Section twenty seven. Gently, the yellow curtain with all the birds of paradise
blew out, and it seemed as if there were a flight of wings into
the room, right out, then sucked back, for the windows were open.
Was it drafty? Ellie Henderson wandered. She was subject to chills,
but it did not matter that she should come down sneezing to morrow. It
was the girls with their naked shoulders. She thought of, being trained to
think of others by an old father, an invalid late Vicar of Burton,
but he was dead now, and her chills never went to her chest.
Never. It was the girl she thought of, the young girls with their
bare shoulders, she herself having always been a wisp of a creature, with
her thin hair and meager profile, though now past fifty, there was beginning
to shine through some mild beam, something purified into distinction by years of self
abnegation, but obscured again perpetually by her distressing gentility, her panic fear,
which arose from three hundred pounds income, and her weaponless state. She could
not earn a penny, and it made her timid and more and more disqualified,
year by year to meet well dressed people who did this sort of thing
every night of the season, merely telling their maids, I'll wear so and
so, whereas Ellie Henderson ran out nervously and bought cheap pink flowers half a
dozen, and then threw a shawl over her old black dress for her.
Invitation to Clarissa's party had come at the last moment. She was not quite
happy about it. She had a sort of feeling that Clarissa had not meant
to ask her this year. Why should she? There was no reason,
really, except that they had always known each other, indeed they were cousins,
but naturally they had rather drifted apart. Clarissa being so sought after,
it was an event to her going to a party. It was quite a
treat, just to see the lovely clothes. Wasn't that Elizabeth grown up with
her hair done in the fashionable way in the pink dress. Yet she could
not be more than seventeen. She was very, very handsome. But girls
when they first came out didn't seem to wear white as they used, she
must remember to tell Edith. Girls wore straight frocks, perfectly tight, with
skirts well above the ankles. It was not becoming, she thought, so
with her weak eyesight, Ellie Henderson craned rather forward, and it wasn't so
much she who mine did, not having anyone to talk to, she hardly
knew anybody there, for she felt that they were all such interesting people to
watch, politicians, presumably Richard Dollaway's friends. But it was Richard himself who
felt that he could not let the poor creature go on standing there all the
evening by herself. Well, Ellie, and how's the well treating you?
He said in his genial way, And Ellie Henderson, getting nervous and flushing
and feeling that it was extraordinarily nice of him to come and talk to her,
said that many people really felt the heat more than the cold. Yes
they do, said Richard Dollaway. Yes, but what more did one say?
Hullo? Richard said, somebody taking him by the elbow, And good
lord, there was old Peter, Old Peter Walsh, who was delighted to
see him. Ever so pleased to see him, he had changed a bit,
and off they went together, walking right across the room, giving each
other little pats, as if they hadn't met for a long time. Ellie
Henderson thought, watching them go, certain she knew that man's face, a
tall man, middle aged, rather fine eyes, dark wearing spectacles, with
a look of John Burrow's. Edith would be sure to know. The curtain,
with its flight of birds of paradise, blew out again, and Glarissa
saw, she saw Ralph Lyon beat it back and go on talking. So
it wasn't a failure after all. It was going to be all right now
her party, it had begun, it had started, but it was still
touch and go. She must stand there for the present. People seemed to
come in a rush. Colonel and Missus Garrett, mister Hugh Whitbred, mister
Bowley, Missus Hillbury, Lady Mary Maddox, mister quinn intoned Wilken. She
had six or seven words with each, and they went on, They went
into the rooms into something now not nothing, since Ralph Lyon had beat back
the car. And yet for her own part, it was too much of
an effort. She was not enjoying it. It was too much like being
just anybody standing there. Anybody could do it. Yet this, anybody,
she did a little admire, couldn't help feeling that she had anyhow made this
happen, that it marked a stage this post that she felt herself to have
become for Oddly enough, she had quite forgotten what she looked like, but
she felt herself a stake driven in at the top of her stairs. Every
time she gave a party, she had this feeling of being something not herself,
and that everyone was unreal in one way, much more real than another.
It was, she thought, partly their clothes, partly being taken out
of their ordinary ways, partly the background. It was possible to say things
you couldn't say anyhow else, things that needed an effort, possible to go
much deeper, but not for her, not yet anyhow. How delightful to
see you, she said, dear old sir Harry. He would know everyone.
And what was so odd about it was the sense had as they came
up the stairs, one after another, Missus Mount and Celia Herbert Ainstein,
Missus Dakers, oh, and Lady Bruton. How awfully good of you to
come, she said, and she meant it. It was odd house.
Standing there, one felt them going on going on, some quite old some
what name Lady Rossiter? But who on earth was Lady Rossiter? Clarissa?
That voice it was Sally's seton Sallie seton after all these years, she loomed
through a mist, for she hadn't looked like that. Sally seton when Clarissa
grasped the hot water can, to think of her under this roof, under
this roof, not like that, All on top of each other, embarrassed,
laughing words tumbled out, passing through London, heard from Clara Hayden,
what a chance of seeing you? So I thrust myself in without an invitation,
one might put down the hot water can. Quite composedly. The luster
had gone out of her, yet it was extraordinary to see her again,
older, happier, less lovely. They kissed each other, first this cheek,
then that, and Clarissa turned with Sally's hand in hers, and saw
her rooms full, heard the roar of voices, saw the candlesticks, the
blowing curtains, and the roses which Richard had given her. I have five
enormous boys, said Sally. She had the simplest egotism and most open desire
to be thought first always, And Clorisa loved her for being still like that.
I can't believe it, she cried, kindling all over with pleasure at
the thought of the past. But alas Wilkins. Wilkins wanted her. Wilkins
was emitting in a voice of commanding authority, as if the whole company must
be admonished and the hostess reclaimed from frivolity. One name, the Prime Minister,
said, Peter Walsh, the Prime Minister. Was it really? Ellie
Henderson marveled? What a thing to tell Edith. One couldn't laugh at him.
He looked so ordinary you might have stood him behind a counter and bought
biscuits. Poor chap all rigged up in gold lace. And as he went
his rounds, first with Clarissa, then with Richard escorting him, he did
it very well. He tried to look somebody. It was amusing to watch.
Nobody looked at him. They just went on talking. Yet it was
perfectly plain that they all knew fell to the marrow of their bones, this
majesty passing, this symbol of what they all stood for English society. Old
lady Bruton, and she looked very fine, too, very stalwart in her
lace. Swam up and they withdrew into a little room, which at once
became spied upon, guarded, and a sort of stir and Russell rippled through
every one openly the Prime Minister, Lord Lord, the snobbery of the English,
thought Peter Walsh standing in the corner, How they loved dressing up in
gold lace and doing homage there. That must be by Jove, it was
Hugh Whitbred's snuffing round the precincts of the great grown rather fatter, rather whiter,
the admirable Hue. He looked always as if he were on duty,
thought Peter, a privileged but seek being, hoarding secrets which he would die
to defend, though it was only some little piece of tittle tattle dropped by
a court footman, which would be in all the papers tomorrow. Such were
his rattles, his baubles in playing with which he had grown white, come
to the verge of old age, enjoying the respect and affection of all who
had the privilege of knowing this type of the English public school man. Inevitably
one made up things like that about Hugh. That was his style, the
style of those admirable letters which Peter had read thousands of miles across the sea
in the times. And to thank God he was out of that pernicious hubble
bubble. If it were only to hear baboons, chatter and coolies beat their
wives. An olive skinned youth from one of the universities stood obsequiously by him.
He would patronize, initiate, teach how to get on, for he
liked nothing better than doing kindnesses, making the hearts of old ladies palpetit with
the joy of being thought of in their age their affliction, thinking themselves quite
forgotten. Yet here was dear Hugh, driving up and spending an hour talking
of the asked, remembering trifles, praising the homemade cake. Though Hugh might
eat cake with a duchess any day of his life, and to look at
him probably did spend a good deal of time in that agreeable occupation. The
all judging, the all merciful might excuse Peter Walsh had no mercy villains there
must be, and God knows the rascals who get hanged for battering the brains
of a girl out in a train do less harm on the whole than Hugh
Whitbred and his kindness. Look at him now on tiptoe, dancing forward,
bowing and scraping, as the Prime Minister and Lady Bruton emerged, intimating for
all the world to see that he was privileged to say something something private to
Lady Bruton. As she passed, she stopped. She wagged her fine old
head. She was thanking him, presumably for some piece of civility. She
had her toadies, minor officials and government offices who ran about putting through little
jobs on her behalf, in return for which she gave him luncheon. But
she derived from the eighteenth century. She was all right, And now Clarissa
is esquorted her prime Minister down the room, prancing, sparkling with the stateliness
of her gray hair. She wore ear rings and a silver green mermaid's dress,
lollaping on the waves and braiding her tresses. She seemed, having that
gift still to be to exist, to sum it all up in the moment.
As she passed, turned, caught her scarf in some other woman's dress,
unhitched, it laughed, all with the most perfect ease and air of
creature floating in its element. But age had brushed her, even as a
mermaid might behold in her glass the setting sun on some very clear evening over
the waves, there was a breath of tenderness, her severity, her prudery,
her woodenness, were all warmed through now, and she had about her
as she said goodbye to the thick, gold laced man, who was doing
his best, and good luck to him to look important, an inexpressible dignity,
an exquisite cordiality, as if she wished the whole world well, and
must, now, being on the very verge and rim of things, take
her leave. So she made him think, but he was not in love.
End of section twenty seven, read by Hannah Dorma, London, twenty
fourth October twenty twenty one,