The Mysterious Mr. Quin quotes

Mr. Satterthwaite was glad that the young people had gone to bed.

He was not fond of young people in herds.

He thought them uninteresting and crude. They lacked subtlety and as life went on he had become increasingly fond of subtleties.

Mr. Satterthwaite was sixty-two—a little bent, dried-up man with a peering face oddly elflike, and an intense and inordinate interest in other people's lives.

All his life, so to speak, he had sat in the front row of the stalls watching various dramas of human nature unfold before him.

His role had always been that of the onlooker. Only now, with old age holding him in its clutch, he found himself increasingly critical of the drama submitted to him. He demanded now something a little out of the common.

His role had always been that of the onlooker. Only now, with old age holding him in its clutch, he found himself increasingly critical of the drama submitted to him.

He demanded now something a little out of the common.

There was no doubt that he had a flair for these things. He knew instinctively when the elements of drama were at hand. Like a war horse, he sniffed the scent.

He observed her now covertly. Interesting woman—very. So still, and yet so—alive. Alive! That was just it!

Not exactly beautiful—no, you wouldn't call her beautiful, but there was a kind of calamitous magic about her that you couldn't miss—that no man could miss.

The masculine side of Mr. Satterthwaite spoke there, but the feminine side (for Mr. Satterthwaite had a large share of femininity), was equally interested in another question: Why did Mrs. Portal dye her hair?

He shot himself, you know. Oh! very well, Tom dear, I won't speak of it unless you like. It was a great shock for Tom, of course, because he was here when it happened. So were you, weren't you, Sir Richard?"

An old grandfather clock in the corner groaned, wheezed, snorted asthmatically, and then struck twelve.

"Happy New Year," grunted Evesham perfunctorily.

"Gad!" said Conway. "Listen to the wind. It's a wild night."

"A good night for ghosts to walk," said Portal with a reckless laugh.

"All the devils in hell are abroad tonight."

Conway stared at him. "What d'you mean? I don't understand."

"A problem is not necessarily unsolvable because it has remained unsolved."

"Oh! Come, man, if nothing came out at the time, it's not likely to come out now—ten years afterward?"

"You are right, Mr. Quin," he cried, "you are right.

Time does not dispose of a question—it only presents it anew in a different guise.

"

"Eleanor, forgive me—forgive me. You told me the truth, but God forgive me—I did not quite believe—"

Mr. Satterthwaite was intensely interested in other people's affairs, but he was also a gentleman.

It was borne in upon him that he must shut the window. He did so.

Her companion, that same Mr. Satterthwaite whose name figured at the end of the list of guests, looked at her interrogatively.

It had been said that if Mr. Satterthwaite was found at the houses of those rich who had newly arrived, it was a sign either that the cooking was unusually good, or that a drama of human life was to be enacted there.

Mr. Satterthwaite was abnormally interested in the comedies and tragedies of his fellow men.

He was silent a minute or two, staring, not at the house, but at the thick undergrowth by which they were surrounded.

"Has it ever struck you," he said, "that civilization's damned dangerous?"

"Dangerous?" Such a revolutionary remark shocked Mr. Satterthwaite to the core.

Mr. Satterthwaite, in spite of his earnest wish to discountenance any suggestion that might possibly be made to him—he was in that mood—nevertheless looked down the road toward the creaking inn sign with faint inward approval.

He was a man of birdlike appetite, an epicure; but even such men can be hungry.

"The Bells and Motley," he said thoughtfully. "That's an odd name for an inn. I don't know that I ever heard it before."

The other man shook his head gently.

"I assure you," he said, "that I have not a bowl of goldfish or a rabbit to produce from my sleeve."

"Too bad," cried Mr. Satterthwaite, a little taken aback. "Yes, I must confess—I do rather adopt that attitude toward you. A man of magic. Ha, ha. That is how I regard you. A man of magic."

Father begins it: 'It reminds me, this does, of the night poor Captain Harwell—' And so on, and so on." She turned on Mr. Quin. "You've heard how he goes on. What's the sense of it? Can't anyone let past things be?"

"A thing is only past when it is done with," said Mr. Quin.

"Isn't this done with? Suppose he wanted to disappear? These fine gentlemen do sometimes."

"You have seen much of life," said Mr. Quin gravely. "More than most people."

"Life has passed me by," said Mr. Satterthwaite bitterly.

"But in so doing has sharpened your vision. Where others are blind you can see."

"You are a strange man," said Mr. Satterthwaite slowly. "You believe in the past, not the present. Why?"

"You used, not long ago, the word atmosphere. There is no atmosphere in the present."

"That is true, perhaps," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully. "Yes, it is true. The present is apt to be—parochial."

"That is everything, is it not? To deceive the eye? Sometimes by the quickness of the hand, sometimes—by other means. There are many devices, the pistol shot, the waving of a red handkerchief, something that seems important, but in reality is not.

The eye is diverted from the real business, it is caught by the spectacular action that means nothing—nothing at all.

"

Three times before he had met Mr. Quin, and each time the meeting had resulted in something a little out of the ordinary.

A strange person, this Mr. Quin, with a knack of showing you the things you had known all along in a totally different light.

At once Mr. Satterthwaite felt excited—pleasurably excited. His role was that of the looker-on, and he knew it, but sometimes, when in the company of Mr. Quin, he had the illusion of being an actor—and the principal actor at that.

Mr. Satterthwaite gripped the table with both hands.

He was uplifted, carried out of himself. For the moment he was an artist pure and simple—an artist whose medium was words.

Swiftly, with a dozen broad strokes, he etched in the picture of life at Deering Hill. Sir George Barnaby, elderly, obese, purse-proud. A man perpetually fussing over the little things of life.

"You are, I believe, a rich man, Mr. Satterthwaite. Not a millionaire, but a man able to indulge a hobby without counting the expense. You have looked on at the dramas of other people.

Have you never contemplated stepping in and playing a part? Have you never seen yourself for a minute as the arbiter of other people's destinies—standing in the center of the stage with life and death in your hands?

"

The elder man turned a thoughtful face to him.

"Life is lived very much the same everywhere," he said rather wearily. "It wears different clothes—that's all."

Franklin Rudge stared. "I don't get you."

"Oh! that's all right." Rudge laughed, displaying the beautiful teeth of all his countrymen. "I don't say, mind you, that I'm not disappointed in the Casino. I thought the gambling would be different—something much more feverish. It seems just rather dull and sordid to me."

"Gambling is life and death to the gambler, but it has no great spectacular value," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "It is more exciting to read about than to see."

The young man nodded his agreement.

Mr. Satterthwaite, whose private estimate of the lady's age was between forty-five and forty-nine, merely raised his eyebrows.

"I should caution you against believing all you are told at Monte Carlo," he murmured.

He had enough experience to know the futility of arguing with the lad. Franklin Rudge was at a pitch of white-hot chivalry when he would have disbelieved any statement that was not backed with authoritative proof.

He told his story—perhaps at somewhat unnecessary length.

It was, like many true stories, greatly inferior to fiction.

As he uttered the last word, Pierre Vaucher, opposite him, seemed to wake up. He also had done justice to the champagne. He leaned forward across the table.

She had quantities of diamonds in old-fashioned settings, and she wore them as her mother before her had worn them: pinned all over her indiscriminately.

Someone had suggested once that the Duchess stood in the middle of the room while her maid flung brooches at her haphazard.

She subscribed generously to charities, and looked well after her tenants and dependents, but was extremely mean over small sums. She cadged lifts from her friends, and did her shopping in bargain basements.

The Duchess, on the contrary, was perfectly fresh.

She never minded discomfort, if she could feel she was saving money.

She waxed enthusiastic over the scene on the quay, with the palm trees and the rising sun. The whole population seemed to have turned out to watch the arrival of the boat, and the launching of the gangway was attended with excited cries and directions.

"I happened to bring some biscuits and a stick of chocolate on board with me," said the Duchess. "When I found there was no dinner to be got, I gave the lot to her.

The lower classes always make such a fuss about going without their meals.

"

With a cry of triumph the launching of the gangway was accomplished.

A musical comedy chorus of brigands rushed aboard and wrested hand luggage from the passengers by main force.

"Come on, Satterthwaite," said the Duchess. "I want a hot bath and some coffee."

"Nothing," said Naomi. "He's all right. And you're all right. The tops of things are always nice and shiny and smooth. I respect you, Duchess; you've got force; you've met life fair and square and you've come out on top.

But the people who are underneath see the under side of things. And that's interesting in a way.

"

She walked on a few steps, and Mr. Satterthwaite joined her. They were beyond the houses now. The road stopped. As Naomi had said, this was the end, the back of beyond, the beginning of nowhere.

Behind them the white ribbon of the road, in front of them—nothing. Only far, far below, the sea.

Mr. Satterthwaite drew a deep breath. "It's an extraordinary place. One feels that anything might happen here, that one might meet—anyone—"

Mr. Quin nodded his head slowly several times. "Yes—a very suggestive name.

I suppose one only comes once in one's life to a place like that—a place where one can't go on any longer.

"

At a distance the youthful effect was really extraordinary. One almost wondered if she were grown up or not. Mr. Satterthwaite, who knew everything, knew that it was perfectly possible for Lady Stranleigh to have grown-up grandchildren.

She represented the extreme triumph of art over nature.

Her figure was marvelous, her complexion was marvelous. She had enriched many beauty parlors and certainly the result was astounding. Lady Stranleigh lighted a cigarette, crossed her beautiful legs, encased in the finest of nude stockings, and murmured:

Lady Stranleigh turned her beautiful blue eyes upon him. "You have never met her, have you? She is Charles's daughter," she added helpfully.

If entries in Who's Who were strictly truthful, the entry concerning Lady Stranleigh might have ended as follows: hobbies: getting married.

She had floated through life shedding husbands as she went. She had lost three by divorce and one by death.

"Well, I didn't exactly press her.

Daughters have a depressing effect upon one, I find.

"

Mr. Satterthwaite read this correctly as the reserve of the well-trained servant. "What do you really think, Clayton?" he said persuasively.

"I think, sir, that something very wicked must have been done in this house, and that until that is wiped out there won't be any peace."

The woman spoke gravely, and her faded blue eyes met his steadily.

"A Greek head," said Mr. Satterthwaite reverently. "Pure Greek." He sighed happily.

"It's a remarkable thing when you come to think of it—how very few people have hair that fits them."

"You are so observant," said Mr. Quin.

The young lady stopped exclaiming at the bluebells and suddenly confided in Mr. Satterthwaite (as a true friend) her love for another.

Mr. Satterthwaite put away the little set speech he had prepared, and hastily rummaged for sympathy and friendship in the bottom drawer of his mind.

Such was Mr.

The young man must be of a more banal order than he supposed. Gillian evidently thought the idea quite in keeping with her rejected lover's character. Mr. Satterthwaite was a little—just a little—disappointed.

He was sentimental himself, and knew it, but he expected better things of the rest of the world.

Besides, sentiment belonged to his age. It had no part to play in the modern world.

He went away with his interest in Philip Eastney strangely stimulated. An extraordinarily interesting young man. And yet the girl with the wonderful face preferred Charlie Burns.

What a strange and inscrutable universe!

It had just occurred to Mr. Satterthwaite that, owing to the remarkable beauty of Gillian West, his evening with Mr. Quin had somehow missed fire. As a rule, every meeting with that mysterious individual had resulted in some strange and unforeseen happening.

"No, no, you don't really mean that," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "You wouldn't have painted that picture if you did.

Tradition and atmosphere are intangible things. They take centuries to build up and if you destroyed them you couldn't rebuild them again in twenty-four hours.

"

Mr. Satterthwaite looked toward the empty chair at his side and, smiling to himself as though at some hidden joke the others could not see, he said quietly,

"Sometimes one sees things more clearly years afterward than one could possibly at the time."

"Nonsense," spluttered Monckton, "arrant nonsense! How can you possibly see things better when they are vague in your memory instead of clear and sharp?"

"I suppose if something very terrible had happened, so terrible as to be almost unbearable, one might get like that.

One might run away from reality into a half-world of one's own and then, of course, after a time, one wouldn't be able to get back.

"

"Not really," said Mr. Quin.

"The trouble is that we are not content just to see things—we will tack the wrong interpretation onto the things we see."

Aspasia Glen turned to Frank Bristow. "I want to know," she said nervously, "what put the idea of painting that picture into your head?"

"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

"But in my experience one can never really know all about anyone else. That is part of the interest and charm of life."

"Oh! I'll risk it," said Madge, laughing, and they went up to dress for dinner.

Enchantment—that was it. She had the quality of enchantment. She might have been one of those creatures who are only half human—one of the Hidden People from the Hollow Hills.

She made everyone else look rather too real.

But at the same time, in a queer way, she stirred his pity. It was as though semi-humanity handicapped her. He sought for a phrase and found it. A bird with a broken wing, thought Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Of course you couldn't. And it's not—the actual thing—I'm not happy yet—but I'm going to be." She leaned forward.

"Do you know what it's like to stand in a wood—a big wood with dark shadows and trees very close all round you—a wood you might never get out of—and then, suddenly—just in front of you, you see the country of your dreams—shining and beautiful—you've only got to step out from the trees and the darkness and you've found it?"

"So many things look beautiful," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "before we've reached them. Some of the ugliest things in the world look the most beautiful."

No conversation, thought Mr. Satterthwaite. No good music. No peace.

He wished the world had not become definitely so noisy.

Suddenly Mabelle Annesley broke off, smiling across the room at him, and began to sing a song of Grieg's.

In his own view, however, he was not old.

Sixty-nine was an interesting age—an age of infinite possibilities—an age when at last the experience of a lifetime was beginning to tell.

But to feel old—that was different—a tired, discouraged state of mind when one was inclined to ask oneself depressing questions. What was he, after all?

Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. "No," he said simply. "In the first place, I doubt if I should have the courage. It needs courage, and I am not at all a brave individual. And in the second place—"

"I always want to know what is going to happen tomorrow."

Cosdon rose suddenly with a laugh. "Well, sir, you've been very good in letting me talk to you. I hardly know why—Anyway, there it is. I've said a lot too much. Forget it."

The girl's parents naturally want to know. When he discovers the truth, he will break with her, exile himself, ruin his life. Oh! I know the things you would say. He is young, foolish, wrong-headed to take it like that! All true perhaps.

But does it matter what people ought to be? They are what they are.

It will break his heart. But if, before he comes, there has been an accident, everything will be swallowed up in grief for me. He will look through my papers, find nothing, and be annoyed that I told him so little.

Your cue may not come till the end of the play—it may be totally unimportant, a mere walking-on part, but upon it may hang the issues of the play, if you do not give the cue to another player. The whole edifice may crumple.

You, as you, may not matter to anyone in the world, but you as a person in a particular place may matter unimaginably.

"

"You must excuse me, but there I beg to differ from you," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Nobody knows what another person is thinking. They may imagine they do, but they are nearly always wrong."

"Well, perhaps that's so." Cosdon was doubtful, slightly taken aback.

"Supposing that, after all, that man loved his young wife.

Love can make devils of men as well as angels.

She had a girlish adoration for him, but he could never touch the womanhood in her—and that drove him mad. He tortured her because he loved her. Such things happen. You know that as well as I do."

"A rubbish heap," exclaimed Mr. Satterthwaite, and breathed deeply and indignantly.

"Sometimes there are very wonderful things on a rubbish heap," said Mr. Quin.

"I know, I know," cried Mr. Satterthwaite, and quoted with just a trace of self-consciousness: "'Bring me the two most beautiful things in the city,' said God. You know how it goes, eh?"

Mr. Satterthwaite thought,

What an extraordinary thing a voice is. The things it says—and the things it leaves unsaid and means!

I wish I knew—

He found that oddly touching. He was, then, of use to someone.

And he went on saying those things that meant nothing at all, but which were, somehow, better than silence.

They went that way to the Roscheimers'. Now and then her hand tightened on his shoulder, and he understood that she was glad of his company. She only took it away when they finally came to their destination.

Mr. Satterthwaite came out of his dream. He was alert once more, the critic.

Wickam was an unutterable ass, but he could write music—delicate gossamer stuff, intangible as a fairy web—yet with nothing of the pretty-pretty about it.

The scenery was good. Lady Roscheimer never spared expense when aiding her protégées. A glade of Arcady with lighting effects that gave it the proper atmosphere of unreality.

Now his body was far away from Lady Roscheimer's drawing room. It was in a Berlin museum gazing at a statuette of an immortal Columbine.

Harlequin and Columbine danced on. The wide world was theirs to dance in.

Moonlight—and a human figure. Pierrot wandering through the wood, singing to the moon. Pierrot who has seen Columbine and knows no rest. The immortal two vanish, but Columbine looks back. She has heard the song of a human heart.

"There is only one Kharsanova.

No one could see you dance and forget.

But why—why?"