Читать книгу The Counterplot - Hope Mirrlees - Страница 4

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Plasencia was a square, medium-sized house of red brick, built some sixty years ago, in those days when architects knew a great deal about comfort, but cared so little about line that every house they designed, however spacious, was uncompromisingly a “villa.” Viewed from the front, it was substantial and home-like, and suggested, even in the height of summer, a “merry Christmas” and fire-light glinting off the leaves of holly; from the back, however, it had a look of instability, of somehow being not firmly rooted in the earth—a cumbersome Ark, awkwardly perched for a moment on Ararat, before plunging with its painted wooden crew into the flood, and sailing off to some fantastic port.

It is possible that this effect was not wholly due to the indifferent draughtsmanship of the Victorian architect, for there is a hint of the sea in a delicate and boundless view, and the back of Plasencia lay open to the Eastern counties.

Even the shadowy reticulation of a West-country valley, the spring bloom upon fields and woods, and red-brick villas that glorifies the tameness of Kent, are but poor things in comparison with the Eastern counties in September: yellow stripes of mustard, jade stripes of cabbage, stripes of old rose which is the earth, a suggestion of pattern given by the heaps of manure, and the innumerable shocks of corn, an ardent gravity given by the red-brown of wheat stubble, such as the red-brown sails of a fishing boat give to the milky-blue of a summer sea; here and there a patch of green tarpaulin, and groups of thatched corn-ricks—shadowy, abstract, golden, and yet, withal, homely edifices, like the cottages of those villages of Paradise whose smoke Herrick used to see in the distance. An agricultural country has this advantage over heaths and commons and pastoral land that the seasons walk across it visibly.

On a particular afternoon in September, about three years ago, Teresa Lane sat in a deck-chair gazing at this view. She was a pallid, long-limbed young woman of twenty-eight, and her dark, closely-cropped hair emphasised her resemblance to that lad who, whether he be unfurling a map of Toledo, or assisting at the mysterious obsequies of the Conde de Orgas, is continually appearing in the pictures of El Greco.

As she gazed, she thought of the Spanish adjective pintado, painted, which the Spaniards use for anything that is bright and lovely—flowers, views; and certainly this view was pintado, even in the English sense, in that it looked like a fresco painted on a vast white wall, motionless and enchanted against the restless, vibrating foreground. Winds from the Ural mountains, winds from the Atlantic celebrated Walpurgis-night on the lawn of Plasencia; and, on such occasions, to look through the riven garden, the swaying flowers and grasses, the tossing birch saplings, at the tranced fields of the view was to experience the same æsthetic emotion as when one looks at the picture of a great painter.

But the back of Plasencia had another glory—its superb herbaceous border, which, waving banners of the same hues, only brighter, marched boldly into the view, and became one with it. Now in September it was stiffened by annuals: dahlias, astors, snapdragon, sunflowers; Californian poppies whose whiteness—at any rate in the red poppyland of East Anglia—always seems exotic, miraculous, suggesting the paradoxical chemical action of the Blood of the Lamb. There were also great clumps of violas, with petals of so faint a shade of blue or yellow that every line of their black tracery stood out clear and distinct, and which might have been the handiwork of some delicate-minded and deft-fingered old maid, expressing her dreams and heart’s ease in a Cathedral city a hundred years ago. As to herbaceous things proper, there was St. John’s wort, catmint, borrage, sage; their stalks grown so long and thick, their blossoms so big and brave, that old Gerard would have been hard put to see in them his familiars—the herbs that, like guardian angels, drew down from the stars the virtue for the homely offices of easing the plough-boy’s toothache, the beldame’s ague.

A great lawn spread between the border and the house; it was still very threadbare owing to the patriotic pasturage that, during the last years of the War, it had afforded to half a dozen sheep, but it was darned in so many places by the rich, dark silk of clover leaves as almost to be turned into a new fabric.

Well, then, the view and border lay simmering in the late sunshine. A horse was dragging a plough against the sky-line, and here and there thin streams of smoke were rising from heaps of smouldering weeds. In the nearer fields, Teresa could discern small, moving objects of a dazzling whiteness—white leghorns gleaning the stubble; and from time to time there reached her the noise of a distant shot, heralding a supper of roast hare or partridge in some secluded farm-house. Then, like a Danish vessel bound for pillage in Mercia, white, swift, compact, a flock of wood pigeons would flash through the air to alight in a far away field and rifle the corn.

But so pintado was the view, so under the notion of art, that these movements across its surface gave one an æsthetic shock such as one would experience before a mechanical device introduced into a painting, and, at the same time, thrilled the imagination, as if the door in a picture should suddenly open, or silver strains proceed from the painted shepherd’s pipe.

Teresa could hardly be said to take a pleasure in the view and its flowery foreground—indeed, like all lovely and complicated things, they teased her exceedingly; because the infinite variety which made up their whole defied expression. Until the invention of some machine, she was thinking, shows to literature what are its natural limits (as the camera and cinema have shown to painting) by expressing, in some unknown medium, say a spring wood in toto—appearance, smells, noises, associations—which will far outstrip in exact representation the combined qualities of Mozart, Spencer, Corot, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and yet remain dead and flat and vulgar,—so long shall we be teased by the importunities of detail and forget that such things as spring woods are best expressed lightly, delicately, in a little song, thus:

The grove are all a pale, frail mist,

The new year sucks the sun;

Of all the kisses that we kissed

Now which shall be the one?

As she murmured the lines below her breath, two children came running down the grass path that divided the herbaceous border—Anna and Jasper Sinclair, the grandchildren of the house.

Teresa watched their progress, critically, through half-closed lids. Yes, children are the right fauna for a garden—they turn it at once into a world that is miniature and Japanese. But perhaps a kitten prowling among flower-beds is better still—it is so amusing to watch man’s decorous arrangement of nature turning, under the gambols of the sinister little creature, into something primitive and tropical—bush, or jungle, or whatever they call it in Brazil and places; but Anna was getting too big.

Human beings too! Worse than the view, because more restless and more complicated, yet insisting on being dealt with; even Shelley could not keep out of his garden his somewhat Della Cruscan Lady.

The children came running up to her.

“You don’t know what we’ve found, what we’ve found, what we’ve found!” “Let me say! a dead hare, and we’ve buried him and....” “And I’ve found a new fern; I’ve got ten and a half kinds now and I ought to get a Girl Guide’s badge for them, and the Doña promised me some more blotting-paper, but....”

Teresa stroked Jasper’s sticky little hand and listened indulgently to their chatter. Then they caught sight of Mrs. Lane coming out of the house, and rushed at her, shouting, “Doña! Doña!”

The Spaniards deal in a cavalier way with symbolism; for instance, they put together from the markets, and streets, and balconies of Andalusia a very human type of female loveliness; next, they express this type with uncompromising realism in painted wooden figures which they set up in churches, saying, “This is not Pepa, or Ana, or Carmen. Oh, no! It isn’t a woman at all: it’s a mysterious abstract doctrine of the Church called the Immaculate Conception.” They then proceed to fall physically in love with this abstract doctrine—serenading it with lyrics, organising pageants in its honour, running their swords through those who deny its truth, storming the Vatican for its acceptance.

Hence, for those who are acquainted with Spain, it is hard to look on Spanish concrete things with a perfectly steady eye—they are apt to become transparent without losing their solidity.

However this may be, Mrs. Lane (the Doña, as her friends and family called her), standing there smiling and monumental, with the children clinging to her skirts, seemed to Teresa a symbol—of what she was not quite sure. Maternity? No, not exactly; but it was something connected with maternity.

The children, having said their say, made for the harbour of their own little town—to wit, the nursery—where, over buns, and honey, and chocolate cake, they would tell their traveller’s tales; and the Doña bore down slowly upon Teresa and sank heavily into a basket chair. She raised her lorgnette and gazed at her daughter critically.

“Teresa,” she said, in her slow, rather guttural voice, “why do you so love that old skirt? But I warn you, it is going to the very next jumble sale of Mrs. Moore.”

Teresa smiled quite amicably.

“Why can’t you let Concha’s elegance do for us both?” she asked.

So toneless and muted was Teresa’s voice that it was generally impossible to deduce from it, as also from her rather weary impassive face, of what emotion her remarks were the expression.

“Rubbish! There is no reason why I shouldn’t have two elegant daughters,” retorted the Doña, wondering the while why exactly Teresa was jealous of Concha. “It must be a man; but who?” she asked herself. Aloud she said, “I wonder why tea is so late. By the way, I told you, didn’t I, that Arnold is coming for the week-end and bringing Guy? And some young cousin of Guy’s—I think he said his name was Dundas.”

“I know—Rory Dundas. Guy often talks about him. He’s a soldier, so he’ll probably be even more tiresome than Guy.”

Oho! How, exactly, was this to be interpreted?

“Why, Teresa, a nice young officer, with beautiful blue eyes like Guy perhaps, only not slouching like Cambridge men, and you think that he will be tiresome!”

Again Teresa smiled amicably, and wished for the thousandth time that her mother would sometimes stop being ironical—or, at any rate, that her irony had a different flavour.

“And so Guy is tiresome too, is he?”

Teresa laughed. “No one shows more that they think so than you, Doña.”

“Oh! but I think all Englishmen tiresome.”

Then the butler and parlour-maid appeared with tea; and a few minutes later Concha, the other daughter, strolled up, her arm round the waist of a small, elderly lady.

Concha was a very beautiful girl of twenty-two. She was tall, and built delicately on a generous scale; her hair was that variety of auburn which, when found among women of the Latin races, never fails to give a thrill of unexpectedness, and a whiff of romance—hinting at old old rapes by Normans and Danes. As one looked at her one realised what a beautiful creature the Doña must once have been.

The elderly lady was governess emerita of the Lanes. They had grown so attached to her that she had stayed on as “odd woman”—arranging the flowers, superintending the servants, going up to London at the sales to shop for the family. They called her “Jollypot,” because “jolly” was the adjective with which she qualified anything beautiful, kindly, picturesque, or quaint; “pot” was added as the essence of the æsthetic aspect of “jolliness,” typified in the activities of Arts and Crafts and Artificers’ Guilds—indeed she always, and never more than to-day, looked as if she had been dressed by one of these institutions; on her head was a hat of purple and green straw with a Paisley scarf twisted round the crown, round her shoulders was another scarf—handwoven, gray and purple—on her torso was an orange jumper into which were inserted squares of canvas wool-work done by a Belgian refugee with leanings to Cubism; and beads,—enormous, painted wooden ones. Once Harry Sinclair (the father of Anna and Jasper) had exploded a silence with the question, “Why is Jollypot like the Old Lady of Leeds? Because she’s ... er ... er ... INFESTED WITH BEADS!!!”

While on this subject let me add that it was characteristic of her relationship with her former pupils that they called her Jollypot to her face, and that she had never taken the trouble to find out why; that the great adventure of her life had been her conversion to Catholicism—a Catholicism, however, which retained a tinge of Anglicanism: to wit, a great deal of vague enthusiasm for “dear, lovely St. Francis of Assisi,” combined with a neglect of the crude and truly Catholic cult of that most potent of “medicine-men”—St. Anthony of Padua; and that taste for Dante studies so characteristic of middle-aged Anglican spinsters. Indeed, she was remarkably indiscriminating in her tastes, and loved equally Shakespeare, Dante, Mrs. Browning, the Psalms, Anne Thackeray, and W. J. Locke; but from time to time she surprised one by the poetry and truth of her observations.

The Doña, holding in mid-air a finger biscuit soaked in chocolate, smiled and blinked a welcome; but her eyes flashed to her brain the irritated message, “If only the jumper were purple, or even green! And those beads—does she sleep in them?”

Partly from a Latin woman’s exaggerated sense of the ridiculous possibilities in raiment, partly from an Andalusian Schaden-freude, ever since she had known Jollypot she had tried to persuade her that a devout Catholic should dress mainly in black; but Jollypot would flush with indignation and cry, “Oh! Mrs. Lane, how can you? When God has given us all these jolly colours! Just look at your own garden! I remember a dear old lady when I was a girl who used to say she didn’t see why we should say grace for food because that was a necessity and God was bound to give it to us, but that we should say it for the luxuries—flowers and colours—that it was so good and fatherly of Him to think of.” Which silly, fanciful Protestantism would put the Doña into a frenzy of irritation.

But Jollypot—secure in her knowledge of her own consideration of the Sesame and Lilies of the field—had, as usual, a pleasant sense of being prettily dressed, and, quite unaware that she offended, she sat down to her tea with a little sigh of innocent pleasure. Concha, after having hugged the unresponsive Doña, and affectionately inquired after Teresa’s headache, wearily examined the contents of the tea-table, and having taken a small piece of bread and butter, muttered that she wished Rendall would cut it thinner.

“And what have you been doing this afternoon?” asked the Doña.

“At the Moore’s,” answered Concha, a little sulkily.

“But how very kind of you! That poor Mrs. Moore must have been quite touched ... did I hear that Eben was home on leave?” and the Doña scrutinised her with lazy amusement; Teresa, also, looked at her.

“Oh, yes, he’s back,” said Concha, lightly, but blushing crimson all the same. She loathed being teased. “How incredibly Victorian and Spanish it all is!” she thought.

She yawned, then poured some tea and cream into a saucer, added two lumps of sugar, and put it down on the lawn for the refreshment of ’Snice, the dachshund.

“And how was Eben?” asked the Doña.

“Oh, he was in great form—really extraordinarily funny about getting drunk at Gibraltar,” drawled Concha; she always drawled when she was angry, embarrassed, or “feeling grand.”

“Oh! the English always get drunk at Gibraltar—it wasn’t at all original of Eben.”

“I suppose not,” and again Concha yawned.

“And I suppose Mrs. Moore said, ‘Ebenebeneben! Prenny guard!’ which meant that one of the Sunday school children was coming up the path and he must be careful what he said.”

Concha gurgled with laughter—pleasantly, like a child being tickled—at the Doña’s mimicry; and the atmosphere cleared.

Teresa remembered Guy Cust’s once saying that conversation among members of one family was a most uncomfortable thing. When one asks questions it is not for information (one knows the answers already) but to annoy. It is, he had said, as if four or five men, stranded for years on a desert island with a pack of cards, had got into the habit of playing poker all day long, and that, though the game has lost all savour and all possibilities of surprise; for each knowing so well the “play” of the other, no bluff ever succeeds, and however impassive their opponent’s features, they can each immediately, by the sixth sense of intimacy, distinguish the smell of a “full house,” or a “straight,” from that of a “pair.”

For instance, the Doña and Teresa knew quite well where Concha had been that afternoon; and Concha had known that they would know and pretend that they did not, so she had arrived irritated in advance, and the Doña and Teresa had watched her approach, maliciously amused in advance.

“Well, and was Mrs. Moore hinting again that she would like to have her Women’s Institute in my garden?” asked the Doña.

“Oh, yes, and she wants Teresa to go down to the Institute one night and talk to them about Seville, but I was quite firm and said I was sure nothing would induce her.”

“You were wrong,” said Teresa, in an even voice, “I should like to talk to them about Seville.”

“Good Lord!” muttered Concha.

“Give them a description of a bull-fight, Teresa. It would amuse me to watch the face of Mrs. Moore and the Vicar,” said the Doña.

Teresa and Concha laughed, and Jollypot shuddered, muttering, “Those poor horses!”

The Doña looked at her severely. “Well, Jollypot and what about the poor foxes and hares in England?”

This amœbæan dirge was one often chanted by the Doña and Jollypot.

“Oh! look at the birds’ orchard ... all red with haws. Poor little fellows! They’ll have a good harvest,” cried Jollypot, pointing to the double hedge of hawthorn that led to the garage, and evidently glad to turn from man’s massacring of beasts to God’s catering for birds.

“Seville!” said Concha meditatively; and a silence fell upon them while the word went rummaging among the memories of the mother and her daughters.

Tittering with one’s friends behind one’s reja, while Mr. Lane down below (though then only twenty-three, already stout and intensely prosaic), self-consciously sang a Spanish serenade with an execrable English accent; gipsy girls hawking lottery tickets in the Sierpes; eating ices in the Pasaje del Oriente; the ladies in mantillas laughing shrilly at the queer English hats and clumsy shoes; the wall of the Alcazar patined with jessamine; long noisy evenings (rather like poems by Campoamor), of cards and acrostics and flirtation; roses growing round orange trees; exquisite horsemanship; snub-nosed, ill-shaven men looking with laughing eyes under one’s hat, and crying, Viva tu madre! Dark, winding, high-walled streets, called after Pedro the Cruel’s Jewish concubines; one’s milk and vegetables brought by donkeys, stepping as delicately as Queen Guinevere’s mule. One by one the candles of the Tenebrario extinguished to the moan of the miserere, till only the waxen thirteenth remains burning; goats, dozens of wooden Virgins in stiff brocade, every one of them sin pecado concebida, city of goats and Virgins ... yes, that’s it—city of goats and Virgins.

“By the way,” said Concha nonchalantly, “I’ve asked Eben to lunch on Sunday.”

The Doña bowed ironically and Concha blushed, and calling ’Snice got up and moved majestically towards the house.

“Arnold’s coming on Saturday, Jollypot,” said the Doña, triumphantly.

“The dear fellow! That is jolly,” said Jollypot; then sharply drew in her breath, as if suddenly remembering something, and, with a worried expression, hurried away.

The thing she had suddenly remembered was that the billiard-table was at that moment strewn with rose petals drying upon blotting-paper, and that Arnold would be furious if they were not removed before his arrival.

The Doña, by means of a quizzical look at Teresa, commented upon the last quarter of an hour, but Teresa’s expression was not responsive.

“Well,” said the Doña, regretfully hoisting her bulk from her basket-chair, “I must go and catch Rudge before he goes home and tell him to keep the sweet corn for Saturday—Arnold’s so fond of it. And there’s the border to be—oh, your father and his golf!”

The irritated tone of this exclamation ended on the last word in a note of scorn.

Teresa sat on alone by the deserted tea-table, idly watching the Doña standing by the border, in earnest talk with the gardener.

How comely and distinguished, and how beautifully modelled the Doña looked in the westering light! No one could model like late sunshine—she had seen it filtering through the leaves of a little wood and turning the smooth, gray trunk of a beech into an exquisite clay torso, not yet quite dry, fresh from the plastic thumb, faithfully maintaining the delusion that, though itself a pliable substance, the frame over which it was stretched was rigid and bony. The Doña and beech trees, however, were beautiful, even without the evening light; but she had also seen the portion of a rain-pipe that juts out at right angles from the wall before taking its long and graceless descent—she had seen the evening light turn its dirty yellow into creamy flesh-tints, its contour into the bent knee of a young Diana.

Forces that made things look beautiful were certainly part of a “Merciful Dispensation.” Memory was one of these forces. How exquisite, probably, life at Plasencia would look some day!

It would take a lot of mellowing, she thought, with a little smile. Again it was a question of the swarm of tiny details: beauty, evidently, requiring their elimination.

But, for instance, the interplay of emotions at tea that afternoon—was it woven from the tiny brittle threads of unimportant details, or was it made of a more resisting stuff?

Why was the Doña equally irritated that she, Teresa, ignored young men, and that Concha ran after them—like a tabby-cat in perpetual season? No—that was disgusting, coarse, unkind. There was nothing ugly about Concha’s abundant youth: she was merely normal—following the laws of life, no more disgusting than a ripe apple ready to drop.

There came into Teresa’s head the beginning of one of Cervantes’s Novelas Exemplares, which tells of the impulse that drives young men, although they may love their parents dearly, to break away from their home and wander across the world, “... nor can meagre fare and poor lodging cause them to miss the abundance of their father’s house; nor does travelling on foot weary them, nor cold torment them, nor heat exhaust them.”

And, added Teresa, rich in the wisdom of a myriad songs and stories, they are probably fully aware, ere they shut behind them the door of their home, that some day they, too, will discover that freedom is nought but a lonely wind, howling for the past.

Il n’y a pour l’homme que trois événements: naître, vivre et mourir ... yes, but to realise that, personally, emotionally—to feel as one the three events—three simultaneous things making one thing that is perpetually repeated, three notes in a chord—and the chord Life itself ... an agonising sense of speed ... yes, the old simile of the rushing river that carries one—where? But every life, or group of lives, is deaf to the chord, stands safe on the bank of the river, till a definite significant moment, which, looked back upon, seems to have announced its arrival with an actual noise—a knocking, or a rumbling. To Teresa, it seemed that that moment for them all at Plasencia had been Pepa’s death, two years ago—that had been what had plunged them into the river. Before, all of them (the Doña too) had lived in Eternity. Now, when Teresa awoke in the night, the minutes dripped, one by one, on to the same nerve, till the agony became almost unbearable; and it was the agony of listening to a tale which the narrator cannot gabble fast enough, because you know the end beforehand—yes, something which is at once a ball all tightly rolled up that you hold in your hand and a ball which you are slowly unwinding.

She looked towards the house—the old ark that had so long stood high and dry; now, it seemed to her, the water had reached the windows of the lowest story—soon it would be afloat, carrying them all ... no, not her father. He, she was sure, was still—would always be—outside of Time.

But Concha—Concha was there as much as she herself.

Why did she mind in Concha the same intellectual insincerities and pretensions, the same airs and graces, that she had loved in Pepa?

She smiled tenderly as she remembered how once at school she had opened Pepa’s Oxford Book of English Verse at the fly-leaf and found on it, in a “leggy,” unfledged hand, the following inscription: “To Josepha Lane, from her father,” and underneath, an extract from Cicero’s famous period in praise of letters—et haec studia adulescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant, and so on. (That term Pepa’s form had been reading the Pro Archia.)

Teresa had gone to her and asked her what it meant.

“Dad would never have written that—besides, it’s in your writing.”

Pepa had blushed, and then laughed, and said, “Well, you see I wanted Ursula Noble” (Ursula Noble’s father was a celebrated Hellenist) “to think that we had a brainy father too!”

Then, how bustling and important she had been when, shorty after her début, she had become engaged to Harry Sinclair—a brilliant Trinity Don, much older than herself, and already an eminent Mendelian—how quickly and superficially she had taken over all his views—liberalism, atheism, eugenics!

Oh, yes, there had been much that had been irritating in Pepa; but, though Teresa had recognised it mentally, she had never felt it in her nerves.

She was suddenly seized with a craving for Pepa’s presence—dear, innocent, complacent Pepa, so lovely, so loving, with her fantastic, yet, somehow or other, cheering plans for one’s pleasure or well-being—plans that she galvanised with her own generous vitality.

Yes, Pepa had certainly been very happy during her six or seven years of married life at Cambridge: cultured undergraduates pouring into tea on Sundays, and Pepa taking them as seriously as they took themselves, laughing delightedly at the latest epigram that was going the round of Trinity and Kings’—“Dogs are sentimental,” or “Shaw is so Edwardian”—trolling Spanish Ladies or the Morning Dew in chorus round the piano; footing it on the lawn—undergraduates, Newnham students, Cambridge matrons, young dons, eyeglasses and prominent teeth glittering in the sun, either a slightly patronising smile glued on the face, or an expression of strenuous endeavour—to the favourite melodies of Charles II.; suffrage meetings without end, lectures on English literature, practising glees in the Choral Society; busy making cardboard armour for the Greek play, or bicycling off to Grantchester, or taking Anna to her dancing class, or off to Boots to change her novels—a Galsworthy for herself, a Phillips Oppenheim for Harry.

It had always seemed to Teresa that this life, in spite of its suffrage and girl’s clubs and “culture,” was both callous and frivolous in comparison with the tremendous adventures that were going on, all round, in laboratories and studies and College rooms: at any moment Professor —— might be able to resolve an atom, and blow up the whole of Cambridge in the process; and, in little plots of ground, flowers whose habitat was Peru or the Himalayas, were springing up with—say, purple pollen instead of golden, and that meant that a new species had been born; or else, Mr. —— of Christ’s, or John’s, or Caius, would suddenly feel the blood rush to his head as a blinding light was thrown on the verbal nouns of classical Arabic by a French article he had just been reading on the use of diminutives in the harems of Morocco.

Anyhow, whether callous or frivolous or both, it had given Pepa seven happy years.

What Harry Sinclair’s contribution—apart from the necessary background—had been to that happiness it would, perhaps, be difficult to determine. There could be no one in the world less sympathetic to the small emotional things—so important in married life—than Harry: homesickness, imagined slights when one was tired, fears that one’s son aged three summers might some twenty years ahead fall in love with little Angela Webb, and there was consumption in the family—he viewed them with the impatience of a young lady before the furniture of a drawing-room that she wants to clear for a dance, the dance, in his case, being the sweeps, pirouettes, glides, of endless clever and abstract talk through the clear, wide spaces of an intellectual universe.

However, emotionally, Pepa had never quite grown up, so perhaps she had missed nothing.

All the same, when he had broken down at her death, there had been something touching and magnificent in his fine pity—not for himself, but for Pepa, so ruthlessly, foolishly, struck down in the hey-day of her splendid vigour. “It’s devilish! devilish!” he had sobbed.

During the last days of her life, Pepa had talked to Teresa a good deal about Anna and Jasper. “Make them want to be nice people,” she had said; and Teresa remembered that, even through her misery, she had wondered that Pepa had not used a favourite Cambridge cliché and said, “Make them want to be splendid people”; perhaps it was she, Teresa, who was undeveloped emotionally.

She had tried hard to do what Pepa had asked her; but in these latter days, when the outlines of the virtues have lost their firmness, it is difficult to give children that concrete sense of Goodness that had made the Victorian mothers’ simple homilies, in after years, glow in the memory of their children with the radiance of a Platonic Myth.

Well, anyhow, she must go up to the nursery now.

She walked into the house. In the hall, as if in illustration of her views on memory, the light was falling on, and beautifying a medley of objects, incongruous as the contents of one’s dreams: the engraving of Frith’s Margate that had hung in Mr. Lane’s nursery in the old Kensington house where he had been born; a large red and blue india-rubber ball dropt by Anna or Jasper; the old Triana pottery, running in a frieze round the walls, among which an occasional Hispano-Mauresque plate yielded up to the touch of the sun the store of fire hidden in its lustre; a heap of dusty calling-cards in a flat dish on the table; Arnold’s old Rugby blazer, hanging, a brave patch of colour, among the sombre greatcoats.... Through the half-opened door of the drawing-room came a scent of roses; and through the green baize door that led to the kitchen the strange, lewd sounds of servants making merry over their tea. Probably Gladys, the under-housemaid, was reading cups.

Teresa mounted the wide, easy stairs, and, passing through another green baize door, entered the children’s quarters, and then the nursery itself. There, tea finished and cleared away, a feeling of vague dissatisfaction had fallen on the two children. Every minute bed-time was drawing nearer, and anxious eyes kept turning towards the door; would any one come before it was too late, and Jasper was already plunging and “being silly” in the bath, while Anna, clad in a pink flannel dressing-gown, her hair in two tight little plaits, was putting tidy her books and toys, and—so as to perform the daily good deed enjoined by the Girl Guides—Jasper’s too?

Their craving for the society of “grown-ups” was as touching and inexplicable, it seemed to Teresa, as that of dogs. She had noticed that they longed for it most between tea and bed-time—it was as if they needed, then, a viaticum against the tedium of going to bed and the terrors of the night. Nor, she had noticed, was Nanny, dearly though they loved her, capable of giving this viaticum, nor could any man provide it: it had to be given by a grandmother, or mother, or aunt.

So Teresa’s advent was very warmly welcomed; and sitting down in the rocking-chair she tried to perform the difficult task of amusing Anna and Jasper at the same time. For between Anna of nine and Jasper of six there was very little in common.

Jasper, like the boy Froissart, “never yet had tired of children’s games as they are played before the age of twelve”: these meaningless hidings, and springings, and booings, and bouncings of balls. His mind, too, was all little leaps, and springs, and squeals, and queer little instincts running riot, with a tendency to baby cabotinage. “Don’t be silly, Jasper!” “Don’t show off!” were continually being said to him.

Anna’s mind, on the other hand, was completely occupied with solid problems and sensible interests, namely, “I hope that silly Meg will marry Mr. Brook (she was reading Louisa Alcott’s Little Women). I expect the balls were damp to-day, as they wouldn’t bounce ... it would be nice if I could get a badge for tennis next year. Ut with the subjunctive ... no, no, the accusative and infinitive ... wait a minute ... I’m not quite sure. Every square with a stamp in it—every single square. I wonder why grown-ups don’t spend all their money on stamps. I wonder if Daddy remembered to keep those Argentine ones for me ... little pictures of a man that looks like George—George—George IV., I think—anyhow, the one that didn’t wear a wig ... the Argentine ones are always like that ... that’ll make six Argentine stamps. Brazil ones are pretty, too ... what’s the capital of Brazil again?”

Teresa had found that a story—one that combined realism with the marvellous—was the best focus for these divergent interests; so she started a story.

The sun was setting; and the border and view, painted on the glass of the nursery windows, grew dim. Some one in the garden whistled the air of:

You made me love you:

I didn’t want to do it,

I didn’t want to do it.

Nanny sat with her sewing, listening too, a pleased smile on her face, the expression of a vague and complex feeling of satisfaction: for one thing, it was all so suitable and what she had been used to in her other places—kind auntie telling the children a story after tea; then there was a sense of “moral uplift” as, doubtless, the story was allegorical; poor Mrs. Sinclair in heaven, too—she would be glad if she could see what a good aunt they had—then there was also a genuine interest in the actual story; for no nurse without a sense of narrative and the marvellous is fit for her post.

“Bed-time, I’m afraid. Kiss kind Auntie and say, ‘Thank you, Auntie, for the nice story.’”

Outside, the cowman was leading the cows home to the byre across the lawn. It was a good thing that Rudge, the head gardener, was safe in his cottage, eating his tea. Far away an express flashed across the view, whistling like a nightjar, giving a sudden whiff of London that evaporated as swiftly as its smoke.

“But we don’t call her ‘Auntie’; we call her ‘Teresa,’” said Anna for the thousandth time.

“Now, Anna dear, don’t be rude. Up you get, Jasper. I’m afraid, miss, it really is bed-time ... and they were late last night too.”