Singing Waters

by Ann Bridge

  In Mme. Lek-Gionaj, on the other hand, it was easy to see Sarah, or the wife of any patriarch. She was a massive woman, much taller than her husband and immensely broad in the beam, with a large, broad-browed, big-mouthed face, firm and solid as an early Epstein sculpture. Her face in repose was so expressionless as to be almost sulky, but gave a great sense of latent power. Her huge frame was splendidly clothed. Full white linen trousers tapered down from her vast hips to quite small feet, and over them, bell-like, hung the skirts of her white linen tunic, which was most delicately pleated and embroidered on the bosom; over this was a jacket of deep purple velvet, and a brilliantly striped silk apron fell to her knees, held in place by another silk shawl, embroidered this time and tied round the waist. Over all she wore a sleeveless coat of white woollen homespun, reaching in front only a few inches beyond the arm-holes, which were surrounded by a band of embroidery in vivid reds and greens—there was more of this embroidery on the hips and round the neck and hem. It was of an Oriental magnificence, this dress, and the stern impassive countenance was almost oriental too. Her head-dress was as stern as her face. A fringed shawl of black silk was folded squarely across that great sculptured forehead and bound above the ears—it fell in a black cascade of fringe down to the middle of that vast white coat at the back—in front, a great plait of bronze-dark hair was somehow drawn up through the black folds, and lay across her head like a coronal She wore no jewellery, and indeed her natural splendour needed none. Calmly, silent except when addressed, she stood watching her flocks, her husband, and her off-spring—for Marte and Lisa had accompanied them down to the fold, and Pieter stood with his father. Oh yes, so indeed might Sarah have stood, Miss Glanfield thought, or that great matron of whom King Solomon sang, or the notable woman who entertained the prophet Elijah. This was what womanhood meant in a simpler, earlier world. It was impossible to conceive of coquetry, or the competitive spirit, or ruinous extravagance in the pursuit of fashion so much as entering into the conception of that great creature, traditionally garbed, traditionally occupied in sæcular duties and responsibilities.

  It occurred to her to wonder what Mrs. Thurston was making of this scene, and of their hostess, and she turned to where she stood. Graceful, slight as a wand beside that enormous matriarchal bulk, in her grey flannel trousers and her little linen jacket, with her plucked eyebrows and scarlet mouth and nails, it was now Gloire who looked exotic, strange, among that group of Albanian women; though her dress was dim beside theirs in actual colour, their severe and archaic outlines made her somehow gaudy; she was smoking and looked a little bored, but not discontented. Dr. Crowninshield’s words came back into Miss Glanfield’s mind. Strange old woman—little New England witch! How odd all that had been. She must think more about it. But she had said Gloire would want something from her—a lot, but not too much—and the writer moved over to Mrs. Thurston to share her impressions, and asked her if she did not think Sarah, in the tents of Abraham, must have looked rather like their hostess?

  Gloire bestowed a glance on Mme. Lek-Gionaj.

  “She looks more like Mrs. Noah to me,” she replied briefly.

  Miss Glanfield stifled a laugh. Mme. Lek-Gionaj did look uncommonly like that stalwart figure, striped in red and yellow, who used to preside over the wooden animals on the nursery floor in the days of her youth.

  “But how do you mean?” Gloire went on—she was quite ready to listen to Miss Glanfield’s ideas, whatever they were.

  Miss Glanfield said a little of what she meant as they strolled up towards the house—of the timelessness of women like that, and of their lives and outlook; of the minute fraction of the human race, taken as a whole, which lived for amusement and self-expression, or at least felt a certain degree of amusement and self-expression to be not only allowable but almost a duty. Gloire listened, and for once did not argue or raise objections, but what she thought of these ideas it was impossible to tell—all Miss Glanfield could be sure of was that the younger woman was certainly peculiarly receptive at the moment to anything she chose to say. She looked often at Mrs. Thurston, pondering how far Dr. Crowninshield’s theory was correct, as they walked round the house, admiring the new portion which had been built on a few years before—breaking off, characteristically, to nip round the end to try to identify the garde-robe from outside. In this she was successful; she came back triumphant and breathed into Robina’s ear that it was in the angle of the old building, as she had guessed.

  The new building had a fine doorway in delicate close-grained pale grey stone, with six names carved across the lintel—of course Miss Glanfield had to know whose they were. Mme. Lek-Gionaj obliged—those of her husband and her five sons. Gloire was outraged.

  “For gracious’ sake! Mrs. Robinson, do ask her why her name, and Marte’s and Lisa’s aren’t carved up there too?”

  Mrs. Robinson did as she was asked. The result was unforgettable. The great woman stood there, and for once a gleam of feeling, an expression of amusement, almost of mockery, appeared on her harsh magnificent face. “Daughters?” she said, and struck the palms of her two hands, one across the other, with the gesture of one who wipes off dirt. In that instant it was clear to the three foreign women that at least the germs of feminism lay hidden in that gigantic bosom.

  To the left of this entrance another door, less ornate, opened direct from the courtyard into a great room, as large or larger than that on the floor above where they had eaten and slept—here the men employed about the establishment lived, and here the visiting gendarmes and teamsters were housed. The visitors looked in. Except for a number of coarse bright rugs on the floor, the room was quite bare; the pack-saddles of the pony-team were piled up in one corner, and in another on a raised platform quilts and bedding, neatly folded, lay under a vast coloured sheet; out in the centre of the room, under the light of the high-set scroll-barred windows, the teamsters and gendarmes, seated on the floor, were brewing coffee over a small charcoal stove, smoking and chatting.

  “No, they don’t want chairs because they never sit up to a table, even for meals,” Colonel Robinson said in answer to a question from Gloire; “they eat out of a huge dish, or dishes, set on the floor. The Prince himself only installed those chairs upstairs a little while ago; the last time I was here there weren’t any.”

  “I wish he hadn’t!” said Gloire.

  “Yes, we used to sit on cushions and divan things when I’ve been here before,” said Mrs. Robinson—“it was heavenly.”

  “And you say all the men sleep there?” Miss Glanfield pursued.

  “All but thirteen, who sleep fully armed on the floor of Lek-Gionaj’s bedroom,” said the Colonel.

  “But what on earth for?” Gloire was wide-eyed.

  “A body-guard,” said the Colonel carelessly. “Last time we were up here together there were shots in the night—do you remember, Robina?—and in the morning they showed us the bullet holes in the wall.”

  “How fantastic!” said Gloire.

  “Does that sort of thing never happen in Chicago?” the Colonel asked, turning a sarcastic eye on her.

  “Oh rubbish, Dick,” Mrs. Robinson intervened. “Look, you talk to the Prince, will you?—we’re going to see the kitchen with Madame.”

  The kitchen in the Lek-Gionaj mansion was, exceptionally, on the ground floor—as a rule in Albania the animals, poultry and farm implements occupy the bottom level of the house, and the kitchen, sleeping rooms and guest-room are upstairs; but the Lek-Gionajs had stables for their animals for winter use, and therefore a ground-floor kitchen. It was another very large room, like a great cavern, faintly lit by a paraffin lamp hanging from the ceiling, and the last of the daylight which crept in through the barred windows. A wood fire burned on a wide open hearth; above it hung a great copper pot in which water bubbled: permanent hot water, Mrs. Robinson murmured to Gloire—the pot was kept there day and night; a metal coffee-pot stood in the ashes—coffee too was on tap night and day to be ready to serve to any chance gue
st. On the floor in front of the fire a woman knelt, arranging a freshly-skinned lamb on a spit; presently she took it up and placed the spit in front of the flames. Under the window were shelves, on which stood various cooking utensils, and silver-washed copper bowls of kous, the sour milk of the whole Balkan region; very large flat trays or dishes of this same silvered copper, some of them worked in beautiful designs, were ranged against the walls—it was from these, placed on the floor, that meals were eaten, Mrs. Robinson explained.

  As their eyes grew more accustomed to the dim light Gloire and Miss Glanfield noticed other details. The walls were covered with metal vessels of various sorts, ladles, knives, spoons and tongs; from the smoke-blackened rafters hung quantities of dried gourds, which aroused Miss Glanfield’s interest—they contained beans, pulse and lentils, Mrs. Robinson told her, and also dried seeds for sowing. On one wall hung a guitar. As there were neither presses nor tables, obviously everything had to lean or hang, and did. The place seemed full of a crowd of women, occupied in various ways—one, kneeling on the floor, was rolling out pastry on one of the metal trays; another, also kneeling, was chopping up herbs on a smaller dish; Mme. Lek-Gionaj ran an expert and masterful eye over each. Again Miss Glanfield was reminded of the Old Testament—there was a primitive austerity and yet abundance about the whole scene which was strongly reminiscent of the great Biblical narratives.

  Through an inner door there now appeared a queer little procession; Lisa and an older woman carrying a cradle, which they set down near the hearth. This was Pieter’s baby; it had been taken up to its mother to be suckled—they were allowed to look at it, Mme. Lek-Gionaj towering over them, a strange look of satisfaction and—almost—amusement on her impassive face. Even Miss Glanfield was rather disconcerted by that cradle. Not that it was not beautiful—it was, very; elegantly and plainly shaped of wood, long and very narrow, it was decorated with fine lines of gold on a dark-brown ground. But across the opening of the wooden hood a stiff piece of towelling was tightly stretched, excluding not only light from the infant’s eyes, but obviously practically all air as well. When the older woman had unfastened the towelling they saw the little mite, heavily swaddled; its minute head lay on a very hard pillow, below it was merely hay under a piece of linen cloth; such freedom of movement as its garments left to it was still further reduced by a plaited woollen cord with which the cradle was lapped round and round, so that it should not fall out.

  “But why do they hump the cradle up and downstairs?” Gloire very pertinently enquired. “Why not just take the baby out and carry it up?”

  “Oh, you can’t persuade them to do that, it’s hopeless,” said Mrs. Robinson distressfully. “They will keep the baby in the cradle all the time, even when they’re nursing it. Usually, when the mother is well, she kneels on the floor by the cradle and nurses the child that way. That’s why there’s such a fearful amount of breast ulcers—the breasts never get properly emptied, of course, unless the child is held close to them.”

  “But Robina, I really don’t see how it can breathe properly behind this thing,” said Miss Glanfield fingering the thick homespun web. “However long do they keep it in the cradle?”

  “Oh, if there isn’t another baby, for ages and ages,” Mrs. Robinson replied—“till it’s two or more; long after its feet are sticking out over the end, often.”

  “Well, I must say that seems very mistaken,” said Miss Glanfield seriously.

  “Oh, don’t talk about it, Susan! I’ve been wrestling with this for years,” said poor Mrs. Robinson, her cheerful face full of distress. “The only thing one can say is, I suppose it has some eugenic value—only the very strong babies survive. Perhaps that’s why they are such an exceptionally tough healthy race.”

  Dismayed, they watched the elderly woman close the bright-eyed morsel of humanity up again, tying the web of cloth tightly across the wooden hood, while Mme. Lek-Gionaj, still with that inscrutable expression of amused satisfaction, stood looking on. Into this antique scene, at that moment, stepped the neat little figure of Dr. Crowninshield, carrying a silvered tray heaped with steaming cloths and an enamel can with a lid. Expertly, and as one familiar with the house, she emptied the contents of the enamel can out through the door into the courtyard, reached down a gourd from where it hung at the side of the hearth, dipped it into the copper pot, and refilled the can—then tipping the cloths into it she replaced the lid, and taking down a hook from a nail on the wall, she hung the can by its metal ring over the fire.

  “Sterilising under difficulties!” she observed to Miss Glanfield, with a thin-lipped smile. “No, she’s not much better,” she replied to an enquiry from Mrs. Robinson—“I’ve just been fomenting her. I had that miserable baby out of the cradle for her to nurse this time, anyway!” Then, courteously but authoritatively, she gave her orders to Mme. Lek-Gionaj in Albanian. The young mother was to have broth—broth and nothing else—no bread, and no milk, for her supper; Lisa was to sit with her, all the time—Lisa’s supper could be taken up to her; if she complained of pain, Lisa was to send for her, Dr. Crowninshield, at once. And Lisa was not to talk to her. “Not one small word! Have you understood?” the little old lady said menacingly to Lisa. “She must sleep—if she does not sleep she may die,” she said with great emphasis to Mme. Lek-Gionaj.

  The massive woman looked at her with calm recognition of her authority and knowledge.

  “It shall be as you order. The young women of today,” she added, with a faint air of contempt, “have no strength. I have borne eleven children, and I nursed them on meat, not broth!”

  “God looked on you with favour,” returned the old American unhesitatingly; “His ways are not to be questioned. But I ask you to seek out a foster-mother near by, whom we can call in in need; it may be that Pieter’s wife will not be able to nurse this child. She is very gravely ill. But if we spare her and she recovers she also may bear Pieter many children.”

  Of this conversation Mrs. Robinson rehearsed the substance to Miss Glanfield as they went upstairs, leaving Mme. Lek-Gionaj among her hench-women in the kitchen. Dr. Crowninshield came with them, and seated herself rather wearily on the side of the brass bed. The rest of the party had been looking forward to relaxing again on those delicious mattresses, but alas, they had been removed. Disconsolately they seated themselves once more on the wooden chairs. The ceiling lamp had been lit, and its harsh glare was reflected back from the red and green tartan American cloth which covered the table; flies whirled round it in a cloud. Rudolf Valentino brought in first more coffee, then raki and cheese; there was no sign of the Lek-Gionajs for the moment Gloire asked when supper would be?

  Around ten, Dr. Crowninshield told her.

  Gloire looked at her wrist-watch. “My God! And it’s only half-past eight now.”

  “She told you you would suffer,” the Colonel mocked.

  “Well, I am suffering. Too right, she was.” She shifted on her chair, and finally—“I shall suffer as little as possible, anyway,” she said, and lay down flat on her back on the bare floor, pulling a garment out of her suitcase and propping up her head with it. From this position she turned on Miss Glanfield. Gloire was tired; she was slightly over-wrought by all the crowding impressions of the day, beginning with her forced march to Torosh and the service there, and closing with the sight of that helpless imprisoned baby; the prospect of a long hungry wait for supper, the flies and the general discomfort rasped her nerves and temper. “You may say what you like about modern inventions, but honestly, I think this set-up here is absolutely ghastly,” she burst out. “Wretched little babies being half-smothered, and their mothers made sick by their miserable old ideas! And treating women that way—not allowing them to eat with guests or the men, and leaving the girls’ names out of that inscription! I call it frightful. Why should women be kept down like that?”

  “I don’t think anyone defends their treatment of infants,” Miss Glanfield said equably.

  From her seat on the brass bedstead,
Dr. Crowninshield took a hand.

  “You speak of the women being kept down,” she said—“but that’s a complete misconception. A married woman here has enormous authority and power—but she doesn’t worry about the outward appearances of it. When I see people like Mme. Lek-Gionaj running some fifty women and more men, with her children and grandchildren growing up around her in willing obedience, and affection, and respect, and her husband relying on her for wisdom and counsel, whether she eats with the guests or not seems a small thing! I often compare her in my mind with the professional women and business girls back home, who are so proud of their ‘economic independence’—living alone or with a woman friend in some little apartment, and I think that they have nothing on her. They are puttering around at some little artificial job; she is building men and women.”

  Poor Gloire was silenced by this little homily from her countrywoman; she was always getting a homily from one or other of them, Miss Glanfield reflected, half amused, half sadly. She herself now put in a question.

  “Dr. Crowninshield, how do the girls here get educated? The upper-class ones like the Lek-Gionajs—and the others too? Have a cigarette,” she added, jumping up and taking her case over to the old woman.

  Dr. Crowninshield took the cigarette, while the Colonel mumbled an apology.

  ‘Thank you, my dear. In old days,” the American said, “the girls of the great families used to get sent to some other noble house, and the young men too, to learn manners and household duties and so on—I guess even the Albanian mammas found it easier to cope with other women’s daughters than with their own! But there’s less of that now. The most important education they get is the education of the hearth—I mean at home; and that goes for all classes.”

  “Why the hearth?”

  “Because that is the centre of it all. There they learn to cook, and spin, and mind the baby”—Gloire snorted, but Dr. Crowninshield ignored her—“and sort seeds, and do the hundred and one daily jobs—feed the silk-worms, and all the rest of it. And it’s round the hearth in the evenings that the children learn the qualities that lead them to real manhood and womanhood—listening to the old tales and stories. The older people select the stories so wisely, and relate them so beautifully that they would stir any heart, I guess,” the old woman said earnestly. “I know they do mine. It’s at the hearth that the concepts of honour and courage and hospitality and respect for women have gotten such binding force. When the mental life of a nation is built up, primarily, at the family fireside, and based on affection, and not interfered with by much in the way of outside influences, it may stay pretty primitive, but it’s very stable and very pure. Of course, that kind of an education has very great limitations; it doesn’t go in for the arts or sciences, or fit people much for a commercial life. But it does equip them mighty well for the life they’re mostly going to lead.”