5
The top-floor bell would not ring. After some hesitation Miriam rang the house bell. The door was opened by a woman in a silk petticoat and a dressing jacket. Miriam gazed dumbly into large clear blue eyes gazing at her from a large clean clear fresh face feathered with little soft natural curls, cut out sharply against the dark passage.
“Are you for the top?” enquired the woman in a smooth serene sleepy voice.
“Yes” announced Miriam eagerly coming in and closing the door, her ears straining to catch the placid words spoken by the woman as she disappeared softly into a softly-lit room. She went tremulously up the dark stairs into a thick stale odour of rancid fried grease and on towards a light that glimmered from the topmost short flight of steep uncarpeted winding stairs. “They’re in” said her thoughts with a quick warm leap. “Hullo” she asserted, ascending the stairs.
“Hullo” came in response a quick challenging voice ... a soft clear reed-like happy ring that Miriam felt to her knees while her happy feet stumbled on.
“Is that the Henderson?”
“It’s me” said Miriam emerging on a tiny landing and going through the open door of a low-ceiled lamplit room. “It’s me it’s me” she repeated from the middle of the floor. An eager face was turned towards her from a thicket of soft dull wavy hair. She gazed vaguely. The small slippered feet planted firmly high up against the lintel the sweep of the red dressing-gown, the black patch of the Mudie book with its yellow label, the small ringed hand upon it, the outflung arm and hand the little wreath of smoke about the end of the freshly lit cigarette, the cup of coffee on the little table under the lamp, the dim shapes about the room lit by the flickering blaze....
Miriam smiled into the smiling steel blue of the eyes turned towards her and waited smiling for the silver reed of tone to break again. “I’m so glad you’ve come. I wanted you. Sit down and shut the door my child.... I don’t mind which you do first, but—do—them—both,” she tinkled, stretching luxuriously and bringing her feet to the ground with a swing. Miriam closed the door. “Can I take off my things?”
“Of course child ... take them all off; you know I admire you most draped in a towel.”
“I’ve got such awful feet” said Miriam hugging the compliment as she dropped her things in a distant arm-chair.
“It’s not your feet, it’s your extraordinary shoes.”
“M.”
“How beautiful you look. You put on ties better than anyone I know. I wish I could wear things draped round my neck.”
Miriam sat down in the opposite wicker chair.
“Isn’t it cold—my feet are freezing; it’s raining.”
“Take off your shoes.”
Miriam got off her shoes and propped them in the fender to dry.
“What is that book?”
“Eden Philpotts’s ‘Children of the Mist’” fluted the voice reverently. “Read it?”
“No” said Miriam expectantly.
The eager face turned to an eager profile with eyes brooding into the fire. “He’s so wonderful” mused the voice and Miriam watched eagerly. Mag read books—for their own sake; and could judge them and compare them with other books by the same author ... but all this wonderful knowledge made her seem wistful; knowing all about books and plays and strangely wistful and regretful; the things that made her eyes blaze and made her talk reverently or in indignant defence always seemed sad in the end ... wistful hero worship ... raving about certain writers and actors as if she did not know they were people.
“He’s so wonderful” went on the voice with its perpetual modulations “he gets all the atmosphere of the west country—perfectly. You live there while you’re reading him.”
With a little chill sense of Mag in this wonderful room alone, living in the west country and herself coming in as an interruption, Miriam noted the name of the novelist in her mind ... there was something about it, she knew she would not forget it; soft and numb with a slight clatter and hiss at the end, a rain-storm, the atmosphere of Devonshire and the mill-wheel.
“Devonshire people are all consumptive,” she said decisively.
“Are they?”
“Yes, it’s the mild damp air. They have lovely complexions; like the Irish. There must be any amount of consumption in Ireland.”
“I suppose there is.”
Miriam sat silent and still watching Mag’s movements as she sipped and puffed, so strangely easy and so strangely wistful in her wonderful rich Bloomsbury life—and waiting for her next remark.
“You look very happy tonight child; what have you been doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You look as happy as a bird.”
“Are birds happy?”
“Of course birds are happy.”
“Well—they prey on each other—and they’re often frightened.”
“How wise we are.”
Brisk steps sounded on the little stairs.
“Tell me what you have been doing.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Weird things have been happening.... Oh, weird things.”
“Tell your aunt at once.” Mag gathered herself together as the brisk footsteps came into the room. “Hoh” said a strong resonant voice “it’s the Henderson. I thought as much.”
“Yes. Doesn’t she look pretty?”
“Yes—she has a beautiful lace tie.”
“I wish I could wear things like that round my neck, don’t you von Bohlen?”
“I do. She can stick anything round her neck—and look nice.”
“Anything; a garter or a—a kipper....”
“Don’t be so cracked.”
“She says weird things have been happening to her. I say I didn’t make any coffee for you and the spirit lamp wants filling.”
“Damn you—Schweinhund—verfluchte Schweinhund.”
Miriam had been gazing at the strong square figure in the short round fur-lined cloak and sweeping velvet hat, the firm decisive movements and imagining the delicate pointed high-heeled shoes. Presently those things would be off and the door closed on the three of them.
“There’s some Bass.”
“I’m going to have some suppe. Have some suppe, Henderson.”
“Non, merci.”
“She’s proud. Bring her some. What did you have for supper, child?”
“Oh, we had an enormous lunch. They’d had a dinner-party.”
“What did you have for supper?”
“Oh lots of things.”
“Bring her some suppe. I’m not sure I won’t have a basin myself.”
“All right. I’ll put some on.” The brisk steps went off and a voice hummed in and out of the other rooms.
Watching Mag stirring the fire, giving a last pull at her cigarette end and pushing back the hair from her face ... silent and old and ravaged, and young and animated and powerful, Miriam blushed and beamed silently at her reiterated demands for an account of herself.
“I say I saw an extraordinary woman downstairs.”
Mag turned sharply and put down the poker.
“Yes?”
“In a petticoat.”
“Frederika Elizabeth! She’s seen the Pierson!”
“Hoh! Has she?” The brisk footsteps approached and the door was closed. The dimly shining mysteries of the room moved about Miriam, the outside darkness flowing up to the windows moved away as the tall dressing-gowned figure lowered the thin drab loosely rattling Venetian blinds; the light seemed to go up and distant objects became more visible; the crowded bookshelf the dark littered table under it, the empty table pushed against the wall near the window—the bamboo bookshelf between the windows above a square mystery draped to the ground with a table cover—the little sofa behind Mag’s chair, the little pictures, cattle gazing out across a bridge of snow, cattish complacent sweepy women. Albert...? Moore? the framed photographs of Dickens and Irving, the litter on the serge draped mantelpiece in front of the mirror of the bamboo overmantel, silver candlesticks, photographs of German women and Canon Wilberforce ... all the riches of comfortable life.
“You are late.”
“Yes I am fear-fully late.”
“Why are you late Frederika Elizabeth von Bohlen?”
The powerful rounded square figure was in the leather armchair opposite the blaze, strongly moulded brown knickered black stockinged legs comfortably crossed stuck firmly out between the heavy soft folds of a grey flannel dressing gown. The shoes had gone, grey woollen bedroom slippers blurred all but the shapely small ankles. Mag was lighting another cigarette, von Bohlen was not doing needlework, the room settled suddenly to its best rich exciting blur.
“Tonight I must smoke or die.”
“Must you, my dear.”
“Why.”
“To-nate,—a, ay must smoke—a, or daye.”
“Es ist bestimmt, in Gottes Rath.”
“Tell us what you think of the Pierson, child.”
“She was awfully nice. Is it your landlady?”
“Yes—isn’t she nice? We think she’s extraordinary—all things considered. You know we hadn’t the least idea what she was when we came here.”
“What is she?”
“Well—er—you embarrass me, child, how shall we put it to her, Jan?”
“D’you mean to say she’s improper?”
“Yes—she’s improper. We hadn’t the faintest notion of it when we came.”
“How extraordinary.”
“It is extraordinary. We’re living in an improper house—the whole street’s improper we’re discovering.”
“How absolutely awful.”
“Now we know why Mother Cosway hinted when we left her to come here that we wanted to be free for devil’s mirth.”
“How did you find out?”
“Henriette told us; you see she works for the Pierson.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Well—she told us.”
“Six”—laughed Mag, quoting towards Jan.
“Six,” trumpeted Jan “and if not six, seven.”
They both laughed.
“In one evening,” trumpeted Jan.
“I say are you going to leave?” The thought of the improper street was terrible and horrible; but they might go right away to some other part of London. Mag answered instantly but the interval had seemed long and Miriam was cold with anxiety.
“No; we don’t see why we should.”
Miriam gazed dumbly from one to the other, finding herself admiring and wondering more than ever at their independence and strength.
“You see the woman’s so absolutely self-respecting.”
“Much more so than we are!”
“Out of doors she’s a model of decorum and good style.”
“We’re ashamed when we meet her.”
“We are. We skip into the gutter.”
“We babble and slink!”
“Indoors she’s a perfect landlady. She’s been awfully good to us.”
“A perfect brick!”
“She doesn’t drink; she’s most exquisitely clean. There’s nothing whatever to—to indicate the er—nature of her profession.”
“Except that she sits at the window.”
“But she does not tire her hair and look forth.”
“Or fifth.”
“Fool.”
Miriam giggled.
“Really Miriam she is rather wonderful you know. We like her.”
“Henriette is devoted to her.”
“And so apparently is her husband.”
“Her husband?”
“Yes—she has a husband—he appears at rare intervals—and a little girl at boarding school. She goes to see her but the child never comes here. She tells us quite frankly that she wants to keep her out of harm’s way.”
“How amazing!”
“Yes, she’s extraordinary. She’s Eurasian. She was born in India.”
“That accounts for a good deal. Eurasians are awful; they’ve got all the faults of both sides.”
“East is East and West is West and never the two shall meet.”
“Well, we like her.”
“So we have decided to ignore her little peccadilloes.”
“I don’t see that it’s our business. Frankly I can’t see that it has anything whatever to do with us. Do you?”
“Well I don’t know; I don’t suppose it has really.”
“What would you do in our place?”
“I don’t know ... I don’t believe I should have found out.”
“I don’t believe you would; but if you had?”
“I think I should have been awfully scared.”
“You would have been afraid that the sixth.”
“Or the seventh.”
“Might have wandered upstairs.”
“No; I mean the whole idea.”
“Oh; the idea....”
“London, my dear Miriam, is full of ideas.”
“I will go and get the suppe.”
Jan rose; her bright head and grey shoulders went up above the lamplight, darkening to steady massive outlines, strongly moving as she padded and fluttered briskly out of the room.
The rich blur of the room free of the troubling talk and the swift conversational movements of the two, lifted and was touched with a faint grey, a suggestion of dawn or twilight, as if coming from the hidden windows. Mag sat motionless in her chair, gazing into the fire.
“... Wise and happy infant, I want to ask your opinion.”
Miriam roused herself and glanced steadily across. The outlines of things grew sharp. She could imagine the room in daylight and felt a faint sharp sinking; hungry.
“I’m going to state you a case. I think you have an extraordinarily sharp sense of right and wrong.”
“Oh no.”
“You have an extraordinarily sharp sense of right and wrong. Imagine a woman. Can you imagine a woman?”
“Go on.”
“Imagine a woman engaged to a man. Imagine her allowing—another man—to kiss her.”
Miriam sat thinking. She imagined the two, the snatched caress, the other man alone and unconscious.
“Would you call that treachery to the other person?”
“It would depend upon which she liked best.”
“That’s just the difficulty.”
“Oh. That’s awful.”
“Don’t you think a kiss, just a kiss—might be,—well—neither here nor there.”
“Well, if it’s nothing, there’s nothing in the whole thing. If there is anything—you can’t talk about just kisses.”
“Dreadful Miriam.”
“Do you believe in blunted sensibilities?” How funny that Mag should have led up to that new phrase ... but this was a case.
“You mean——”
“Whether if a sensibility is blunted it can ever grow sharp again.”
“No. I suppose that’s it. How can it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. It’s a perfectly awful idea, I think.”
“It is awful—because we are all blunting our sensibilities all the time—are we not?”
“That’s just it—whether we ought.”
“Does one always know?”
“Don’t you think so? There’s a feeling. Yes I think one always knows.”
“Suppe, children.”
Miriam took her bowl with eager embarrassment ... the sugar-basin, the pudding basin and the slop bowl together on a tray, the quickly produced soup—the wonderful rich life the girls lived in their glowing rooms—each room with a different glow.... Jan’s narrow green clean room with its suite and hair brushes and cosmetics and pictures of Christ, Mag’s crowded shadowy little square, its litter and its many photographs, their eiderdowns and baths and hot water bottles; the kitchen alive with eyes and foreheads—musicians, artists philosophers pasted on the walls ... why? Why?... Jan with wonderful easy knowledge of the world’s great people ... and strange curious intimate liking for them ... the sad separate effect of all those engraved faces ... the perfectly beautiful blur they made all together in patches on the walls ... the sitting room, Mag, nearly all Mag, except the photographs on the mantelpiece ... the whole rooms from the top of the stairs ... her thoughts folded down; they were not going away; not; that was certain.
“I say I can’t go on for ever eating your soup.”
“Drink it then for a change my child.”
“No but really.”
“This is special soup; there is a charge; one guinea a basin.”
“Use of room two guineas.”
“Intellectual conversation——”
“One and eleven three.”
Miriam flung out delighted admiring glances and laughed unrestrainedly. Mag’s look saying “it does not take much to keep the child amused” took nothing from her mirthful joy. Their wit, or was it humour?—always brought the same happy shock ... they were so funny; there was a secret in it.
“It’s awfully good soup.”
“Desiccated——”
“A penny a packet.”
“Thickened with pea flour.”
“Twopence a packet.”