B007TB5SP0 EBOK

by Firbank, Ronald

  Daisy wagged her tongue.

  ‘Lat-lat!’

  ‘How can you be so gross!’

  ‘Let me lull her. Shall I?’

  ‘She’s never quiet for you.’

  ‘Wait till she hears the story of Blowzalinda and the Fairy Bee.’

  ‘Oh, it’s beyond the child … She wouldn’t know. Buz-z-z!’

  ‘Isabel!’

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘Cook requires her orders.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Behind the screen.’

  ‘Help me, Mabel,’ Mrs Collins said.

  ‘Gigi! Ribu! Oh, the clim pickle!’

  ‘Give her to me, Mabsey.’

  ‘Yum. Yum.’

  ‘Give her to me.’

  ‘She lifts her little hand up to her little nose and then she presses it.’

  ‘It’s one of her little sarcasms, I expect.’

  ‘She finds the world so weird.’

  ‘Still it’s good to know she has such an aunt. A good aunt, she says, is an untold blessing.’

  ‘Help me!’ Mrs Collins implored.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Curry – and then? …’

  The Countess turned her head.

  ‘He can’t endure a rabbit,’ she remarked.

  ‘My dear, no one proposes it!’

  ‘Once the child and I were driving on the Via Appia Nuova when we saw a bunny peeping out of a tomb. Oh, such a darling! So I stopped the carriage and told Luigi, the footman, to run and dispatch it if he possibly could. He brought it back to me … And a few hours afterwards it was bubbling away into a fine chicken broth. Oio had it all … But hardly had it passed his lips when he was seized with the most violent spasms. Whereupon he turned round and accused me of attempting to do what certain Renaissance wives are supposed to have sometimes done. Oh! He was so cross. He was as cross as cross … So don’t let’s have rabbit.’

  ‘Polpettino, perhaps?’

  ‘In olive oil; garnished “Mussolini-wise”.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Oh, then, what he really adores, what he simply can’t resist, is a fritter.’

  ‘Cheese?’

  ‘Any kind. And he loves a savoury! Zuccata, he likes. Zuccata, Zuccatini … And he’s fond of a soufflé too, so long as it isn’t led.’

  ‘Not to anticipate, my dear …’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘Olive oil!’

  ‘And then—’

  ‘Then,’ Mrs Collins’ voice rose as if inspired, ‘then Côtelettes – à la Milanaise …’

  CAPRICE

  TO

  STEPHEN HAMMERTON

  .

  – Sappho.

  I

  The clangour of bells grew insistent. In uncontrollable hilarity pealed S. Mary, contrasting clearly with the subdued carillon of S. Mark. From all sides, seldom in unison, resounded bells. S. Elizabeth and S. Sebastian, in Flower Street, seemed in loud dispute, while S. Ann ‘on the Hill’, all hollow, cracked, consumptive, fretful, did nothing but complain. Near by S. Nicaise, half paralysed and impotent, feebly shook. Then, triumphant, in a hurricane of sound, S. Irene hushed them all.

  It was Sunday again.

  Up and up, and still up, the winding ways of the city the straggling townsfolk toiled.

  Now and again a pilgrim perhaps would pause in the narrow lane behind the Deanery to rest.

  Opening a black lacquer fan and setting the window of her bedroom wide, Miss Sarah Sinquier peered out.

  The lane, very frequently, would prove interesting of an afternoon.

  Across it, the Cathedral rose up before her with wizardry against the evening sky.

  Miss Sinquier raised her eyes towards the twin grey spires, threw up her arms, and yawned.

  From a pinnacle a devil with limbs entwined about some struggling crowned-coiffed prey grimaced.

  ‘For I yearn for those kisses you gave me once

  On the steps by Bakerloo!’

  Miss Sinquier crooned caressingly, craning further out.

  Under the little old lime trees by the Cathedral door lounged Lady Caroline Dempsey’s Catholic footman.

  Miss Sinquier considered him.

  In her mind’s eye she saw the impression her own conversion would make in the parochial world.

  ‘Canon Sinquier’s only daughter has gone over to Rome …’ Or, ‘Canon Sinquier’s daughter has taken the veil.’ Or, ‘Miss Sinquier, having suffered untold persecution at the hands of her family, has been received into the Convent of the Holy Dove.’

  Her eyes strayed leisurely from the powdered head and weeping shoulder-knots of Lady Caroline Dempsey’s Catholic footman. The lack of movement was oppressive.

  Why was not Miss Worrall in her customary collapse being borne senseless to her Gate in the Sacristan’s arms? And why to-night were they not chaunting the Psalms?

  Darting out her tongue, Miss Sinquier withdrew her head and resumed her book.

  ‘Pouf!’

  She shook her fan.

  The room would soon be dark.

  From the grey-toned walls, scriptural, a Sasso Sassi frowned.

  ‘In all these fruitful years,’ she read, ‘the only time he is recorded to have smiled was when a great rat ran in and out among some statues … He was the Ideal Hamlet. Morose of countenance, and cynical by nature, his outbursts, at times, would completely freeze the company.’

  Miss Sinquier passed her finger-tips lightly across her hair.

  ‘Somehow it makes no difference,’ she murmured, turning towards a glass. To feign Ophelia – no matter what!

  She pulled about her a lace Manilla shawl.

  It was as though it were Andalusia whenever she wrapped it on.

  ‘Doña Rosarda!’

  ‘Fernan Perez? What do you want?’

  ‘Ravishing Rosarda, I need you.’

  ‘I am the wife of Don José Cuchillo – the Moor.’

  ‘Doña Rosarda Castilda Cuchillo, I love you.’

  ‘Sh—! My husband will be back directly.’

  Stretched at ease before a pier-glass, Miss Sinquier grew enthralled.

  An hour sped by.

  The room was almost dark.

  Don José would wish his revenge.

  ‘Rosarda.’

  ‘Fernando?’

  ‘Ah-h!’

  Miss Sinquier got up.

  She must compose herself for dinner – wash off the blood.

  Poor Fernan!

  She glanced about her, a trifle Spanish still.

  From a clothes-peg something hanging seemed to implore.

  ‘To see me? Why, bless you. Yes!’

  With an impetuous, pretty gesture she flung it upon a couch.

  ‘How do I like America?’

  ‘I adore it … You see … I’ve lost my heart here—! Tell them so – oh! especially to the men … Whereabouts was I born? In Westmorland; yes. In England, Sir! Inquisitive? Why not at all. I was born in the sleepy peaceful town of Applethorp (three p’s), in the inmost heart – right in the very middle,’ Miss Sinquier murmured, tucking a few wild flowers under her chin, ‘of the Close.’

  II

  ‘Sally,’ her father said, ‘I could not make out where you sat at Vespers, child, to-night.’

  In the old-world Deanery drawing-room, coffee and liqueurs – a Sunday indulgence – had been brought in.

  Miss Sinquier set down her cup.

  Behind her, through the open windows, a riot of light leaves and creepers was swaying restively to and fro.

  ‘I imagine the Font hid me,’ she answered with a little laugh.

  Canon Sinquier considered with an absent air an abundant-looking moon, then turned towards his wife.

  ‘To-morrow, Mary,’ he said, ‘there’s poor Mrs Cushman again.’

  At her cylinder-desk, between two flickering candles, Mrs Sinquier, while her coffee grew cold, was opening her heart to a friend.

  ‘Do, Mike, keep still,’ she begged.
<
br />   ‘Still?’

  ‘Don’t fidget. Don’t talk.’

  ‘Or dare to breathe,’ her daughter added, taking up a Sunday journal and approaching nearer the light.

  ‘ “At the Olive Theatre,” ’ she read, ‘ “Mrs Starcross will produce a new comedy, in the coming autumn, which promises to be of the highest interest.” ’

  Her eyes kindled.

  ‘O God!’

  ‘ “At the Kehama, Yvonde Yalta will be seen shortly in a Japanese piece, with singing mandarins, geishas, and old samurai—” ’

  ‘Dear Lord!’

  ‘ “Mr and Mrs Mary are said to be contemplating management again.” ’

  ‘Heavens above!’

  ‘ “For the revival of She Stoops to—” ’

  Crescendo, across the mist-clad Close broke a sorrowful, sated voice.

  ‘You can fasten the window, Sarah,’ Canon Sinquier said.

  ‘It’s Miss Biggs!’

  ‘Who could have taught her? How?’ the Canon wondered.

  Mrs Sinquier laid down her pen.

  ‘I dread her intimate dinner!’ she said.

  ‘Is it to be intimate?’

  ‘Isn’t she always? “Come round and see me soon, Miss Sarah, there’s a dear, and let’s be intimate!” ’

  ‘Really, Sally!’

  ‘Sally can take off anyone.’

  ‘It’s vulgar, dear, to mimic.’

  ‘Vulgar?’

  ‘It isn’t nice.’

  ‘Many people do.’

  ‘Only mountebanks.’

  ‘I’d bear a good deal to be on the stage.’

  Canon Sinquier closed his eyes.

  ‘Recite, dear, something; soothe me,’ he said.

  ‘Of course, if you wish it.’

  ‘Soothe me, Sally!’

  ‘Something to obliterate the sermon?’

  Miss Sinquier looked down at her feet. She had on black babouches all over little pearls with filigree butterflies that trembled above her toes.

  ‘Since first I beheld you, Adèle,

  While dancing the celinda,

  I have remained faithful to the thought of you;

  My freedom has departed from me,

  I care no longer for all other negresses;

  I have no heart left for them; –

  You have such grace and cunning; –

  You are like the Congo serpent.’

  Miss Sinquier paused.

  ‘You need the proper movements …’ she explained. ‘One ought really to shake one’s shanks!’

  ‘Being a day of rest, my dear, we will dispense with it.’

  ‘I love you too much, my beautiful one –

  I am not able to help it.

  My heart has become just like a grasshopper, –

  It does nothing but leap.

  I have never met any woman

  Who has so beautiful a form as yours.

  Your eyes flash flame;

  Your body has enchained me captive.

  Ah, you are like the rattlesnake

  Who knows how to charm the little bird,

  And who has a mouth ever ready for it

  To serve it for a tomb.

  I have never known any negress

  Who could walk with such grace as you can,

  Or who could make such beautiful gestures;

  Your body is a beautiful doll.

  When I cannot see you, Adèle,

  I feel myself ready to die;

  My life becomes like a candle

  Which has almost burned itself out.

  I cannot then find anything in the world

  Which is able to give me pleasure:

  I could well go down to the river

  And throw myself in so that I might cease to suffer.

  Tell me if you have a man,

  And I will make an ouanga charm for him;

  I will make him turn into a phantom,

  If you will only take me for your husband.

  I will not go to see you when you are cross:

  Other women are mere trash to me;

  I will make you very happy

  And I will give you a beautiful Madras handkerchief.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you, Sally.’

  ‘It is from Ozias Midwinter.’

  Mrs Sinquier shuddered.

  ‘Those scandalous topsies that entrap our missionaries!’ she said.

  ‘In Oshkosh—’

  ‘Don’t, Mike. The horrors that go on in certain places, I’m sure no one would believe.’

  Miss Sinquier caressed lightly the Canon’s cheek.

  ‘Soothed?’ she asked.

  ‘… Fairly.’

  ‘When I think of those coloured coons,’ Mrs Sinquier went on, ‘at the Palace fête last year! Roaming all night in the Close … And when I went to look out next day there stood an old mulattress holding up the baker’s boy in the lane.’

  ‘There, Mary!’

  ‘Tired, dear?’

  ‘Sunday’s always a strain.’

  ‘For you, alas! it’s bound to be.’

  ‘There were the Catechetical Classes to-day.’

  ‘Very soon now Sally will learn to relieve you.’

  Miss Sinquier threw up her eyes.

  ‘I?’ she wondered.

  ‘Next Sunday; it’s time you should begin.’

  ‘Between now and that,’ Miss Sinquier reflected, shortly afterwards, on her way upstairs, ‘I shall almost certainly be in town.’

  ‘O London – City of Love!’ she warbled softly as she locked her door.

  III

  In the gazebo at the extremity of the garden, by the new parterre, Miss Sinquier, in a morning wrapper, was waiting for the post.

  Through the trellis chinks, semi-circular, showed the Close, with its plentiful, seasoned timber and sedate, tall houses, a stimulating sequence, architecturally, of whitewash, stone and brick.

  Miss Sinquier stirred impatiently.

  Wretch! – to deliver at the Palace before the Deanery, when the Deanery was as near!

  ‘Shower down over there, O Lord, ten thousand fearsome bills,’ extemporaneously she prayed, ‘and spare them not at all. Amen.’

  Hierarchic hands shot upwards.

  Dull skies.

  She waited.

  Through the Palace gates, at length, the fellow lurched, sorting as he came.

  ‘Dolt!’

  Her eyes devoured his bag.

  Coiled round and round like some sleek snake her future slumbered in it.

  Husband; lovers … little lives, perhaps – yet to be … besides voyages, bouquets, diamonds, chocolates, duels, casinos! …

  She shivered.

  ‘Anything for me, Hodge, to-day,’ she inquired, ‘by chance?’

  ‘A fine morning, miss.’

  ‘Unusually.’

  It had come …

  That large mauve envelope, with the wild handwriting and the haunting scent was from her.

  As she whisked away her heart throbbed fast. Through the light spring foliage she could see her father, with folded hands, pacing meditatively to and fro before the front of the house.

  ‘Humbug!’ she murmured, darting down a gravel path towards the tradesmen’s door.

  Regaining her room, she promptly undid the seal.

  Panvale Priory, Shaftesbury Avenue,

  London, W.

  Mrs Albert Bromley presents her compliments to Miss S. Sinquier and will be pleased to offer her her experience and advice on Thursday morning next at the hour Miss Sinquier names.

  P.S. Mrs Bromley already feels a parent’s sympathetic interest in Miss Sinquier. Is she dark or fair? … Does she shape for Lady Macbeth or is she a Lady Teazle?

  ‘Both!’ Miss Sinquier gurgled, turning a deft somersault before the glass.

  To keep the appointment, without being rushed, she would be obliged to set out, essentially baggageless, to-night – a few requisites merely, looped together and concealed beneath her dress, woul
d be the utmost she could manage.

  ‘A lump here and a lump there!’ she breathed, ‘and I can unburden myself in the train.’

  ‘Okh!’

  She peeped within her purse.

  … And there was Godmother’s chain that she would sell!

  It should bring grist; perhaps close on a thousand pounds. Misericordia: to be compelled to part with it!

  Opening a levant-covered box, she drew out a long flat tray.

  Adorable pearls!

  How clearly now they brought her Godmother to mind … a little old body … with improbable cherry-cheeks and excrescent upper lip, with always the miniatures of her three deceased husbands clinging about one arm … ‘Aren’t they pleasant?’ she would say proudly every now and then … What talks they had had; and sometimes of an evening through the mauve moonlight they would strut together.

  Ah! She had been almost ugly then; clumsy, gawky, gauche …

  Now that she was leaving Applethorp, for ever perhaps, how dormant impressions revived!

  The Saunders’ Fifeshire bull, one New Year’s night, ravaging the Close, driven frantic by the pealings of the bells. The time poor Dixon got drowned – at a Flower Show, a curate’s eyes – a German governess’s walk – a mould of calves’-foot jelly she had let fall in the Cathedral once, on her way somewhere—

  She replaced ruefully her pearls.

  What else?

  Her artist fingers hovered.

  Mere bridesmaid’s rubbish; such frightful frippery.

  She turned her thoughts to the room.

  Over the bed, an antique bush-knife of barbaric shape, supposed to have been Abraham’s, was quite a collector’s piece.

  It might be offered to some museum perhaps. The Nation ought to have it …

  She sighed shortly.

  And downstairs in the butler’s room there were possessions of hers, besides. What of those Apostle spoons, and the two-pronged forks, and the chased tureen?

  Leonard frequently had said it took the best part of a day to polish her plate alone.

  And to go away and leave it all!

  ‘O God, help me, Dear,’ she prayed. ‘This little once, O Lord! For Thou knowest my rights …’

  She waited.

  Why did not an angel with a basket of silver appear?

  ‘Oh, well …’

  Gripper, no doubt, would suspect something odd if she asked for her things ‘to play with’ for an hour …