1
Miriam sat with her mother near the bandstand. They faced the length of
the esplanade with the row of houses that held their lodging to their
right and the sea away to the left. She had found that it was better to
sit facing a moving vista; forms passing by too near to be looked at and
people moving in the distance too far away to suggest anything. The
bandstand had filled. The town-clock struck eleven. Presently the band
would begin to play. Any minute now. It had begun. The introduction to
its dreamiest waltz was murmuring in a conversational undertone. The
stare of the esplanade rippled and broke. The idling visitors became
vivid blottings. The house-rows stood out in lines and angles. The short
solemn symphony was over. Full and soft and ripe the euphonium began the
beat of the waltz. It beat gently within the wooden kiosk. The fluted
melody went out across the sea. The sparkling ripples rocked gently
against the melody. A rousing theme would have been more welcome to the
suffering at her side. She waited for the loud gay jerky tripping of the
second movement. When it crashed brassily out the scene grew vivid. The
air seemed to move; freshness of air and sea coming from the busy noise
of the kiosk. The restless fingers ceased straying and plucking. The
suffering had shifted. The night was over. When the waltz was over they
would be able to talk a little. There would be something ... a
goat-chaise; a pug with a solemn injured face. Until the waltz came to
an end she turned towards the sea, wandering out over the gleaming
ripples, hearing their soft sound, snuffing freshness, seeing the water
just below her eyes, transparent green and blue and mauve, salt-filmed.
2
The big old woman’s voice grated on about Poole’s Miriorama. She had
been a seven-mile walk before lunch and meant to go to Poole’s
Miriorama. She knew everything there was in it and went to it every
summer and for long walks and washed lace in her room and borrowed an
iron from Miss Meldrum. No one listened and her deep voice drowned all
the sounds at the table. She only stopped at the beginning of a mouthful
or to clear her throat with a long harsh grating sound. She did not know
that there was nothing wonderful about Poole’s Miriorama or about
walking every morning to the end of the parade and back. She did not
know that there were wonderful things. She was like her father ... she
was mad. Miss Meldrum listened and answered without attending. The other
people sat politely round the table and passed things with a great deal
of stiff politeness. One or two of them talked suddenly, with raised
voices. The others exclaimed. They were all in agreement ... “a young
woman with a baritone voice” ... a frog, white, keeping alive in coal
for hundreds of years ... my cousin has crossed the Atlantic six
times.... Nothing of any kind would ever stop them. They would never
wait to know they were alive. They were mad. They would die mad. Of
diseases with names. Even Miss Meldrum did not quite know. When she
talked she was as mad as they were. When she was alone in her room and
not thinking about ways and means she read books of devotion and cried.
If she had had a home and a family she would have urged her sons and
daughters to get on and beat other people.... But she knew mother was
different. All of them knew it in some way. They spoke to her now and
again with deference, their faces flickering with beauty. They knew she
was beautiful. Sunny and sweet and good, sitting there in her faded
dress, her face shining with exhaustion.
3
They walked down the length of the pier through the stiff breeze arm in
arm. The pavilion was gaslit, ready for the entertainment.
“Would you rather stay outside this afternoon?”
“No. Perhaps the entertainment may cheer me.”
There was a pink paper with their tickets--“The South Coast
Entertainment Company” ... that was better than the usual concert. The
inside of the pavilion was like the lunch table ... the same people.
But there was a yellow curtain across the platform. Mother could look at
that. It was quite near them. It would take off the effect of the
audience of people she envied. The cool sound of the waves flumping and
washing against the pier came in through the open doors with a hollow
echo. They were settled and safe for the afternoon. For two hours there
would be nothing but the things behind the curtain. Then there would be
tea. Mother had felt the yellow curtain. She was holding the pink
programme at a distance trying to read it. Miriam glanced. The sight of
the cheap black printing on the thin pink paper threatened the spell of
the yellow curtain. She must manage to avoid reading it. She crossed her
knees and stared at the curtain, yawning and scolding with an affected
manliness about the forgotten spectacles. They squabbled and laughed.
The flump-wash of the waves had a cheerful sunlit sound. Mrs. Henderson
made a brisk little movement of settling herself to attend. The doors
were being closed. The sound of the waves was muffled. They were beating
and washing outside in the sunlight. The gaslit interior was a pier
pavilion. It was like the inside of a bathing-machine, gloomy, cool,
sodden with sea-damp, a happy caravan. Outside was the blaze of the open
day, pale and blinding. When they went out into it it would be a bright
unlimited jewel, getting brighter and brighter, all its colours fresher
and deeper until it turned to clear deep live opal and softened down and
down to darkness dotted with little pinlike jewellings of light along
the esplanade; the dark luminous waves washing against the black beach
until dawn.... The curtain was drawing away from a spring scene ... the
fresh green of trees feathered up into a blue sky. There were boughs of
apple-blossom. Bright green grass sprouted along the edge of a pathway.
A woman floundered in from the side in a pink silk evening dress. She
stood in the centre of the scene preparing to sing, rearing her
gold-wigged head and smiling at the audience. Perhaps the players were
not ready. It was a solo. She would get through it and then the play
would begin. She smiled promisingly. She had bright large teeth and the
kind of mouth that would say chahld for child. The orchestra played a
few bars. She took a deep breath. “Bring back--the yahs--that
are--DEAD!”--she screamed violently.
She was followed by two men in shabby tennis flannels with little hard
glazed tarpaulin hats who asked each other riddles. Their jerky broken
voices fell into cold space and echoed about the shabby pavilion. The
scattered audience sat silent and still, listening for the voices ...
cabmen wrangling in a gutter. The green scene stared stiffly--harsh
cardboard, thin harsh paint. The imagined scene moving and flowing in
front of it was going on somewhere out in the world. The muffled waves
sounded near and clear. The sunlight was dancing on them. When the men
had scrambled away and the applause had died down, the sound of the
waves brought dancing gliding figures across the stage, waving balancing
arms and unconscious feet gliding and dreaming. A man was standing in
the middle of the platform with a roll of music--bald-headed and grave
and important. The orchestra played the overture to “The Harbour Bar.”
But whilst he unrolled his music and cleared his throat his angry voice
filled the pavilion: “it’s all your own fault ... you get talking and
gossiping and filling yer head with a lot of nonsense ... now you
needn’t begin it all over again twisting and turning everything I say.”
And no sound in the room but the sound of eating. His singing was
pompous anger, appetite. Shame shone from his rim of hair. He was
ashamed, but did not know that he showed it.
4
They could always walk home along the smooth grey warm esplanade to tea
in an easy silence. The light blossoming from the horizon behind them
was enough. Everything ahead dreamed in it, at peace. Visitors were
streaming homewards along the parade lit like flowers. Along the edge of
the tide the town children were paddling and shouting. After tea they
would come out into the sheltering twilight at peace, and stroll up and
down until it was time to go to the flying performance of The
Pawnbroker’s Daughter.
5
They were late for tea and had it by themselves at a table in the window
of the little smoking-room looking out on the garden. Miss Meldrum
called cheerily down through the house to tell them when they came in.
They went into the little unknown room and the cook brought up a small
silver tea-pot and a bright cosy. Outside was the stretch of lawn where
the group had been taken in the morning a year ago. It had been a
seaside town lawn, shabby and brown, with the town behind it; unnoticed
because the fresh open sea and sky were waiting on the other side of the
house ... seaside town gardens were not gardens ... the small squares of
greenery were helpless against the bright sea ... and even against
shabby rooms, when the sun came into the rooms off the sea ...
sea-rooms.... The little smoking-room was screened by the shade of a
tree against whose solid trunk half of the French window was thrown
back.
When the cook shut the door of the little room the house disappeared.
The front rooms bathed in bright light and hot with the afternoon heat,
the wide afterglow along the front, the vast open lid of the sky, were
in another world.... Miriam pushed back the other half of the window and
they sat down in a green twilight on the edge of the garden. If others
had been there Mrs. Henderson would have remarked on the pleasantness of
the situation and tried to respond to it and been dreadfully downcast at
her failure and brave. Miriam held her breath as they settled
themselves. No remark came. The secret was safe. When she lifted the
cosy the little tea-pot shone silver-white in the strange light. A thick
grey screen of sky must be there, above the trees, for the garden was an
intensity of deep brilliance, deep bright green and calceolarias and
geraniums and lobelias, shining in a brilliant gloom. It was not a
seaside garden ... it was a garden ... all gardens. They took their meal
quietly and slowly, speaking in low tones. The silent motionless
brilliance was a guest at their feast. The meal-time, so terrible in the
hopelessness of home, such an effort in the mocking glare of the
boarding-house was a great adventure. Mrs. Henderson ate almost half as
much as Miriam, serenely. Miriam felt that a new world might be opening.
6
“The storm has cleared the air wonderfully.”
“Yes; isn’t it a blessing.”
“Perhaps I shan’t want the beef-tea to-night.” Miriam hung up her dress
in the cupboard, listening to the serene tone. The dreadful candle was
flickering in the night-filled room, but mother was quietly making a
supreme effort.
“I don’t expect you will”; she said casually from the cupboard, “it’s
ready if you should want it. But you won’t want it.”
“It _is_ jolly and fresh,” she said a moment later from the window,
holding back the blind. Perhaps in a few days it would be the real jolly
seaside and she would be young again, staying there alone with mother,
just ridiculous and absurd and frantically happy, mother getting better
and better, turning into the fat happy little thing she ought to be, and
they would get to know people and mother would have to look after her
and love her high spirits and admire and scold her and be shocked as she
used to be. They might even bathe. It would be heavenly to be really at
the seaside with just mother. They would be idiotic.
Mrs. Henderson lay very still as Miriam painted the acid above the
unseen nerve centres and composed herself afterwards quietly without
speaking. The air was fresh in the room. The fumes of the acid did not
seem so dreadful to-night.
The Pawnbroker’s daughter was with them in the room, cheering them. The
gay young man had found out somehow through her that “goodness and
truth” were the heart of his life. She had not told him. It was he who
had found it out. He had found the words and she did not want him to say
them. But it was a new life for them both, a new life for him and
happiness for her even if he did not come back, if she could forget the
words.
Putting out the candle at her bedside suddenly and quietly with the
match-box to avoid the dreadful puff that would tell her mother of
night, Miriam lay down. The extinguished light splintered in the
darkness before her eyes. The room seemed suddenly hot. Her limbs ached,
her nerves blazed with fatigue. She had never felt this kind of
tiredness before. She lay still in the darkness with open eyes. Mrs.
Henderson was breathing quietly as if in a heavy sleep. She was not
asleep but she was trying to sleep. Miriam lay watching the pawnbroker’s
daughter in the little room at the back of the shop, in the shop, back
again in the little room, coming and going. There was a shining on her
face and on her hair. Miriam watched until she fell asleep.
7
She dreamed she was in the small music-room in the old Putney school,
hovering invisible. Lilla was practising alone at the piano. Sounds of
the girls playing rounders came up from the garden. Lilla was sitting in
her brown merino dress, her black curls shut down like a little cowl
over her head and neck. Her bent profile was stern and manly, her eyes
and her bare white forehead manly and unconscious. Her lissome brown
hands played steadily and vigorously. Miriam listened incredulous at the
certainty with which she played out her sadness and her belief. It
shocked her that Lilla should know so deeply and express her lonely
knowledge so ardently. Her gold-flecked brown eyes that commonly laughed
at everything, except the problem of free-will, and refused questions,
had as much sorrow and certainty as she had herself. She and Lilla were
one person, the same person. Deep down in everyone was sorrow and
certainty. A faint resentment filled her. She turned away to go down
into the garden. The scene slid into the large music-room. It was full
of seated forms. Lilla was at the piano, her foot on the low pedal, her
hands raised for a crashing chord. They came down, collapsing faintly on
a blur of wrong notes. Miriam rejoiced in her heart. What a fiend I am
... what a fiend, she murmured, her heart hammering condemnation.
Someone was sighing harshly; to be heard; in the darkness; not far off;
fully conscious she glanced at the blind. It was dark. The moon was not
round. It was about midnight. Her face and eyes felt thick with sleep.
The air was rich with sleep. Her body was heavy with a richness of sleep
and fatigue. In a moment she could be gone again.... “Shall I get the
beef-tea, mother?” ... she heard herself say in a thin wideawake voice.
“Oh no my dear,” sounded another voice patiently. Rearing her numb
consciousness against a delicious tide of oncoming sleep she threw off
the bed-clothes and stumbled to the floor. “You can’t go on like this
night after night, my dear.” “Yes I can,” said Miriam in a tremulous
faint tone. The sleepless even voice reverberated again in the unbroken
sleeplessness of the room. “It’s no use ... I am cumbering the ground.”
The words struck sending a heat of anger and resentment through Miriam’s
shivering form. She spoke sharply, groping for the matches.
8
Hurrying across the cold stone floor of the kitchen she lit the gas from
her candle. Beetles ran away into corners, crackling sickeningly under
the fender. A mouse darted along the dresser. She braced herself to the
sight of the familiar saucepan, Miss Meldrum’s good beef-tea brown
against the white enamel--helpless ... waiting for the beef-tea to get
hot she ate a biscuit. There was help somewhere. All those people
sleeping quietly upstairs. If she asked them to they would be surprised
and kind. They would suggest rousing her and getting her to make
efforts. They would speak in rallying voices, like Dr. Ryman and Mrs.
Skrine. For a day or two it would be better and then much worse and she
would have to go away. Where? It would be the same everywhere. There was
no one in the world who could help. There was something ... if she could
leave off worrying. But that had been Pater’s advice all his life and it
had not helped. It was something more than leaving off ... it was
something real. It was not affection and sympathy. Eve gave them; so
easily, but they were not big enough. They did not come near enough.
There was something crafty and worldly about them. They made a sort of
prison. There was something true and real somewhere. Mother knew it. She
had learned how useless even the good kind people were and was alone,
battling to get at something. If only she could get at it and rest in
it. It was there, everywhere. It was here in the kitchen, in the steam
rising from the hot beef-tea. A moon-ray came through the barred window
as she turned down the gas. It was clear in the eye of the moon-ray; a
real thing.
Some instinct led away from the New Testament. It seemed impossible
to-night. Without consulting her listener Miriam read a psalm. Mrs.
Henderson put down her cup and asked her to read it again. She read and
fluttered pages quietly to tell the listener that in a moment there
would be some more. Mrs. Henderson waited saying nothing. She always
sighed regretfully over the gospels and Saint Paul, though she asked for
them and seemed to think she ought to read them. They were so dreadful;
the gospels full of social incidents and reproachfulness. They seemed to
reproach everyone and to hint at a secret that no one possessed ... the
epistles did nothing but nag and threaten and probe. St. Paul
rhapsodised sometimes ... but in a superior way ... patronising; as if
no one but himself knew anything....
“How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those who bring” she
read evenly and slowly. Mrs. Henderson sighed quietly.... “That’s Isaiah
mother.... Isaiah is a beautiful name.” ... She read on. Something had
shifted. There was something in the room.... If she could go droning on
and on in an even tone it would be there more and more. She read on till
the words flowed together and her droning voice was thick with sleep.
The town clock struck two. A quiet voice from the other bed brought the
reading to an end. Sleep was in the room now. She felt sure of it. She
lay down leaving the candle alight and holding her eyes open. As long as
the candle was alight the substance of her reading remained. When it was
out there would be the challenge of silence again in the darkness ...
perhaps not; perhaps it would still be there when the little hot point
of light had gone. There was a soft sound somewhere ... the sea. The
tide was up, washing softly. That would do. The sound of it would be
clearer when the light was out ... drowsy, lazy, just moving, washing
the edge of the beach ... cool, fresh. Leaning over she dabbed the
candle noiselessly and sank back asleep before her head reached the
pillow.
9
In the room yellow with daylight a voice was muttering rapidly, rapid
words and chuckling laughter and stillness. Miriam grasped the
bedclothes and lay rigid. Something in her fled out and away, refusing.
But from end to end of the world there was no help against this. It was
a truth; triumphing over everything. “_I_ know,” said a high clear
voice. “_I_ know ... I don’t deceive myself” ... rapid low muttering and
laughter.... It was a conversation. Somewhere within it was the answer.
Nowhere else in the world. Forcing herself to be still she accepted the
sounds, pitting herself against the sense of destruction. The sound of
violent lurching brought her panic. There was something there that would
strike. Hardly knowing what she did she pretended to wake with a long
loud yawn. Her body shivered, bathed in perspiration. “What a lovely
morning” she said dreamily, “what a perfect morning.” Not daring to sit
up she reached for her watch. Five o’clock. Three more hours before the
day began. The other bed was still. “It’s going to be a magnificent day”
she murmured pretending to stretch and yawn again. A sigh reached her.
The stillness went on and she lay for an hour tense and listening.
Something must be done to-day. Someone else must know.... At the end of
an hour a descending darkness took her suddenly. She woke from it to the
sound of violent language, furniture being roughly moved, a swift angry
splashing of water ... something breaking out, breaking through the
confinements of this little furniture-filled room ... the best gentlest
thing she knew in the world openly despairing at last.
10
The old homoeopathist at the other end of the town talked quietly on ...
the afternoon light shone on his long white hair ... the principle of
health, God-given health, governing life. To be well one must trust in
it absolutely. One must practise trusting in God every day.... The
patient grew calm, quietly listening and accepting everything he said,
agreeing again and again. Miriam sat wondering impatiently why they
could not stay. Here in this quiet place with this quiet old man, the
only place in the world where anyone had seemed partly to understand,
mother might get better. He could help. He knew what the world was like
and that nobody understood. He must know that he ought to keep her. But
he did not seem to want to do anything but advise them and send them
away. She hated him, his serene white-haired pink-faced old age. He told
them he was seventy-nine and had never taken a dose in his life. Leaving
his patient to sip a glass of water into which he had measured drops of
tincture he took Miriam to look at the greenhouse behind his consulting
room. As soon as they were alone he told her speaking quickly and
without benevolence and in the voice of a younger man that she must
summon help, a trained attendant. There ought to be someone for night
and day. He seemed to know exactly the way in which she had been taxed
and spoke of her youth. It is very wrong for you to be alone with her he
added gravely.
Vaguely, burning with shame at the confession she explained that it
could not be afforded. He listened attentively and repeated that it was
absolutely necessary. She felt angrily for words to explain the
uselessness of attendants. She was sure he must know this and wanted to
demand that he should help, then and there at once, with his quiet house
and his knowledge. Her eye covered him. He was only a pious old man with
artificial teeth making him speak with a sort of sibilant woolliness.
Perhaps he too knew that in the end even this would fail. He made her
promise to write for help and refused a fee. She hesitated helplessly,
feeling the burden settle. He indicated that he had said his say and
they went back.
On the way home they talked of the old man. “He is right; but it is too
late” said Mrs. Henderson with clear quiet bitterness, “God has deserted
me.” They walked on, tiny figures in a world of huge grey-stone houses.
“He will not let me sleep. He does not want me to sleep.... He does not
care.”
A thought touched Miriam, touched and flashed. She grasped at it to hold
and speak it, but it passed off into the world of grey houses. Her
cheeks felt hollow, her feet heavy. She summoned her strength, but her
body seemed outside her, empty, pacing forward in a world full of
perfect unanswering silence.
11
The bony old woman held Miriam clasped closely in her arms. “You must
never, as long as you live, blame yourself my gurl.” She went away.
Miriam had not heard her come in. The pressure of her arms and her huge
body came from far away. Miriam clasped her hands together. She could
not feel them. Perhaps she had dreamed that the old woman had come in
and said that. Everything was dream; the world. I shall not have any
life. I can never have any life; all my days. There were cold tears
running into her mouth. They had no salt. Cold water. They stopped.
Moving her body with slow difficulty against the unsupporting air she
looked slowly about. It was so difficult to move. Everything was airy
and transparent. Her heavy hot light impalpable body was the only solid
thing in the world, weighing tons; and like a lifeless feather. There
was a tray of plates of fish and fruit on the table. She looked at it,
heaving with sickness and looking at it. I am hungry. Sitting down near
it she tried to pull the tray. It would not move. I must eat the food.
Go on eating food, till the end of my life. Plates of food like these
plates of food.... I am in eternity ... where their worm dieth not and
their fire is not quenched.
NOTE.--_The next volume of this series is in preparation._
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Transcriber’s Notes
The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical
errors were silently corrected. Further careful corrections, some after
consulting other editions, are listed here (before/after):
[p. 20]:
... feeling of orginality in the remark. Perhaps ...
... feeling of originality in the remark. Perhaps ...
[p. 100]:
... and a rose-white frame and her strong yellow ...
... and rose-white frame and her strong yellow ...
[p. 119]:
... ready, and as Mrs. Kronen rose tall to welcome ...
... ready, and Mrs. Kronen rose tall to welcome ...
[p. 131]:
... their clothes, their carriages and hansom, their ...
... their clothes, their carriages and hansoms, their ...
[p. 150]:
... wrong. You should have them cut higher, about ...
... wrong. You should have them cut higher, above ...
[p. 210]:
... Mr. Grove walked clumsily. His arms brushed ...
... Mr. Grove walked clumsily. His arm brushed ...
[p. 222]:
... Piccadilly; a glimpse of the gaze of the Green ...
... Piccadilly; a glimpse of the haze of the Green ...
[p. 232]:
... may trees in flower ... fresh clean colours, ...
... May trees in flower ... fresh clean colours, ...