"STITCH, STITCH, STITCH!"
The house in which Miss Jean Brodie rented a single room stood in a
by-street in the heart of Camberwell. Despite the knowledge that any
feelings of fastidiousness were now entirely unseemly and out of place,
Evarne could not avoid a certain dismay at the prospect of actually
residing amid such abject poverty, disorder and squalor. Threading their
way between the swarming dirty children, who shouted and played and
disputed on every side, numerous as rabbits in a warren, they entered a
dark, narrow passage and proceeded to mount the uncarpeted stairs.
"My room is on the top floor," explained Miss Brodie, as the first
landing was gained. "Rents are very high in London. There are seven
separate lots of people living in this house."
At this juncture a voice came from one of the half-open doors they were
passing--
"What did I do? Why, I says quite perlite-like, ''Ave a drop o' gin, ol'
dear,' but she ups and says to me, she says----"
But what "she" had responded to this invitation was lost in a peal of
laughter from several throats. Miss Brodie looked supercilious.
"That's Mrs. Harbert. You won't need to talk to her at all. She's not a
very respectable old woman. I'm sure I wonder the landlord has her in
the house; but there, he doesn't heed anything so long as he gets his
rent punctually."
Evarne glanced back over her shoulder, and surveyed this wicked
personage! She saw a cleanly, neatly-clad, comfortable-looking old dame
of about sixty, who still retained traces of unusual good looks. She
seemed so good-natured and happy that Evarne inquired with some interest
into the character of her misdemeanours. She was more entertained than
appalled by the information. The culprit had been an artist's model, and
the walls of her room were now absolutely covered with innumerable
paintings and drawings depicting herself in the days of her youth, "but
with not a decent stitch of clothing among the whole lot, my dear."
Miss Brodie's own apartment, though poor in the extreme, was certainly
respectability itself. As was most suitable in a room principally
designed for needlework, the floor was uncarpeted, while the bed, with
the narrow rug by its side, the washing-stand and the few clothes-pegs,
were all huddled as much out of the way as possible. The place of honour
in the centre of the room was given to the substantial table necessary
for cutting out, while by the light of the window stood the
sewing-machine. On the mantelpiece were china ornaments in couples, a
pair of pink vases, and some cheap frames holding family photographs. On
the walls were coloured texts and several gloomy memorial cards.
And within these precincts Evarne started upon a life the conditions of
which she had hitherto never dreamed of, far less realised. Work
commencing at eight in the morning, the stretch of hours until eight at
night was unbroken save by a brief time for meals. Day in and day
out--except for the blessed Sabbath--week following week in slow
procession, still found her bent over her needle, stitch, stitch,
stitching as fast as her skill allowed.
At first, while yet unbroken to the yoke, she many a time seriously
feared that the day then passing would be the very last of its kind that
she could possibly manage to endure. The nerve-pangs of irritability and
impatience, of well-nigh uncontrollable rebellion and revolt--all
concealed with difficulty, but not thereby conquered--seared her spirit
far more deeply than her left forefinger was pricked and torn by the
needle driven at unaccustomed speed. Sometimes she would stop working
for a minute, straighten her back, let her hands, together with the
material, drop loosely upon her lap, while she would glance over at Jean
with an expression that said plainly, "Is it _really_ possible to endure
this?"
But Miss Brodie during work-hours was as a part of her machine--she
never ceased, never looked either to the right or to the left--so that
after a minute or two nothing remained for the as yet unresigned
apprentice but to stifle a sigh--or maybe even a groan--and again take
up the labour at which her whole nature was vigorously protesting.
She wondered if she was naturally idle, or if all other needlewomen had
had to get the mastery over similar feelings to those that ramped in her
breast, when the monotonous occupation had to be continued for long
weary hours after it had become thoroughly uncongenial? Did Miss Brodie,
for instance, not know what it was to feel every pulse of her body
aching and crying for movement--change--liberty? Was she never conscious
that her brain was frantically protesting against the maddening
monotony--the unvarying sameness--the crushing tedium of pushing that
needle in, then pulling that needle out, again and again and again, as
steadily as her pulses beat or her heart throbbed? Did Jean never have
to fight against an almost uncontrollable impulse to scream, shout, wave
her arms, stamp, swear, play ball with her work, tear down "God Bless
our Home," and throw it out of the window; do something--anything--wild,
mad and unseemly, to relieve the tedium and assuage the awful tumult of
overwrought nerves?
But whatever storms might rage within the recesses of her own mind, Miss
Brodie was ever outwardly calm--but then Evarne was to all appearances
equally passive, equally resigned. She never once complained. While
pitying herself as frankly as she sorrowed over a squirrel upon the
wheel; a wood-bird shut in a tiny cage; a young dog fastened to its
kennel in a walled-in yard, strangling itself frantically against its
collar; she suffered all in total silence.
However, Jean had an outside interest--a hope that beyond a doubt served
to lighten and brighten the tedium of these days of toil. She was
engaged to be married to a dashing red-coated soldier, and many of the
ends of her evenings were spent in his inspiriting society.
Evarne's spare hours were passed in absolute loneliness and solitude.
After supper she would wander out, generally along the Embankment, but
if she had sufficient energy she would persevere as far as Hyde Park. At
all events she would walk about somewhere until she was wearied, not
returning home until it was time to go to bed. It was a grey,
soul-crushing existence, and she grew depressed and spiritless beneath
its burden.
She made no effort to change it for anything better. Miss Brodie was
satisfied with her, and was always kind. One thing was as good as
another, and incompetence was a drug in the labour market. Everyone,
too, by whom she was now surrounded laboured more or less incessantly;
work made up their lives. She was no miserable exception, no victim, no
martyr. Her fate seemed but the common fate of all.
"It's a real pity you can't get a young man, Miss Stornway," said Miss
Brodie, worried by her apprentice's unconcealable pallor and
listlessness. "It certainly does seem to make everything so much
easier."
The girl smiled and shook her head. Indeed, Camberwell was as likely to
produce a "young man" for Evarne as was a desert island. Not that she
was overlooked by the male sex; on the contrary, in common with every
girl who is at once poor and beautiful, practically every man who had
any sort of opportunity commenced, sooner or later, to make love to her.
Quite often strange men turned and walked by her side in the parks,
seeking to engage her in conversation. But not for one instant was the
proud purity of the beautiful face disturbed. Evarne had loved Morris
Kenyon as truly and purely as ever any young girl loved. By the shameful
arts of the street _roué_ she was profoundly repelled. So as far as
masculine society went, she lived the life of a young nun.
She seemed to have nothing left save memories, and these were all
tainted with cruel bitterness. As the weary weeks lengthened into months
the acuteness of all past emotions--joys and anguish alike--became
dimmed, and then faded away. What had been once her life seemed now only
a story she had read long ago. That brilliant room at "Mon Bijou"; the
lovely garden with its winding mosaic walks; the blueness of the Naples
Bay; the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland; her dainty flat and her
carriage here in London; the vivid sun of Egypt--none of this was real,
surely? Reality was scanty fare in a top garret--incessant
stitching--loneliness--and nothing else!
And her love for Morris that she would once have sworn could have
survived all blows, all passing of time, was as much a thing of the past
as were all these other memories. Morris had slain it himself once and
for ever. For some time she had cherished the corpse, not knowing it to
be lifeless; but gradually the deceptive outward tokens of vitality
faded away. A little longer and the dead thing fell to dust and was no
more. The glamour of Morris's presence removed enabled her to see more
clearly, not only the unforgivable nature of the insults with which he
had cast her off, but the great wrong he had done her in the first
place, and which had directly led down to these dregs wherein she was
now drowning.
If she had any feeling for him other than indifference, it was hatred.
She felt no gratitude--not one jot--for the money or the care and
attention he had once lavished upon her. It had been nothing to him. And
since she was merely one of many women who in turn occupied those rooms
at "Mon Bijou," she had no more call to be grateful for any of the
accompanying accessories of the position than had the horses that passed
through his stables.
She was utterly discontented and unhappy in her present existence. True,
she had safe shelter, sufficient to wear, and enough to eat to keep life
within her--but, merciful Heaven, what a price she paid for that
doubtful boon! Morning after morning she regained consciousness with
reluctance, shrinking from the joyless, unbroken monotony of the day
that stretched its weary length before her--anxious only to get it done
and added to those that were already lived through. She never read now,
for her eyes ached painfully long ere work was ended.
Tortured at first by her unemployed powers of heart and brain and soul
fighting for expression, all too soon she became bitterly conscious that
they were yielding to disuse--becoming crushed and deadened. It did seem
hard to have to put all her strength, all her active energies of mind
and body--all herself--into the making of cheap blouses. She felt she
was being wasted, but that it was inevitable. What was being killed in
her would not make money.
It was some time before she could realise that she had found her true
level in life's struggle, and that needlework was her doom. At first she
was always waiting for something to "turn up," for the unexpected to
happen.
"'And is this all of life?' she said;
'This daily toil for daily bread?'"
And as the conviction grew that this cruel question must be answered in
the affirmative--that all heretofore had been but prelude, unstable and
fleeting, that this was life now upon her in grim serious earnest--her
heart grew bitter, and her once sweet, bright expression gave way to a
settled look of sad discontent.
But through all this her resolution to lead evermore a "good" life never
faltered. She would not even contemplate endeavouring to bring sparks of
brightness into her cheerless existence by setting aflame any man's
affection, legally or otherwise. Come what might, she had done with that
sort of thing once and for all.
Mrs. Burling she visited once or twice, but her correspondence with both
Margaret and Jess slackened and ceased. Separated and so unhappy, she
found it difficult to know what to say to them, while they both could
produce but heavy and laboured epistles. She liked Jean Brodie fairly
well, but they were very opposed in character, and for the greater
portion of each day the silence of the workroom was unbroken save for
the clipping of the scissors or the whirring of the machine.