Read Levels of Life for Free Online Page B

blood might be pure English all the way back to Edward Longshanks, he was aware that it did not always show. He knew what some privately thought, because in drink they nearly said it to his face. When he was a young subaltern, there had been a joke in the mess that he looked like an Italian baritone. ‘Sing us a song, Burnaby,’ the fellows would chant. And so, every time, until they tired of it, he would stand and sing them neither operetta nor bawdy, but some plain, lilting song of the English shires.
    And there had been that supercilious young lieutenant called Dyer, always suggesting he might be a Jew. Not in so many words, of course, just the broadest hints. ‘Money? Let’s ask Burnaby about that.’ Not so subtle. After a few such remarks, he had taken Lieutenant Dyer aside and spoken as if they were not wearing uniform. And that had been the end of it. But Burnaby did remember.
    So the fact that Madame Sarah had been born a Jewess was not of great concern to him. Born a Jewess, converted to Catholicism. Burnaby did not absolve himself of strong feelings when it came to preferring one race over another, but he did believe that in the matter of the Jews, he looked on them more benignly than did most Frenchmen he had met. So, in a way, he took such prejudice upon himself, and Dyer might consider them both false Jews if he wanted to. Which made him feel closer to Madame Sarah.
     
    And so, as the weeks passed, he imagined their future more precisely. He would resign his commission. He would quit England, and she would quit Paris. Of course, she would continue to amaze the world, but her genius must not be squandered day after day, night after night. She would play a season here, a season there, and in between they would travel to places where she was as yet unknown. From their shared bohemianism, a new pattern would emerge. Love would change her, as it was changing him. How, he did not exactly know.
    So that was all clear in his mind, and he must bring the subject up. Not now, of course, not between dinner and bed. It was a matter for the morning. High-hearted, he addressed himself to the ballotine of duck.
    ‘Capitaine Fred,’ she began, and he thought that his definition of bliss would be to hear those two words, in that voice, in that French accent, for the rest of his days. ‘Capitaine Fred, what do you imagine to be the future of flight? Of human flight, human beings, men and women, up in the atmosphere together?’
    He answered the question he heard.
    ‘Aerial navigation is a mere question of lightness and force,’ he replied. ‘Attempts – my own included – to propel and steer balloons have failed. And probably will continue to do so. There is no doubt that heavier-than-air flight is the future.’
    ‘I see. I have not yet ascended in a balloon, but I think that a pity.’
    He cleared his throat.
    ‘May I ask why, my dear?’
    ‘Of course, Capitaine Fred. Ballooning is freedom, is it not?’
    ‘Indeed.’
    ‘It is being blown whichever way by nature’s whims. It is dangerous too.’
    ‘Indeed.’
    ‘Whereas, if we are to imagine a heavier-than-air machine, it would be equipped with some kind of engine. It would have controls by which it might be steered, which would order its ascent and descent. And it would be less dangerous.’
    ‘Undoubtedly.’
    ‘Do you not see what I am saying?’
    Burnaby reflected. Was it because she was a woman, because she was French, or because she was an actress, that he did not understand?
    ‘I fear I am still in the clouds, Madame Sarah.’
    She smiled again, and not an actress’s smile – unless, he suddenly realised, an actress would, as a normal part of her skills, have a non-actress’s smile at her disposal.
    ‘I do not say that war is preferable to peace. I do not say that. But danger is preferable to safety.’
    Now he thought he might be on to her meaning, and did not like the sound of it.
    ‘I believe in danger as much as you. That will never leave