Civil to Strangers and Other Writings

by Barbara Pym

  Ingeborg was waiting for Flora when she arrived at Fazer’s, having wandered through many rooms. How gay and interesting it all was. How different from England! And Ingeborg, in her hearth-rug coat, looked just like Garbo. She was standing up, drooping rather, her hands in her pockets. She had taken off her hat and her fair hair hung down almost to her furry shoulders. She looked tired and pale, but her face brightened when she saw Flora.

  ‘I must try to speak to you in English this afternoon,’ she said carefully, as if she had prepared this opening sentence beforehand. ‘I must practise. Mama is angry because I do not learn more.’

  They drank their coffee and ate their cakes and their talk was light and feminine. Flora promised to knit Ingeborg a jumper.

  ‘I like to have some knitting on hand. I should like to make it in a bright colour,’ she said. ‘You would look marvellous in jade green!’

  ‘Oh, you are kind. I shall have what you say. I always buy something grey or black or brown. I look plain always, I know.’

  ‘But Ingeborg, you’re beautiful, much better looking than I am,’ said Flora sincerely.

  ‘Oh no, Flora. I am so flat and thin,’ said Ingeborg simply, looking down at her chest.

  Flora laughed. ‘Well, I am neither flat nor thin,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know what happiness my curves have brought me. How curious it is,’ she continued, ‘to be sitting in a café in Finland. To realize that life is still going on at home.’ She paused reflectively. ‘This afternoon I would have been at the working party for the Olde Tudor Fayre, which is being held in May in aid of the new Parish Hall. I am making a tea-cosy for it. In England I am a vicar’s daughter and over here I am supposed to be a companion to Miss Moberley, but I suppose what I really am is a young woman in love.’

  Ingeborg had been listening to Flora with an expression of bewilderment on her face. Tudor Fayre, tea-cosy, Parish Hall, all these words were unfamiliar to her. It was like coming to the end of a dark forest to hear the word Love. Ingeborg was now able to take an intelligent part in the conversation, able, indeed, to adorn it with a quotation from Goethe.

  ‘“Und lieben, Götter, welch ein Glück!”’ she exclaimed enthusiastically, her eyes shining and her cheeks quite pink.

  ‘Why Ingeborg,’ said Flora, ‘are you a young woman in love too? Do tell me. Wouldn’t it ease your sorrow to have some comfortable female friend to confide in? I know you will tell me some time, people always confide in me. “Dear Flora is so sympathetic,” they say. I used to be proud of it, but now there is more resignation than pride in my attitude. It probably means that I shall find friends rather than lovers.’ Flora heaved a rather exaggerated sigh. ‘I don’t know which I’d rather have.’

  ‘A friend is better than a lover,’ said Ingeborg.

  ‘I think I should like another cake,’ said Flora suddenly. ‘Come and choose some.’ They got up and went towards the counter where there was a display of rich cakes. Flora and Ingeborg discussed the merits of each one before they made their choice, or, at least, Flora discussed and Ingeborg listened. As they ate their cakes Ingeborg fell silent and sat brooding. As Flora mentioned Gervase’s name, casually, in the course of conversation, she started and grew pale. So that’s what it is! Flora thought. Ingeborg is also in love with Gervase.

  ‘Shall we go home now,’ she said gently, ‘or would you like to come and choose the wool?’

  ‘The wool?’ repeated Ingeborg, looking at Flora with a dazed expression. The tears in her eyes looked as if they might spill down her face at any moment. ‘Yes, we will choose the wool,’ she said, obviously making an effort to pull herself together.

  Oh, poor Ingeborg, thought Flora, taking hold of her arm, what can I say to her? I can’t tell her that the first two years are the worst. There was nothing she could say, Flora decided; all she could do was be kind to her. She would say nothing for the present, but she would do all she could to help her to win Gervase’s love. Flora felt noble and suddenly happy when she had made this resolution.

  ‘Oh, Ingeborg,’ she said enthusiastically, ‘you must have this bluey-green, it brings out the colour of your eyes!’

  Ingeborg looked pleased and smiled. ‘Oh, Flora, you are so kind,’ she said. They turned and looked at each other, holding the skein of wool between them.

  ‘I have some number ten needles,’ said Flora. ‘I shall have to get some eights, though.’ I’ll begin the jumper tonight, she thought. That will be something.

  ‘I am glad that you are going with Gervase to this party tonight,’ said Miss Moberley. ‘He needs a steadying influence.’

  Oh dear, thought Flora, is that what I am. If only Aunt Emily would see how hopeless it was trying to bring young people together when one was so determined not to be brought.

  ‘I must go and get ready now,’ she said. ‘I shall look very English in my black velvet dress.’

  When they were in the taxi she asked Gervase, ‘Why didn’t you bring Ingeborg?’

  ‘My dear Flora, why should I? You seem very devoted to her. I can’t think what you can have in common.’

  Flora laughed. ‘More than you could possibly imagine,’ she said. ‘Don’t you like her?’

  ‘Like her?’ Gervase sounded startled. ‘I simply don’t feel anything about her. She’s just there in the house.’

  As they arrived at the party, Gervase whispered, ‘A lot of them are my students. You’ll find them very intelligent.’

  ‘Oh, good. I shall quote Cleveland at them and expect their faces to light up as they supply the next line.’

  ‘We are doing Milton this term,’ explained Gervase, as if it were impossible that the students would know anything but what he had taught them.

  ‘I think Milton is a bloody fool,’ said one Finn shortly. He was fair and slender with intelligent greenish eyes. His name was Ooli and he had already, at their previous meetings, shown himself to be most attentive to Flora. She noticed that his voice sounded very like Gervase’s.

  ‘You speak like Herr Lektor Harringay,’ she said.

  ‘Only when we are drunk,’ laughed Ooli.

  ‘I wish I could have such powers given to me when I was drunk,’ said Flora, as if she had considerable experience of that state. As the evening wore on and the whisky flowed and the Finnish students proved more and more agreeable, Flora was pleased to see that she was able to enjoy herself even if Gervase did not love her.

  Just before the party was over, Ooli turned to Flora and bowed.

  ‘I am giving a party next Friday. It is to be held at the same time as Herr Gervase’s colleague Herr Lolly is giving his lecture on Milton’s Areopagitica,’ he said, turning towards Gervase. ‘We really did not think we could bear to hear such a lecture, so we are having a tea instead. We hope that Herr Harringay will come. And you, Miss Flora.’ He turned and took both her hands in his. His green eyes were sparkling. Flora felt quite weak as she looked into them. ‘Perhaps you will come too?’

  Flora thanked him, smiled and stood up. For a moment the room with its bronzes, birchwood furniture, flowers, Finns and whisky swam about her, but she soon steadied herself and she was able to walk with dignity to the cloakroom where she made up her face and put on her coat. I believe I am a little intoxicated, she thought, as she looked at her reflection in the mirror. It had huge eyes and a mouth that would keep breaking into smiles.

  The next morning after breakfast she slipped out of the house to get a little fresh air. By chance she met Ingeborg in the market. Ingeborg was more talkative than usual and kept asking Flora about the party.

  ‘It must have been very entertaining. Mr Harringay did not come home until very late. I heard him come in. I was awake.’

  Flora looked at her with compassion, then went on hastily to speak in general terms about the party.

  ‘How lovely to have been there,’ said Ingeborg, ‘and with your own particular man – he is your man, isn’t he?’ Ingeborg looked at Flora piteously.

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ said
Flora evasively. ‘We are quite friendly, that is all. I can perfectly well do without a man, and I certainly don’t need Gervase Harringay.’

  ‘If only I should be able to say that! But you are my friend and I will say the truth to you. I cannot live without Gervase Harringay!’ Ingeborg stopped suddenly in the middle of the market. She obviously expected Flora to stop too, stunned at her revelation. But Flora took Ingeborg’s arm and led her away from the rows of shining codfish around them.

  ‘Oh, Ingeborg, I knew it,’ she said. ‘I guessed it that afternoon. How glad I am to know the truth. Everything will be so much easier now.’

  But would it? Flora’s tired and still rather fuddled mind saw many difficulties. Suppose Gervase didn’t love Ingeborg? Then there would be two unhappy young women. Flora herself was used to this particular kind of unhappiness and was already beginning to realize that Gervase could never be hers now. But was Ingeborg strong enough to stand such misery? And what about Miss Moberley? Nobody who didn’t know her could realize what a formidable obstacle a rich, elderly aunt could be.

  ‘I love him. I cannot live without him,’ said Ingeborg simply. ‘It is terrible when I must be alone with him. I do not speak. And he does not speak. We sit together in the room and I am sewing and he is reading a book. Oh, it is terrible, the silence! And Mama says I am stupid and how can Mr Harringay love me when I am stupid. You are so clever and so beautiful, Flora, and can say so much … ’

  ‘Oh, Ingeborg, I’m sure everything is going to be all right. You must be patient, simply that.’ You may have to wait five years, she thought, but judged it more tactful not to say so now.

  ‘Oh, fancy!’ Ingeborg’s face lit up with joy and she looked beautiful. ‘Oh, if it should be true! I will wait until I am as old as Mama if he will love me one day.’

  ‘I don’t imagine you will have to wait as long as that,’ said Flora wryly. ‘You know, men are just a bit stupid about love. Yes, men are often very stupid,’ she added. Suddenly she did not feel strong enough to comfort and advise. Later, when she had had time to think about it, she would arrange everything. Gervase and Ingeborg would be married. Flora might even be chief bridesmaid.

  As she went back towards Miss Moberley’s she met Gervase.

  ‘How did you enjoy the party?’ he asked. ‘And what did you think of my students? I could see,’ he said in tones of surprise, ‘they were charmed with you.’

  ‘I simply adore Ooli,’ said Flora, enthusiastically.

  ‘You adore Ooli!’ Gervase was astonished.

  ‘He’s so intelligent and amusing and he has such beautiful green eyes!’

  ‘Well, there’s no knowing what women will like,’ said Gervase with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘First me, and now Ooli,’ he added.

  Flora gave him a startled look. He had put it into words before she had even thought of it. She didn’t like it. She wanted to cling to Gervase’s arm – a thing he hated her to do – and say, ‘Not yet, please, not yet. Let us stay the same for a little longer. Let me stay in the unhappiness I’m used to rather than start out on a new one which may be even worse.’ There was something familiar and comforting about Gervase, walking two or three paces in front of her on the pavement of a strange Northern capital. Flora was sure that there could never be anything comforting about Ooli, even if she were to fall in love with him. But she said none of these things. They could not stand still.

  ‘First you and then Ooli,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Now, is that a step forward or a step back?’

  ‘I like to think that it is a step back,’ said Gervase laughing, ‘but I must be honest and tell you that Ooli is a much better catch than I am, if you can land him. He is a Count, he has plenty of money, he is very intelligent and he can be charming when he likes.’

  ‘I think that it will be out of the frying pan and into the fire,’ she laughed. ‘Poor Flora, caught between the Devil and the deep green sea!’

  ‘I like to think that I am the Devil,’ said Gervase.

  How splendid it would be if Flora were to marry Count Ooli Ruomini-Forstenborg. She was really such a nice girl and would make an excellent wife for some lucky man. Gervase felt that he would have given anything to see her happily settled with somebody else.

  Gervase sighed and flung the novel he had been reading on to the sofa. He knew that he ought not to be reading a novel at all. He should be preparing a lecture on Samson Agonistes or at least be writing an intelligent letter to one of his far-away, unreal Oxford friends. The only reality nowadays was Finland and the Finns and even Flora, the most English of people, seemed to have taken on a curious quality, so that she said and did things she would never have done at home. He never opened a book now, except to divert himself with a novel or to look up a reference for a lecture. He had given up learning Swedish and Finnish. It was so much easier to speak English with Fru Lindblom and to be silent with Ingeborg. Somehow he didn’t need words with her. There was a curious bond between them, he felt, almost as though they could see into each other’s minds and knew that what was there needed no explaining. What actually was there Gervase didn’t know. He might be in love with her, he supposed idly. Gervase was a great believer in letting sleeping dogs lie. He had no idea that Ingeborg was in love with him. He thought that simply being a Finn was the reason for her strange, almost abrupt manner, her fits of moodiness and her fondness for reading Heine. But although he did not know that she loved him he had some understanding of her. He knew why she longed so passionately for spring. He was beginning to feel the effects of the Finnish climate upon himself. He wondered how it affected his aunt. He did not imagine that Miss Moberley would have enough sensibility to be affected by it. She would see it only as weather. She might dislike the rain – it had done nothing but rain for the past month – but she would miss altogether the curious leaden quality of the air, which Gervase felt was stifling him. Perhaps one grew used to it in time, though. He must remember to notice the people at Mr Boulding’s tonight.

  This evening he was taking Ingeborg with him again. When they arrived they found Mr Boulding surrounded by the usual group of spinsters, including Miss Moberley, who was annoyed because Gervase had come without Flora. It almost seemed as if there might be something between him and the Lindblom girl. She would have to speak to him about it. Her temper was not improved when Flora arrived with Ooli, although she modified her disapproval when she discovered that he was a Count.

  Flora took Ingeborg away into a corner and began a low murmured conversation with her, and Ooli went over to Miss Moberley, who made room for him upon the sofa where he sat very demurely with hands folded while Miss Moberley graciously asked him questions about his family. Glancing across the room, Flora was pleased to see that Miss Moberley was looking positively affable. If she were to take a liking to him she might easily come to regard him as quite a suitable successor to Gervase when she finally admitted that it was extremely unlikely that he and Flora would make a match of it.

  Gervase came up to take Ingeborg away to speak to Mr Boulding and Flora sat alone in her corner. The whole scene before her became unreal. The English colony, the room with its portraits of former chaplains, the food on the long table. All this must surely be a dream and she must really be in the drawing room at the vicarage, listening to the wireless, knitting, cutting out a dress on the floor, reading the new Vogue, or even Young’s Night Thoughts.

  Lorenzo of the Night Thoughts might have looked like Ooli Ruomini-Forstenborg – thin, sharp features and bold green eyes. Flora saw that Ooli was smiling at her across the room. There was triumph in his expression. Flora went over to them in time to hear Miss Moberley say, ‘Now Count, or Ooli, as I am going to call you, do not forget to drop in to tea. Any Tuesday. I do like to be in touch with young people.’

  Flora stared at her in disbelief which increased when Miss Moberley reappeared, ready to go home in her long musquash coat with a skunk collar, and smiled archly as Ooli kissed her hand and bowed. He took Flora’s hand and held it,
smiling at her but saying nothing.

  In the taxi going home Gervase drew Ingeborg to him and said, ‘Now, Ingeborg, be reasonable. Flora wants us to be happy, I know that. Anyway, she has fallen in love with Ooli,’ he added, hoping that he might be speaking the truth. ‘She doesn’t love me any more. She was never really in love with me – it was simply an over-developed imagination and the boredom of being a girl in an English country vicarage. She always dramatizes herself and sees herself as leading a life of absorbing interest. No doubt she has told you that she has been in love with me since she was nineteen, and made so much of it that you were afraid to hurt her. I know Flora far better than you do. She can just as easily fall in love with somebody else – it’s her nature.’

  ‘Oh, fancy,’ said Ingeborg, who had been following this with some difficulty, ‘fancy that you should say such things about Flora! Oh, what should Flora say if she hear you?’

  What indeed should Flora say to hear the noble passion, the devotion of the best years of her life, dismissed in a few phrases? Gervase realized that he was hardly doing her justice, but he felt that this was no time to be thinking of Flora. They went into the flat. Fru Lindblom’s wood-carving tools were scattered over the table in the corner, but she had obviously gone to bed.

  ‘Ingeborg,’ said Gervase, ‘do you love me? I want to hear it.’

  Ingeborg turned away from him. ‘I know you want to hear it, because you want that all should love you. Flora, my dear friend … ’

  ‘No, Ingeborg,’ Gervase spoke urgently. ‘I’ve never loved anyone until now, I swear it. I want only you.’

  Ingeborg raised her head and looked at him. Her eyes were shining. She looked as if she were about to say ‘Oh, fancy’, but love seemed to give her a command of language and she began to talk rapidly in a mixture of English and Swedish to a fascinated Gervase who could only hold her and gaze at her in wonder.

  ‘Ingeborg,’ he said fondly, ‘whatever sort of wife will you make?’