by Barbara Pym
PART TWO
Finding a Voice
Gervase and Flora
Note on the Text
This work (216 pages) was written in 1937–8. A diary entry for January 1st 1938 reads: ‘Wrote about 8 pages of my Finnish novel now at about p.256’. It began as a series of letters to Henry Harvey when he was teaching at the University of Helsingfors [Helsinki] and she later developed these into a full-length novel, mainly for the entertainment of her friends.
Flora is, of course, the young Barbara and Gervase is Henry. The character of Ingeborg was based on her idea of Elsie Godenhjelm, whom Henry married in December 1938, but whom Barbara had not, at that time, actually met. Because of Henry, Barbara read all she could about Finland, and the details she acquired from books, as well as the descriptions in Henry’s letters, give her novel a certain authenticity of background. She read translations of the literature and even tried to learn the languages. Since Finland used to be part of Sweden and is still bilingual (though the Swedish ascendancy is less than it was in the 1930s), Fru Lindblom and Ingeborg speak Swedish. In December 1937 Barbara was jokingly pretending to be a Finn when Denis Pullein-Thompson introduced her to his friends at Oxford as Päävikki Olafsson.
But although Barbara enjoyed the fun and novelty of setting her novel abroad, it is the English characters who are the strongest and there is a great deal of ‘pure Pym’ in this early work, notably the first appearance of Miss Moberley, her generic name for all such autocratic and difficult old women.
Note: the editor would like to thank Henry Harvey for his helpful suggestions on this novel.
Gervase and Flora
‘Now, Rhoda, my nephew Mr Harringay is coming tonight. He will be here for dinner, so we must have something specially nice, mustn’t we?’
‘Yes, madam,’ said Rhoda in a respectful, colourless tone, thinking that her mistress managed to find an excuse to have something specially nice every night of her life.
‘I think we will have mushroom soup, made with fresh mushrooms, Rhoda, you know I can’t take anything tinned, and then sole, lightly steamed with a cream sauce, and then a bird. A bird … ’ Miss Emily Moberley paused, considering the bird.
‘Yes, madam, a bird,’ said Rhoda firmly. ‘And the sweet?’ She stood in the doorway with her hands folded in front of her – the perfect picture of an elderly English servant, with a hard face, grey hair and an immaculately starched apron. ‘The sweet,’ she repeated with a hint of impatience in her voice, although she made no movement.
‘Yes, the sweet. Nothing heavy of course. I have to be so very careful. I think we will have a Charlotte Russe. Gervase is so fond of it,’ she added calmly, and all the more surprisingly as she had not seen her nephew for ten years and knew nothing of his tastes. In any case it was not in her nature to consider what other people liked.
But Rhoda was not taken in. She had served Miss Moberley for over twenty years.
‘Be sure that you get the finest sponge cakes, Rhoda,’ continued Miss Moberley. ‘Last time we had it I came across something that looked very like a bit of that cake Mrs Barlow brought us.’
The expression on Rhoda’s face did not alter as she informed her mistress that she never used anything but the finest sponge fingers for making Charlotte Russe. ‘Will there be anything further, madam?’ she asked, making a slight movement towards the door.
‘No, Rhoda, unless we have a savoury. Mr Harringay might like it. I shall try to eat it myself, although I can’t take a heavy meal at night, something light and nourishing is all I require. Still, I don’t want my nephew to think I’m an old crock, do I?’ She laughed the little laugh that always accompanied the use of what she considered a slang expression.
Rhoda smiled dutifully, a bleak smile that soon faded.
‘I will arrange about the savoury, madam,’ she said.
‘Very well. Now hurry down to the market for the fish and a nice bird and mind that you are back by a quarter to eleven. I must have my Ovaltine punctually.’
‘Very good, madam.’
‘And the cream, Rhoda, don’t forget the cream for the Charlotte Russe.’ Miss Moberley’s voice rose as Rhoda left the room.
Miss Moberley sat beside the roaring fire and unfolded the Church Times. She placed her pince-nez on her long, pale nose, and turned the pages. She was a big, sheep-like woman, with a thick white skin and pale blue eyes. She had a long upper lip and long teeth. Her hair was faded and scraped away from her large ears with an arrangement of combs. She was about sixty-five years old.
The room in which she sat was furnished with heavy Victorian mahogany and cumbrous red hangings, which looked as if they would be dusty, but, thanks to Rhoda’s ministrations, were scrupulously clean. There were a great many small tables dotted about the room, which the daily woman who came in to help was not allowed to dust since they bore a number of precious objects. A silver table stood against one wall and near the window there was a fine collection of native weapons, beads and other handiwork, presented to Miss Moberley by her cousin the Bishop of Nybongaland, who had thought it an excellent opportunity of getting rid of some junk. The other tables were covered with photographs of clergymen and dowdy-looking women in silver frames. It was, somehow, a very English room. If you had suddenly been transplanted there you would have thought you were in a drawing room in Tunbridge Wells or North Oxford. You would never have imagined that you were in Finland. But the address was 12, Kalevalagatan, Helsingfors. Not that this made any difference to Miss Moberley, who always spoke of her house as The Close. This name dated back to the days when her father, the Reverend Edgar Moberley, had been English chaplain at Helsingfors. When he died she was already the acknowledged head of the English colony and had gathered about her a circle of dull compatriots who respected and disliked her.
Rather than return to England, after her father’s death, and become merely a nameless spinster in some cathedral town, Miss Moberley had chosen to remain in Helsingfors where she still retained a considerable position in the English community. She had now reached the stage when it was no longer necessary to explain to visitors that the gentleman on the mantelpiece was Archdeacon Hyacinth and that the bearded man with the tennis racket was Bishop Grote, a kinsman of her mother’s, and that the ladies whose photographs stood on the small tables were all connected with the oldest families in England and were, of course, her relations.
It was a pleasant state to be in, reflected Miss Moberley complacently. She went to the window and looked out. Rhoda was hurrying back with her basket. She did the marketing every morning, and by some mysterious means, since she spoke only English, she always contrived to get the best of everything.
When she heard Rhoda come in Miss Moberley called out, ‘Now, Rhoda, are you sure it is a young bird?’
‘Yes, madam. I chose it myself.’ Rhoda’s voice was flat and patient.
‘And the sole, Rhoda, where is the sole?’
‘Mr Axelström said he’d be sending it later, madam. He’s good about sending,’ she added grudgingly. ‘And now, madam, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for your Ovaltine.’
‘Yes, Rhoda, I’ve had a tiring morning.’ Miss Moberley sagged into her armchair and began once more to turn the pages of the Church Times.
Gervase Harringay wondered if the boat was ever going to reach Helsingfors. He had come out to be a lecturer in English to the Finns at Philadelphia College, which had been founded by a rich American who had visited Finland some fifty years before and had been very much displeased because the Finns had not understood him when he asked for things in shops. The college was a result of this displeasure.
Gervase began thinking very conscientiously about the lectures he had prepared. He was to do Milton with his students this term. He thought they would appreciate Paradise Lost. They might recognize in it some of the grandeur of their own Kalevala he thought hopefully. He began to assemble his things and make himself tidy. He looked young and schoolboyish in his navy blue overcoat. He was goo
d-looking, fair and thin with attractively dark eyes. He had come out to Finland straight from Oxford, where he had taken a First in English. He was twenty-four years old.
‘We are approaching Helsingfors,’ said the Finn with whom he had made friends on the boat.
‘A new city,’ said Gervase, half to himself, ‘a new, clean city.’
‘Yes,’ said his companion. ‘But the Finns are old. We have known much sorrow. There in the lakes and forests of Punkaharju where my home is, you will find things older than civilization itself. These things are the heart of Finland … ’ the flat voice droned on. He sounded as if he were speaking to himself and did not mind whether anyone listened or not. Gervase had been listening in the hope of being told what these things were that were older than civilization itself, but when he realized that no explanation was forthcoming, his attention wandered, and he found himself gazing at his companion’s dark blue hat. It made him dissatisfied with his ordinary brown one, although it was new.
‘You speak English awfully well,’ said Gervase when there was a moment’s pause.
‘Oh, that is nothing.’ The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘My daughter could speak English fluently by the time she was ten. She also speaks German, French and Italian.’
Gervase felt very depressed by this and was glad that in the confusion and bustle of their arrival he was not obliged to admit that as well as having no Swedish or Finnish, his French and German were merely adequate.
Over dinner at his aunt’s he was questioned about various mutual acquaintances in England. Miss Moberley was never happier than when talking about people whose good family and distinguished connections were well known, though she delighted even more in discovering some secret disgrace.
‘How is Canon Palfrey?’ she asked. ‘I used to know him very well.’
‘Oh, did you,’ said Gervase, thinking that this was something of a disadvantage, for Canon Palfrey was vicar of the small town where he lived and somehow people who had known him since childhood never seemed to appreciate him as he deserved.
‘His wife was a kinswoman of Bishop Ogg, you know, and his daughter, I seem to remember, was a charming girl.’
‘Oh, yes, Flora.’ He turned his head away to hide a smile. It was the tolerant, slightly scornful smile of a young man who is loved by a girl for whom he feels no more than friendship. Flora Palfrey had been in love with Gervase Harringay since she was nineteen, and her passion had thrived on its diet of a cooling and pretty constant neglect.
‘I heard that she was very like her mother,’ said Miss Moberley. ‘A very handsome woman.’
‘I suppose Flora is quite comely in a hearty, English way’ – Gervase’s taste in women was rather more sophisticated than this – ‘she’s very lively and does a good deal in the parish since her mother died.’
Miss Moberley continued. ‘Nowadays it is increasingly difficult to meet the right people,’ she said. ‘Even Helsingfors is very different from what it was thirty years ago.’
‘I expect you know a great many interesting Finns,’ Gervase ventured.
‘Finns?’ Miss Moberley sounded surprised that he should ask such a thing. ‘In the old days, when your grandfather was alive, we knew some of the oldest aristocratic families, but I have never cared for foreigners and during the last twenty years I have kept very much to myself and my own circle of friends. Nations were not meant to be friendly,’ she declared firmly. ‘The best we can do is to set them an example of behaviour.’
Gervase was silent for some time. He looked round the room and became depressed by its Victorian atmosphere, which seemed to stifle him. He hoped it would not be long before he was settled with some Finnish family, who would give him conversational practice in the language. He intended to look for such a family as soon as possible.
At half past nine Rhoda brought in Miss Moberley’s Ovaltine and a small plate of biscuits.
‘Would Mr Harringay like some tea or coffee?’ she asked.
‘No, thank you, Rhoda,’ Miss Moberley said. ‘Young people have no need of stimulants.’
Rhoda went out, closing the door quietly behind her. After that there was no sound in the room but that of Miss Moberley sipping her Ovaltine.
It was a grey sunless morning and Gervase sat learning his Finnish vocabularies. It was bitterly cold outside, but Gervase felt that he would have enjoyed the sensation of shivering after living in Miss Moberley’s overheated house. He turned to the preparation of a lecture for the afternoon. His work at Philadelphia College was easier than he had expected, and he had only to give five lectures a week, besides taking tutorials. He found that his students had a good command of the English language, but that their critical faculty was undeveloped. He was thus able to talk brilliantly, pacing to and fro as he rolled out long and seemingly endless sentences, only to stop short and bring them to an end when the Finns were least expecting it. He hoped that they understood him, for their bland faces were devoid of emotion, although some of the young women could be seen smiling at each other and passing little notes when the lecture was in progress. But Gervase was not displeased, for some of them were very pretty, although he had not as yet studied them in detail. He was leaving all that sort of thing until he was settled somewhere away from his aunt. Today, indeed, he was to visit a Fru Lindblom, who, he had been told, might take him as a lodger. After his lecture, then, he took a tram to the street where she lived. He was rather frightened of the trams, as they were of the kind that shut up their steps when they were ready to go and the female conductor did not understand him when he spoke in halting Finnish. Eventually he found the right address and came face to face with a green door from which the paint was peeling in large flakes. It stood open so he boldly went in and found himself in what seemed to be a hall. The inner door had a design of flowers and birds carved on it. He knocked rather timidly, but as there was no answer he knocked more loudly until finally he was almost banging and the carvings were hurting his hand.
‘Come in,’ shouted an emphatic guttural voice at last.
Gervase went in. He found himself in a vast high-ceilinged room. The walls were bare except for an elaborate piece of tapestry hanging on one of them, and there was a great deal of furniture scattered about – a low fender seat, a large round table, several chairs and a massive chest all carved with designs of flowers, birds and animals. The only window had rough linen curtains half drawn across it and at first Gervase found it difficult to see. Finally he discerned the figure of a woman sitting in the darkest corner of the room. She was perched on a high wooden stool, plucking the feathers from a large bird, which looked like a seagull, though this hardly seemed likely.
The sheet on the floor round the stool was covered with a steadily growing pile of feathers. The woman did not look up when Gervase approached her, but she said in the same emphatic voice, ‘So you are here.’
Gervase felt that there was no reply to this so he stood holding his brown hat in his hand while she went on plucking the bird, as if he were a prospective servant waiting to be interviewed.
‘I hope I haven’t come at an awkward time,’ he said at last.
There was no reply, but as the bird now looked almost naked Gervase felt that some conversation might soon be forthcoming.
Suddenly she came towards him, carrying the plucked bird in her hand.
‘Oh, it is so immensely unfortunate that you should come here today,’ she said, her voice taking on a wailing quality.
‘I’m awfully sorry. I thought any time this afternoon would do. I should have telephoned first.’
‘Oh no, it is not that. I am so glad that you should have come. No, the fact is that Helmi, our servant, has gone today – quite suddenly – and I do not know where we shall find another one. And now that you have seen that we have no servant you will not be wanting to come to us,’ she added, her voice becoming deeper and more despairing.
‘How well you speak English,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Yes.’ Fru Lindblom was
calmer now and had put the bird down on the table. ‘I spent many years at a school for the daughters of clergymen in the North of England. I taught them how to carve in wood. It is an old Finnish craft, you know. I do not know what use it was, though,’ she added sadly.
Gervase murmured something about the lovely carving in the room. ‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,’ he ventured, but not very comfortable to sit on, he thought, shifting uneasily in his carved chair.
‘I do not mean that the carving was no use,’ said Fru Lindblom impatiently. ‘It is always of use to learn some craft. I was speaking of my stay in England.’
‘Well, you learned another language,’ said Gervase helpfully.
‘My life has been immensely unfortunate,’ continued Fru Lindblom, ‘but you have not come for that. You have come to be a lodger.’
She began to gather up the feathers in the sheet. This simple action seemed to dispel her reminiscent, melancholy mood and she became brisker and more businesslike.
‘You could have a pleasant room here,’ she said, ‘with sunny aspect. You need not have your meals with us unless you wish. Ingeborg, my daughter, lives here with me. It will be easy to arrange that when we have another servant. I will show you the room. It will be cheap, because we shall be glad to have someone to talk English to. I wish my daughter to become more proficient. Here is the room. It is clean,’ she added simply, with no attempt to enumerate any other advantages the room might possess.
Gervase saw that it was large, although smaller and lighter than the one they had just left. There was a divan, not of carved wood, he was relieved to see, although the table and chairs were. By the window was a large modern desk of black and cream Finnish birchwood and there were plenty of bookshelves. Gervase imagined himself working at that desk and looking out of the window through which he might get a glimpse of the harbour.