Thalia

by Frances Faviell

  Thalia said nothing when Claude’s cards came, but on the fourth morning when there was nothing for anyone and Claude set up a howl, she turned on him fiercely: ‘What are you howling for, you little stupid?’ she said. ‘You’ve had three—I’ve had none!’

  She had a cold coming on and her eyes were red and watery, her face flushed and blotchy. In addition to this it was her time of the month for misery—and she was wretched. She heatedly denied feeling ill—unlike her mother she suffered in silence and with a stoic patience; and in spite of my remonstrances she insisted on going to school. She came back shortly after accompanied by one of the French teachers. ‘Thalia fainted at prayers,’ she told me. I put her to bed. She curled up very wretchedly, and turned her face to the wall. She was green with pain and burst out violently: ‘Why do I have to have this? I hate it. I hate it. Why not Claude? It’s not fair. . . .’

  ‘Claude’s a baby. You had your childhood too.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she repeated angrily.

  I didn’t think it was either—but saying so couldn’t help Thalia. Claude was having his French lesson with Mademoiselle Caron. It was time for me to rush down the rue de la Malouine and across the Promenade with flying feet to the haven of the cabine—and Armand. But I couldn’t leave Thalia like this. She made no sound but her face and whole body twisted in contortions, and tears rolled down her face. Her hand clutching mine was very hot. I fetched a thermometer. She had quite a high temperature.

  ‘I’m going to telephone Dr. Cartier,’ I said.

  ‘No; no,’ she cried violently.

  I bathed her face and gave her some aspirin.

  The doctor was a young and up-and-coming man. I liked him, and found him refreshingly frank in contrast to the reticence of the medical world at home. He had come twice to Cynthia, and supplied her with sleeping tablets very unwillingly.

  ‘Does she take these things often?’ he asked me after I had interpreted all her symptoms for him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘She’s got to stop. She’s neurotic. She needs exercise—then she would sleep better.’

  ‘Her heart’s too bad for exercise.’

  He had smiled. ‘The heart, Mademoiselle, is a very tough organ. It has to be. She has a nervous heart—but it’s not dangerous. It may frighten her—but it won’t kill her—at least not before her time.’

  After this Cynthia reluctantly took up some gentle golf with Colonel Simpson at St. Briac.

  I telephoned the doctor now, and he promised to come later in the morning. I knew I ought to stay with Thalia but I wanted to see Armand. His name kept coming to me—even the misery of Thalia seemed a little vague because of the thrill of seeing Armand.

  Marie promised to go up to Thalia. She was polishing the parquet with a felt pad on her left foot and a rope from it was attached round her waist. Her niece watched sullenly at her side.

  ‘You lazy good-for-nothing! There’s only one way to polish—like this!’ She performed the forward and backward movement of the foot vigorously with a duster tied to the polisseur on her foot. Thalia and I had loved trying this out with Madeleine. Elise did not seem to be enjoying it. Where she had last worked, she said, the Madame had said it was old-fashioned. She should use a mop, she had said. Marie was contemptuous. She paused in her violent exercise to say that she would make Thalia a tisane. The rubbish doctors gave was useless—a tisane was much better.

  It was late—Armand would be impatient. I tore up the pebbled path and out of the gate.

  Alas, Claude was hanging dangerously over the balcony.

  ‘Where’s Mademoiselle?’ I shouted frantically after telling him to go back into the room.

  ‘In the lavatory!’ he shrieked. ‘I hope she stops there hours. Take me with you, Rachel. Do take me. She’ll still be there when we come back.’

  ‘No. Go back and work. I’ll bring you a sucette!’ I cried. I ran down the street, past the many acquaintances calling ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle’.

  ‘Bonjour. Bonjour,’ I kept saying automatically . . . and all the time as my feet clattered on the stones I was thinking of Armand . . . Armand. . . . Will he be there? Will he be there? And I hated everyone who delayed me from him by one minute.

  He was just going—and he was angry with me. Angry because he’d been kept waiting, angry because he was afraid that I might not come, angry with apprehension that something had happened to me. I knew it all because it was the same with me, a mixture of delight and anguish.

  He drew me into the cabine roughly. ‘I was just going. What kept you?’

  ‘Thalia. She’s ill. The doctor’s coming . . .’ I panted.

  He cursed under his breath. ‘That girl. It’s always her. She’s always trying to keep you from me. How can you stand her spying and prying on you?’

  I did not have to answer because of his kisses. But for the first time since we had been meeting in these short, snatched contacts something spoiled our pleasure.

  Thalia . . . Thalia. . . . Now that I was in Armand’s arms the irritating vision of her blotched red face, her twisted features, her silent tears came as a reminder of my duty. I was responsible for her and I had deliberately pushed her out until I reached Armand. Now that he held me, her face refused to disappear. ‘Go away. Leave me with him. I’ll come back to you very soon . . . just leave me now, I begged it. But it wouldn’t go; stubborn and mocking it was there, and I shivered in his arms.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter, my darling?’

  And when I stammered that I was worried because I had been left in charge of the children he said quickly: ‘That girl spoils everything. Damn her!’

  I was angry with myself and with him. We had barely five minutes together.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘It’s low tide to-night. I’ll come along the beach and up the steps. We can talk on the terrace. It’s sheltered there—and the girl’ll be in bed.’

  I agreed reluctantly, still thinking of Thalia. Suppose she were worse?

  But when Dr. Cartier came he said he thought it was nothing worse than a chill. She suffered his examination sullenly and reluctantly. When we went into the salon he said: ‘Where’s her mother?’

  ‘In Paris.’

  ‘You’re alone here?’

  ‘Oh, no. I have Marie.’

  ‘The girl interests me,’ he said, sipping his apéritif. ‘It’s difficult to imagine that such a beautiful woman could have such a daughter. How d’you get on with her? She’s devoted to you. I can see that. How do you feel about her?’

  How did I feel? I did not know. Anger, irritation, resentment, amusement, pity, affection—even love sometimes. He didn’t press the question. She bitterly resents being a woman. Something which you don’t, do you?’

  ‘I did,’ I said truthfully.

  ‘And now?’ He looked quizzically at me over his glass. ‘Now that the handsome young Tréfours is in love with you?’

  How did he know?

  ‘Well?’ he repeated.

  ‘I am glad and sorry at the same time,’ I said. ‘I want to be a painter—and for that it’s better to be a man.’

  ‘And for love?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I was doubtful. He laughed at me.

  That’s something I don’t know either. But it’s a point which has been much discussed.’

  He left after warning me that Thalia’s temperature might rise in the evening. He would look in next morning but if I were at all worried or anxious he would come again in the evening.

  ‘I’m at your service, Mademoiselle Rachel,’ he said as we walked out to his car.

  He said he missed seeing Cynthia in the town. ‘She’s so beautiful that it is a joy just to look at her.’ And I thought how lovely it must be to be as beautiful as that.

  ‘But for you—it’s wonderful to be young and in love, isn’t it? Even if it’s with a Frenchman?’ he teased me, laughing at my discomfiture. ‘How do I know? A doctor has eyes—special ones.’

&nbs
p; I went up to Thalia. ‘Do you hate being a girl?’ I asked her curiously.

  ‘Yes,’ she said violently. ‘Mother would like me so much better if I were a boy.’

  ‘But your father wouldn’t.’

  ‘He would. He adores Claude—just because he’s a boy. Besides, men have a much better time than women.’

  I looked at her flushed misery and patted her head.

  ‘Did you see him?’ she asked resentfully.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I saw him.’

  ‘And he kissed you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She sat up, shaking back her straggling hair. ‘It’s beastly. How can you? Men always want to kiss.’

  ‘And you want to be a man?’ I teased her.

  She tossed her head impatiently and would not answer. She looked very ugly, with a kind of defeated wretchedness such as a sick sporting dog shows; and as I covered her up she seized my hand and held it to her face.

  ‘Lie down. I’ll read to you,’ I said. ‘Mademoiselle Caron says she’ll take Claude out for me.’

  ‘What will you read?’

  ‘Some Breton legends. They’re lovely.’

  ‘No. I want poetry. Leconte de l’Isle.’

  I looked at her averted face and I hated her for deliberately choosing Armand’s favourite poet.

  ‘You’re getting Alfred de Musset,’ I said firmly.

  But before I had read more than a few lines she was asleep.

  Cynthia returned unexpectedly on the Sunday night. I was on the terrace talking to Armand. He had come up the steps and I had unlocked the iron gate with the great key, and with one of Marie’s shawls flung round me was with him on the stone seat under the palms when Thalia came running down the garden path to the terrace. She was in her dressing-gown and called urgently: ‘Rachel! Rachel! There’s a taxi stopping at the gate . . . Mother’s back . . . Come in quickly. . . .’

  I was horrified at her coming out like that. She had been quite ill the previous night. ‘Go in. At once! Are you mad?’ I said.

  ‘You come in, too. Mother’ll be angry with you. I know she will. . . .’

  ‘Go in! At once. Go back to bed.’

  ‘I’m not running off as if I’m doing wrong in talking to you,’ protested Armand. ‘It’s ridiculous, Rachel, next Sunday I’ll take you to my mother. We must be engaged formally, this won’t do.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Rachel! Mademoiselle Rachel!’ Marie’s voice came down the path. ‘Madame’s back. Come! Madame’s back.’

  Armand caught me to him and kissed me passionately. ’Go now. I’ll see you to-morrow? And to-night I’ll speak to my mother.’

  I went in slowly. Cynthia was in the hall talking to Thalia. She hadn’t taken in the fact that Thalia had been out in the garden, but I said quickly: ‘Thalia, go back to bed—you’ve had a temperature. How can you be so mad?’

  ‘A temperature? Is Claude all right?’ asked Cynthia quickly. She wore a lavender-coloured long tweed travelling coat and a little violet velvet hat. She was pale but she looked utterly lovely.

  ‘Claude is very well—but Thalia has been quite ill,’ I said. ‘Doctor Cartier was here twice.’

  ‘Then what’s she doing out of bed?’

  ‘I came down to see you—I heard your taxi,’ said Thalia.

  Cynthia looked at Marie’s shawl round me. ‘You’ve been out?’

  ‘In the garden.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘Talking to Armand.’

  ‘I thought I asked you not to have him here.’

  ‘He hasn’t been here. He came up the steps and I talked to him on the terrace.’

  ‘Every night?’

  ‘Last night and to-night.’

  ‘Go to bed,’ she said sharply to Thalia. ‘I’ll see you presently.’

  We went into the salon and I told Marie to bring some tea and sandwiches. Cynthia hadn’t had any dinner.

  ‘We didn’t expect you until Tuesday,’ I said.

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘What d’you mean by that?’

  ‘I come back late at night. I find Thalia walking about in a dressing-gown instead of being asleep—and you out in the garden with a young man.’

  ‘And you,’ I said pointedly, ‘weren’t in the hotel you told me you were in.’

  Her eyes grew very blue and the pupils became smaller.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I telephoned you there. I was worried about Thalia.’

  ‘There was a mistake. When I got there they hadn’t reserved a room for me. I had to stay at another hotel.

  There had been no address on the postcards. I had written twice to tell her all was well.

  ‘Did you get my cards?’

  ‘Of course. They sent them on.’

  ‘They didn’t know where you were when I telephoned you.’

  ‘I don’t care for your tone, Rachel.’

  ‘And I don’t care to be left in charge of your children when you don’t let me know your whereabouts.’

  ‘Don’t let’s quarrel, Rachel. I’m sorry if you were worried.

  ‘I was worried about Thalia. She’s been quite ill.’

  ‘She’s very strong. There’s nothing much the matter. She looked all right to me.’

  ‘She didn’t yesterday or Saturday—and she fainted at school on Friday.’

  ‘The usual, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes—and she had a bad chill.’

  ‘She does such stupid things—such as coming out of bed just now.’ Her tone was indifferent. It was quite changed when she said again: ‘But Claude’s all right?’

  ‘He’s very well. And he’s been very good while you’ve been away.’

  The tea came in and she took off her hat. Marie and Elise bore her bags away.

  ‘Did you enjoy Paris?’

  ‘It’s a lovely city—yes, I enjoyed it.’ There was not the slightest enthusiasm. It seemed to me that the visit had gone wrong somehow—it hadn’t been a success.

  ‘I brought Claude a present. And something for you.’ She handed me a box. In it was a little jacket of some fluffy white stuff made as only the French can make such things.

  ‘And Thalia?’

  ‘I couldn’t find anything for her. She’s difficult. Nothing suits her.’

  ‘Would you mind very much if I gave her this?’

  ‘It won’t suit her. But give it her by all means—I thought you’d like it.’

  ‘I do. I love it. But she needs a present just now.’

  ‘Then buy her one and keep the jacket.’ She was sipping her tea. Her voice sounded bored.

  ‘Cynthia,’ I said. ‘You give it her. Now, when you go upstairs. . . . Do.’

  ‘I can’t climb all those stairs—my heart’s not too good.’

  Her eyes met mine. She was angry with me.

  ‘Then I’ll take it up myself now.’

  ‘Wait a minute. I want to show you the new dress I bought. It’s for the big party at Colonel Simpson’s next week.’

  We went up to her room on the first floor and she pulled a frock from the tissue paper enfolding it. It was an ice-blue evening dress. She held it up against her. ‘Like it?’

  ‘It’s lovely—and it suits you.’

  When I went up the stairs to Thalia I left Cynthia standing by Claude’s bed looking down at his sleeping form. I handed Thalia the jacket in its wrappings. ‘From your mother,’ I said. She didn’t undo it. ‘I heard it all,’ she said bitterly. ‘Keep your jacket, Rachel. I wouldn’t wear it for anything.’

  What was the use of telling her that she shouldn’t have been listening? She was cut to the heart. I put my arms round her but she turned away to the wall again and wouldn’t speak to me.

  X

  I HAD not finished Catherine’s portrait, I no longer cared for it. It seemed that it was always so. There was the first wild fever of impatience to get it on the canvas, the terrible struggle to say what one wanted to say, the white heat of excitement when the firs
t glimmerings of success appeared —and then the downward rush of complete disillusionment when one had to face up to failure. But Catherine liked the painting—she wanted it completed.

  I had taken the drawings of Claude to a gallery in the town to have them framed. The owner, a round, shrewd-eyed little man, liked them. He asked me if I had any paintings to show him. I had only done one which in any degree pleased me. It was a small painting of two children, their arms round one another, sitting alone on a wet seat on the vedette in the rain. They had been returning with a funeral party from St. Malo when I had seen them. Alone, in deep black they sat, this boy and girl, while the rest of the party were crowded together gossiping. It was only an impression —the figures with neither features nor detail—but there was in them something of the quality which had so appealed to me on the vedette. I had called it ‘The Orphans’, and except for the set compositions at the Slade it was my first serious attempt at such a picture.

  The gallery owner asked me to put it in a forthcoming exhibition of local work and reluctantly I agreed. The morning after Cynthia’s return he telephoned me that my picture had a prospective buyer, but that I had not priced it. How much was it? I had not the vaguest idea, never having sold a painting.

  ‘Come in and discuss it,’ said the man.

  ’You’re going to be very surprised when you hear who your prospective buyer is,’ he greeted me.

  I wasn’t interested in the buyer, I was only madly excited that anyone actually wanted it.

  ‘It’s Xavier Tréfours, the painter,’ he said. ‘He’s taken a fancy to it. Says it’s lyrical painting. Now then, Mademoiselle, what shall we ask him for it?’

  I was so thrilled that a famous painter wanted my little sketch that I said I would not dream of asking anything for it. I would like to give it him.

  ‘Impossible,’ said the owner of the gallery. Every picture in the exhibition had to be priced and from that he had to take his own commission. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘Monsieur Tréfours wouldn’t dream of accepting it.’