freely. He was only a child, after all. “You may well be right,” she amended. “In the long run we are fairly competent judges of what is good.” She hoped Joshua would forgive her for such arrant nonsense. “What are you studying?”
“Julius Caesar,” he said instantly.
“Marvelous!” she responded. “My favorite. . except that all the characters that matter are men.”
He looked surprised.
“How about Hamlet? You would appreciate that, and perhaps understand him.” She was certain he would be familiar with the great scenes, if not with all of it. “And one must surely feel a terrible pity for Ophelia?”
He was startled, then embarrassed, and there was a fleeting moment when she thought she saw revulsion in his eyes, then it was gone again. “Oh. . yes.” But he looked away, the blood pink in his cheeks. “Of course.” He struggled for something else to say, away from a subject that apparently disturbed him.
Ralph Marchand moved very slightly.
Caroline sensed she was treading on ground full of unknown fears and assumptions, far too dangerous to continue when she knew him so little.
“Perhaps in the future,” she said lightly. She turned to Mrs. Marchand. “I hear there is a new political satire. I am not sure whether I wish to see it or not. Sometimes they are so obvious there is no point, and other times they are so abstruse I have no idea what the point is.”
The tension dissipated. They talked for a few minutes longer on harmless subjects. Lewis, having paid his respects to the visitor, excused himself, leaving the adults to go in to dinner.
It was a very traditional meal, unsurprising but excellently cooked. It took Caroline into the safety of the past, when so much had been familiar with all the reassurance of the knowledge that she understood it, that she knew the questions and the answers and was certain of her own place. Now there were countless situations where she had to think harder, weigh her responses. She seemed to spend half her time struggling to say something appropriate, trying to keep her balance between being true to her beliefs and yet not sounding insensitive, old- fashioned and exhibiting precisely that bigotry her new friends despised. Although it was Joshua who really mattered. How much did she disappoint him? He was too innately kind to look for fault or to express criticism where it could do no good. The very knowledge of that brought a sudden closing of her throat, and she rushed into speech to drive it away.
Mrs. Marchand was talking about censorship. Behind her, her husband’s face was dark, his body tense as he listened.
“. . and we have to protect the innocent from the darkness of mind which can so easily injure them permanently,” she was saying.
“Darkness of mind?” Caroline had not heard the beginning and did not know to what she referred.
Mrs. Marchand leaned forward a little across the table, the pearl embroidery on her gown catching the light. “My dear, take that play we saw the other evening, just for one example. It is amazing what can become acceptable if one sees it often enough, and in public. There are ideas which you and I would find appalling and which undermine all the values we most cherish, and if we were among our trusted friends we would all feel free to express our outrage when they are mocked or violated.” Her face was creased with earnestness. “And yet when it is done with wit and we are made to laugh, it feels different. No one wishes to seem without humor, to be pompous or out-of-date. We all laugh. No one looks at anyone else. No one knows who is really embarrassed or offended. And sooner or later we become used to whatever it is, and it no longer offends us. It becomes more and more difficult to say anything. We feel isolated, as if the whole tide of what everyone thinks has moved on and left us behind, alone.”
Caroline knew precisely what she meant. She was correct. One grows less sensitive to vulgarity, to coarseness of thought or perception, even to witness of other people’s pain. The initial shock wears off. Anger finally dies.
And yet she heard herself saying what she knew Joshua would have were he there.
“Of course it does. That is why we must constantly explore the boundaries and find new ways to say things,
