1
Miriam found it difficult to believe that the girl was a dental
secretary. She swept about among Miss Szigmondy's guests in a long
Liberty dress, her hands holding her long scarf about her person as if
she were waiting for a clear space to leap or run, staying nowhere,
talking here and there with the assurance of a successful society woman,
laughing and jesting, swiftly talking down the group she was with and
passing on with a shouted remark about herself as she had done in the
library on the night of Lord Kelvin's lecture.... "I'm tired of being
good; I'm going to try being naughty for a change." Mr. Hancock had
stood planted before her in laughing admiration, waiting for the next
thing that she might say. How could he of all men in the world be taken
out of himself by an effective trick? He had laughed more spontaneously
than Miriam had ever seen him do. What _was_ this effective thing? An
appearance of animation. That it seemed, could make any man, even Mr.
Hancock, if it were free from any suggestion of loudness or vulgarity,
stand gaping and disarmed. Why had he volunteered the information that
she was eighteen and secretary to his friend in Harley Street. "You
don't seem very _keen_"; that was her voice from the other end of the
room; using the new smart word with a delicate emphasis, pretending
interest in something, meaning nothing at all. She was a middle-aged
woman, she would never be older than she was now. She saw nothing and no
one, nor ever would. In all her life she would never be arrested by
anything. Nice kind people would call her "a charming girl." ...
"Charming girls" were taught to behave effectively and lived in a
brilliant death, dealing death all round them. Nothing could live in
their presence. No natural beauty, no spectacle of art, no thought, no
music. They were uneasy in the presence of these things, because their
presence meant cessation of "charming" behaviour--except at such moments
as they could use the occasion to decorate themselves. _They had no
souls._ Yet in social life nothing seemed to possess any power but their
surface animation.
There was real power in that other woman. Her strong young comeliness
was good, known to be good. It was strange that a student of music
should be known for her work among the poor. The serene large outlines
of her form gave out light in the room; and the light on her white brow
unconscious above her deliberately kind face was the loveliest thing to
be seen; the deliberately kind face spoiled it, and would presently
change it; unless some great vision came to her it would grow furrowed
over "the housing problem" and the face would dry up, its white life cut
off at a source; at present she was at the source; one could tell her
anything. Mr. Hancock recognised her goodness, spoke of her with
admiration and respect. What was she doing here, among all these worldly
musicians? _She_ would never be a musician, never a first-class
musician. Then she had ambition. She was poor. Someone was helping her
... Miss Szigmondy! Why? She must know she would never make a musician.
Miriam cowered in her corner. The good woman was actually going to sing
before all these celebrities. What a fine great free voice.... "_When_
shall we meet--_refined_ and free, amongst the moorland _brack-en_ ..."
if Mr. Hancock could have heard her sing that, surely his heart must
have gone out to her? She knew, to her inmost being, what that meant.
She _longed_ for cleansing fires, even she with her radiant forehead;
her soul flew out along the sustained notes towards its vision, her dark
eyes were set upon it as she sang, the clear tones of her voice called
to the companion of her soul for the best that was in him. She was the
soul of truth, counting no cost. She would attain her vision, though the
earthly companion she longed for might pass her by. The pure beauty of
the moorland would remain for her, would set itself along the shores of
her life forever....
But she could not sing. It was the worst kind of English singing, all
volume and emphasis and pressure. Was there that in her goodness too ...
deliberate kindness to everybody. Was that a method--just a social
method? She was one of those people about whom it would be said that she
never spoke ill of anyone. But was not indiscriminate deliberate
conscious goodness to everybody an insult to humanity? People who were
like that never knew the difference between one person and another.
'Philanthropic' people were never sympathetic. They pitied. Pity was not
sympathy. It was a denial of something. It assumed that life was
pitiful. Yet her clear eyes would see through anything, any evil thing
to the human being behind. But she knew it, and practised it like a
doctor. She had never been amazed by the fact that there were any human
beings at all ... and with all her goodness she had plans and ambitions.
She wanted to be a singer--and she was thinking about somebody. Men were
dazzled by the worldly little secretary and they reverenced the singer
and her kind. Irreligious men would respect religion for her sake--and
would wish, thinking of her, to live in a particular kind of way; but
she would never lead a man to religion because she had no thoughts and
no ideas.
The surprise of finding these two women here and the pain of observing
them was a just reward for having come to Miss Szigmondy's At Home
without a real impulse--just to see the musicians and to be in the same
room with them. All that remained was to write to someone about them by
name. There was nothing to do but mention their names. There was no
wonder about them. They were all _fat_. Not one of them was an artist
and they all hated each other. It was like a ballad concert. They all
sang in the English way. They were not in the least like the
instrumentalists; or St. James's Hall Saturday afternoon audiences, not
that kind of "queer soft lot"; not shadowy grey or dead white or with
that curious transparent look; they all looked ruddy or pink, and sleek;
they had the same sort of kindly commonsense as Harriett's Lord and Lady
Bollingdon ... perhaps to keep a voice going it was necessary to be fat.