DÉBÂCLE
§ 1
THE next morning she awoke with a bad headache. Her hands and wrists
were very hot, and when she tried to get out of bed her feet were
curiously vagrant and unstable. So she got back to bed and summoned
Florrie, her maid. Florrie was a country girl, large and buxom and
pleasure-loving. Catherine had got her by advertising in an Essex
local paper, a method which had been recommended to her as one by
which excellent servants are frequently picked up. So Florrie had left
the little village near Chelmsford and had taken up her abode in “Elm
Cottage.” The joys of the town fascinated her. In less than three weeks
she was “walking out” with a tram conductor. When Catherine was out
at evening concerts she used frequently to allow Florrie the evenings
off, and gradually Florrie came to regard these not as a privilege, but
as a right. She had a huge appetite and a habit of reading sixpenny
novelettes. There was no personal affection between mistress and
servant, though that was not altogether the fault of the latter.
Florrie’s appearance at nine o’clock in the morning was aggressive. It
was not her business to get her mistress out of bed and dress her: she
was a housemaid. She regarded distrustfully Catherine’s announcement
that she was not feeling very well, that she would not get up just yet,
and that Florrie could bring the breakfast upstairs to her. She obeyed
truculently. The tray of breakfast pots was placed on a chair by the
side of her bed.
“There’s not enough milk, I think,” said Catherine, looking into the
cream jug; “you’d better fetch a drop more.”
Florrie sniffed. “There ain’t no more meulk in the ’ouse, mum,” she
replied steadfastly.
“Why not?”
“’Cos there ain’t, mum.”
Catherine raised herself sideways on her elbow, the better to pursue
the argument.
“Did the milkman leave a pint as usual?”
“Yes, mum.”
“And this is all that’s left of it?”
“Yes, mum.”
“Then you must have used far too much with your porridge.... Well,
since there isn’t enough, you’d better go to a shop and get another
pint.”
Florrie fidgeted uneasily with her feet. She was not used to her
mistress in such a firm mood.
“It’s a long way, mum.... There’s no plice nearer than Brigson’s, daown
the ’Igh Road. All daown the ’ill an’ up agin, mum.”
“Never mind. Go to Brigson’s.”
“Naow, mum?”
“Yes, this minute.”
“The milkman’ll be here again in ’alf an hour, mum.”
Catherine flushed with anger.
“Are you going to go to Brigson’s or not?”
Florrie raised her eyebrows self-questioningly.
“S’powsing I waster say not, mum?” she said impudently.
The retort stung Catherine to feverish decision.
“You can either go to Brigson’s or take a week’s notice,” she cried
shrilly, and let go the elbow that supported her head. Her red hair
straggled across the pillow, half hiding her face and effectively
preventing Florrie from seeing that she was weeping. Florrie was not
hard-hearted, and if she had seen her mistress’s tears she would
probably have apologized. But she did not see them: she saw only the
red flush on her cheeks and the angry glint in her eyes. She saw that
it was a direct contest of wills, and also, which perhaps was the
deciding factor, she did not wish to leave Upton Rising and her tram
conductor. So she left the room sullenly, put on her hat in front of
the dining-room overmantel downstairs, and took the path through the
snow towards the High Road.
And meanwhile Catherine lay weeping upstairs.... Florrie’s open
defiance seemed one more link in the chain of evidence that proved her
to be unworthy of respect, devotion or love. Even Florrie despised her:
Florrie, with her mule-like doggedness and inferior intellect, judged
herself competent to query her mistress’s orders, and treat her with
what was very thinly veiled contempt....
The morning paper was on the breakfast tray, and she raised herself
again and glanced at the headlines. Then she turned to the inside page
where the musical criticisms and announcements, if any, were inserted.
Under the heading, “New Year’s Concert,” she read:
Miss Weston’s performance was curiously disappointing. I was confirmed
in the opinion I have held ever since I first heard Miss Weston, that
she is a skilful player of considerable talent who will, however,
never reach the front rank of her profession. Some cardinal defects in
her technique and interpretation showed themselves with disconcerting
frankness last evening. On the whole, had I not known that Miss Weston
at her best is quite skilful in her playing of Chopin and Liszt, I
should have wondered last evening what had led the organizers of the
concert to include her in a programme which included such names as
Signor----, the tenor, and Mme.----, the prima donna. She played a
Chopin polonaise as if it were a cake-walk, and her Liszt’s Sposalizio
was not even note-perfect. Perhaps Miss Weston was feeling unwell, in
which case it would be unfair to criticize her too severely, but the
truth is, in twenty years’ musical experience I have never heard such
poor playing at a concert purporting to be first-rate....
The article was signed by one of London’s chief musical critics....
Catherine dropped the newspaper on to the floor with the remainder of
the criticism unread. She did not even know if that was the worst that
was printed about her. The writer was a man for whom she had a great
respect: he had never been among the enthusiasts who prophesied for
her a world-wide reputation, yet till now his criticisms had always
been mildly encouraging, particularly when it was borne in mind that
his newspaper, a journal of independent views, permitted him to be
mercilessly sarcastic at the expense of all musical aspirants whom he
thought to be aiming too high. And now he had turned against her. It
was all the harder to bear because he had not employed sarcasm: there
was throughout his criticism a kind of sorrowful kindness, as if he
sincerely pitied her.
When she thought that Verreker might read the article (would, in fact,
in all probability) she felt ashamed, disgraced. Then, as she realized
that a few more criticisms of that kind from the leading critics would
damn her reputation, lose her her engagements and fling her back into
the common rut, she was overwhelmed with the horror that the future
might hold for her. She tossed and fretted in an agony of shame and
mortification, cursing blindly at the ill-luck that was falling upon
her on all sides. At last, unable to bear the torture of her thoughts
any longer, she sprang out of bed with the zest of a tiger and put
on a dressing-gown. She did not notice the difficulty she was having
to stand upright: she had tapped hidden sources of energy within
her which, though not extensive, were sufficient to sustain her for
the present. She opened the door and went on to the landing. It was
terribly cold there: the open fanlight window let in an icy draught
from the north. Her feet were bare, but she did not appear to notice
it on the thick stair-carpet. She began to descend, holding on to the
stair-rail tightly. At the foot she stood still for a minute, as if
waiting for supplies of energy, and then walked into the drawing-room.
The fire, lit apparently with damp wood picked up from the Forest, had
gone out and the room was very chilly. She walked unerringly to the
music-cabinet and, kneeling on the floor, began to search in feverish
haste. At last, seemingly, she discovered the object of her quest, a
single thin piece of music in a yellow paper cover. With a strangely
difficult movement she rose to her feet again and half walked, half
staggered the short intervening distance to the piano-stool. It took
her quite a minute to open out the music at the first page and place
it in front of her on the rest. Instinctively she placed her bare
feet on the cold brass of the pedals, and drew them away as quickly as
if the metal had been white-hot. The shock restored to her a part of
her lost energy. She began to move her fingers desultorily over the
keys. At first the music was simple and she managed pretty well. But
on the third page it developed octave arpeggio eccentricities in the
left hand, and against these the fury of her determination burst in
vain. She was handicapped, too, by not having the use of the pedals.
For several moments her fingers moved, struggling vainly against
chords and runs which her eyes could scarcely read and her memory but
vaguely suggest. A terrible battle it was--a truly Homeric contest:
her own tigerish determination against all the difficulties that a
master-technician could invent.... But you would never have guessed
that it was Liszt’s Sposalizio....
On the fourth page her spirit broke, and she fell forward sobbing, with
her head and hair on the keys. And there some moments later, Florrie,
entering with a jug of milk in her hand, found her, still sobbing
uncontrollably....
§ 2
Florrie, now thoroughly alarmed, and sincerely anxious to make amends
for her previous truculence, got her back to bed somehow and sent for
a doctor. Dr. McPherson motored from Bockley to see her, and found her
temperature somewhat dangerously high. From Florrie he learned how
Catherine had come in the day before, after half-wading through the
snow and slush from the tram terminus. She had caught a chill. Knowing
that she was something of a celebrity and in receipt of a considerable
salary, he did not tell her how her own foolishness had been the cause
of it. He announced his intention of sending a nurse to look after
her, left detailed instructions with Florrie as to how to act until
the nurse came, and said that he would himself come again later in the
evening. Downstairs Florrie told him how she had found her mistress in
the drawing-room, sobbing in front of the piano.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered impatiently, “of course--that is all what one
might expect.... You should not have left her....”
And he drove off in his car down the winding gravel lane that led
to the High Road. Florrie was offended. After all, it was through
obeying her mistress that she had been compelled to leave her. She was
aware that she was being treated unjustly, and it gave her an air of
conscious martyrdom....
She went back to Catherine’s bedroom. The breakfast things, untouched
and forgotten, had to be cleared away. The coffee was nearly cold, but
she warmed it up on the gas ring in the kitchen and drank it herself.
Some of the cold and leathery buttered toast she ate herself; the rest
she threw into the snow-covered garden for the birds.... Every time she
passed the bed she glanced pityingly at the huddled figure and the mass
of flame-coloured hair that straggled over the pillow. Her expression
said plainly enough: I have been ill-treated and misunderstood, but I
bear no malice. You shall see what an unselfish creature I am.... And
another of her reflections was expressed some time later when she was
talking to Minnie Walker, one of the barmaids at the High Wood Hotel.
“She ’as got nice ’air,” she told Minnie. “Pity ’er fice ain’t so nice
... but I wish I got ’er ‘air, I do, reely....”
Morning passed into afternoon, and nothing altered in the view from
the bedroom window of “Elm Cottage.” The sky was still uniformly
grey, the trees like black and white etchings, the lawn in the front
garden a patch of dazzling white, broken only by the double track of
a bird’s footmarks. A fire was burning in the fireplace, and as the
heat rose to the roof the snow above began to thaw and slide down off
the gutters like a thunderous avalanche. In time the lawn was littered
with the falling spray of these successive cataclysms, and the steady
drip, drip of the gutters showed that what had not fallen was thawing
fast.... The flames on the top of the red coal fluttered idly like
blue wings when the wind swept down the chimney: something reminded
Catherine of those distant childhood days of hers in Kitchener Road,
when she had watched the flames on long winter evenings and listened
to them as they said: Lappappappap.... They were saying it now in odd
moments and their voices linked her to the scenes and incidents of her
childhood.... Florrie was rocking herself in a chair by the fire and
reading a paper-backed novel by Charles Garvice. There was another
paper-backed novel by Charles Garvice on the floor beside her. She had
a great red face and large eyes. Occasionally as she read her mouth
would open and remain so for moments at a time. She skipped a good
deal of the descriptive matter. Every few minutes she yawned noisily
and drew herself a little closer to the fire. The clock downstairs
struck three.... Far away Catherine could hear the purr of trams along
the High Road. The room began to darken. At first she thought it was
getting night-time, but she realized that it was scarcely the hour
for that. Then she looked at the window. The window was dirty: she
could scarcely see the trees of the Forest at all. She stared hard at
the window.... No: it was not dirt. She could see what it was now: it
had started snowing again. The dark outline of the Forest was only
vaguely grey behind the slanting flakes, and as she listened she could
hear it swishing--softly--all around and about her--on the roof, on
the window-sill, on the lawn beneath, over all the miles of trees and
grassland, swishing like a soft brush, yet loudly enough to deaden the
sound of the trams on the High Road. And he had said: “I expect there
will be some more skating to-night if it doesn’t snow.” But it was
snowing now. There would be no skating. It _did_ seem a pity. So
many people would be disappointed....
Then a film passed over her eyes, and when it lifted the blind was
drawn in front of the window and one of the electric lights by the
fireplace was glowing.... There was a different person in the room with
her: a thin, red-lipped, white-faced woman in nurse’s uniform: she also
was rocking herself in front of the fire, and reading a paper-backed
novel by Charles Garvice. Catherine watched her for a long while, and
she did not move save to turn over the pages. She had brown hair and a
mole on her right cheek. She was wearing Catherine’s bedroom slippers.
That curiously trivial thing annoyed Catherine intensely.
All at once Catherine reached out a hand from beneath the clothes
and pressed the electric light switch that dangled above the pillow.
Three clusters of light in various parts of the room burst into
yellow brilliance. The nurse started violently, put down her book and
approached the bedside.
“Good evening ...” she began softly, and pressed back the switch so
that the lights disappeared.
Catherine felt herself burning with suppressed fury. What right had
this strange woman to turn out the lights if _she_ wished them to
be lit? What right had she? Who was mistress in her own house? With
trembling fingers she reached again for the switch and pressed it.
The lights reappeared. She kept her fingers tightly clasped round the
switch. But a cold hand laid itself on the top of hers and she had to
leave go. Then she saw the nurse take the switch and hang it over the
top of a picture far out of anybody’s reach, unless a chair were used
to stand on....
She lay there on the bed, panting with indignation. She had been
insulted, deliberately, calculatingly, and in her own house.... And the
nurse went back to the fireplace and resumed the paper-backed novel by
Charles Garvice....
§ 3
Dr. McPherson was standing beneath the single electric globe that was
in use. Beside him, on a level with his shoulder, stood the nurse. In
his hand he held a portion of newspaper, crumpled and partially torn.
He said: “H’m, yes. Very possibly.... Are you certain she read it?”
The nurse said: “I think she must have done. It was lying on the floor
as if she had thrown it down....”
And the doctor’s voice boomed back: “H’m, yes. Very pathetic.... But of
course her illness accounts for her bad performance. She ought to have
realized that....”
Catherine’s heart gave a sudden leap. Of course! That was it! Why had
she not thought of that before? She was _ill_. That accounted
for her bad playing, the nurse, the doctor, everything.... When she
recovered she would be able to play again all right! Of course! What a
fool she had been! This was only illness ... illness. She began to cry
for joy at this new hope that had sprung up in her heart....
§ 4
Somebody (it looked like her father) was saying: “--if you want
friends, let them be girl friends.... Surely you can find plenty of
your own sex without----”
“--I can’t think what you want playing about with boys.... Girls should
stick to girls....”
And he pulled off his boots and flung them loudly under the sofa....
Hr-rooch--flop ... Hr-rooch--flop ... and then his collar--plock,
plock....
“A girl of your age,” he went on, “ought not to bother her head
with fellers ... this sort of free-and-easy-carrying-on won’t do,
Catherine....”
And--“I can’t see what you need ever to be out later than nine for ...
you’ve got all the daytime. I can’t think what you want the night as
well for ... it’s not as if you weren’t allowed to do what you like on
Saturday afternoons....”
And her mother, shrill and cacophonous:
“When _I_ was young----”
Chorus of father and mother: “When _I_ was young----”
§ 5
It must be a dream.
If she ever had children of her own, would she say to them: “When
_I_ was young----”
She pondered....