When Miriam woke the next morning she lay still with closed eyes. She had dreamed that she had been standing in a room in the German school and the staff had crowded round her, looking at her. They had dreadful eyes—eyes like the eyes of hostesses she remembered, eyes she had seen in trains and ’buses, eyes from the old school. They came and stood and looked at her, and saw her as she was, without courage, without funds or good clothes or beauty, without charm or interest, without even the skill to play a part. They looked at her with loathing. “Board and lodging—privilege to attend Masters’ lectures and laundry (body-linen only).” That was all she had thought of and clutched at—all along, since first she read the Fräulein’s letter. Her keep and the chance of learning ... and Germany—Germany, das deutsche Vaterland—Germany, all woods and mountains and tenderness—Hermann and Dorothea in the dusk of a happy village.
And it would really be those women, expecting things of her. They would be so affable at first. She had been through it a million times—all her life—all eternity. They would smile those hateful women’s smiles—smirks—self-satisfied smiles as if everybody were agreed about everything. She loathed women. They always smiled. All the teachers had at school, all the girls, but Lilla. Eve did ... maddeningly sometimes ... Mother ... it was the only funny horrid thing about her. Harriett didn’t.... Harriett laughed. She was strong and hard somehow....
Pater knew how hateful all the world of women were and despised them.
He never included her with them; or only sometimes when she pretended, or he didn’t understand....
Someone was saying “Hi!” a gurgling muffled shout, a long way off.
She opened her eyes. It was bright morning. She saw the twist of Harriett’s body lying across the edge of the bed. With a gasp she flung herself over her own side. Harry, old Harry, jolly old Harry had remembered the Grand Ceremonial. In a moment her own head hung, her long hair flinging back on to the floor, her eyes gazing across under the bed at the reversed snub of Harriett’s face. It was flushed in the midst of the wiry hair which stuck out all round it but did not reach the floor. “Hi!” they gurgled solemnly, “Hi.... Hi!” shaking their heads from side to side. Then their four frilled hands came down and they flumped out of the high bed.
They performed an uproarious toilet. It seemed so safe up there in the bright bare room. Miriam’s luggage had been removed. It was away somewhere in the house; far away and unreal and unfelt as her parents somewhere downstairs, and the servants away in the basement getting breakfast and Sarah and Eve always incredible, getting quietly up in the next room. Nothing was real but getting up with old Harriett in this old room.
She revelled in Harriett’s delicate buffoonery (“voluntary incongruity” she quoted to herself as she watched her)—the titles of some of the books on Harriett’s shelf, “Ungava; a Tale of the North,” “Grimm’s Fairy Tales,” “John Halifax,” “Swiss Family Robinson” made her laugh. The curtained recesses of the long room stretched away into space.
She went about dimpling and responding, singing and masquerading as her large hands did their work.
She intoned the titles on her own shelf—as a response to the quiet swearing and jesting accompanying Harriett’s occupations. “The Voyage of the Beeeeeeagle,” she sang “Scott’s Poetical Works.” Villette—Longfellow—Holy Bible with Apocrypha—Egmont——