Suddenly the group round the doors had dispersed and everybody was
leaning over the drawing-room balcony. Above all, all the way up the
front of the Hotel, faces blossomed out unexpectedly, flinging away like
veils the first oblivion of siesta. One would have thought a note of
music had never been heard before or that the man into whose deep mouth
they were all gazing down were himself Orpheus.
He plucked from his mandoline shaking notes which the tensity and blaze
of noon and the gathered silence of his audience did invest with a
strangeness, and sang while the whole of him quivered. He did not cease
to parade beneath the balcony while maintaining fountain-wise the spout
of song. The child with red skirts clutching his coat-tails echoed, with
the addition here and there of skips or quaver, his strut and his song.
Her face with a smile’s general glitter across it was upturned to the
balcony, eyes closed as though she could feel the benevolence of
visitors descend upon the lids like rain.
The airs were not classical. He sang “Funiculee-Funicula” and “Sole Mio”
and presently (encouraging his little girl to dance for their English
friends and quickening the measure till her brief skirts spun out into a
disc) a song about the beauties of a doll.
Ladies on either side of Ronald began pressing him closer, and more and
more people came out through the window behind and leaned across his
shoulders. He could hear, when he kept his head low, quite an orchestra
of excited breathing.
“Ah ch’è bella la bambola mia,
Quasi, quasi più bella di me
Un vestito di ràso celeste
Un cappello di——”
“Splendid!” somebody cried out and the wave of admiration mounting
behind Ronald broke into clapping of hands and laughter. “This balcony,”
he remarked to his mother under cover of this, “is like a print of a
public execution.” He shone with an exhilaration induced by the music in
spite of himself, but preserved his expression of disillusionment. “It
will bust in a minute or two, and serve them all right for watching
anything so beastly.”
“But Ronald, _beastly_?” She turned to him in consternation, innocent as
never before of irony.
“The little devil’s blind,” said Ronald, pointing down and moving his
shoulders angrily, for there were two what he called great fat women
leaning on his back.
The word spread somehow and when the child’s eyes again dropped open,
then lazily shut, several people were alert to notice that the eyes were
china-white. The minstrel, appreciative of the interest thus created,
pulled his companion forward and stopped in his song to advertise her
with a flourish. “_Cieca! cieca!_” he exclaimed and straddled shining up
at them, all teeth. The little girl, in the ecstasy of this, flung her
arms out and began to dance again, whirling at such velocity that it was
as though she tore the music from the mandoline to follow her. Ripples
of “Shame” and “Cruel” crept down the balcony but from the windows above
the first drops of a shower of nickel were spinning already. The shower
thickened and there was for a moment or two in the air a continuous
glitter. The little girl paused, leaning against the wind of her
movement, and seemed to listen in ecstasy. She snatched up handfuls of
air and surrendered them laughingly, then flung herself with cries of
delight to and fro on the gravel and, groping, gathered up her harvest.
There followed some heavier coins, the escape of a sigh and a faint
burst of horrified laughter.
“But she _is_ happy,” maintained Sydney, standing back against the frame
of the window and a voice she could not trace but believed to be
Milton’s supported her with, “Yes, yes, she must be.”
Ronald wriggled beneath the weight of the two good women but could not
extricate himself in time to see who, on either occasion, had spoken. He
would have given much to do so. All to-day there had been phrases,
broken-off, exclamatory, rising stark like this out of a hush or a hum
with a significance for him foreign to their context, with startling
relevance to something in his mind.
He pushed his way back into the drawing-room, now quite vacant and in
yellow shade from the awning. He sat down on a sofa, leaned back,
crossed his legs, and waited for his mother to appear in the window, as
she almost immediately did, and after a moment’s blank stare through the
dusk to perceive him and come over royally. She did concede—and
generously he could approve the concession—a few words back over her
shoulder, perhaps to Miss Warren out there. Then she sat beside him,
most beautiful in the half-light, her attitude settling into complete
repose as silk settles into its folds. She had still a little amusement,
a faint perturbation, but she was allowing these ripples to widen and
fade in her mind. It would be clear of them soon, a smooth consciousness
on to which he hoped to stream like light.
They were still after this life-long strangeness to one another at a
stage when the novelty of being together made each seeking-out of one
another unique. A meeting was in the nature of a rendezvous and the
_mise-en-scène_ queerly important. The isolation of rendezvous made
indifferent such publicity as that of a bench, a waiting-room, or this
rigid sofa pasted square to the wall of a drawing-room. So they sat
here, Ronald exalted.
“And now?” his mother said, after some moments in which the music having
come to an end, the shoal swept past from the balcony with a sympathetic
aversion of glances. A lust for spectacle which the little blind girl
had aroused was gratified by them passingly and Ronald knew that many
people had considered them “touching.” The room empty once more, it was
as though Mrs. Kerr had had to expostulate with herself for being too
happy. “And now?” she resumed with an air of obligation.
“Why ‘now’?” said Ronald. “Can’t we stay here? I mean, unless you want
to sleep. What is this room, anyway?” He looked round at the armchairs
all facing one way with awful intelligence.
“I think quite a number of women sit here.”
“Obviously. But I’m not afraid of an atmosphere.”
“Dear Ronald, you seem to be thickening. I was always alarmed and
impressed by the idea that you _were_ afraid of an atmosphere: that they
were dangerous.”
_He_ had been always alarmed and impressed by the idea that she had not
an inkling of his subtleties; or rather, would not exert herself to
perceive them. But since his arrival at this Hotel he had been amazed by
the fineness of her perceptions, not only from moment to moment but by a
sudden vista of them along the past, perceptions so delicate,
appreciations so faultless that it could only have been some lack of an
equal fineness that had made him suffer an infinite deprivation. Now
when she said that he was thickening he was able to smile at her.
“I suppose I must have amused my mother?”
“Ronald, you were so subtle. I was inadequate.”
“_I_ was inadequate. Shut up!” He shook her arm gently.
“I can’t help laughing. Do you know, I, I respect you? Why should I have
to confess this instead of announcing it? I do respect you,” she
repeated, saying the word diffidently and looking back on what she had
said with apparent misgiving.
“As a matter of fact,” said Ronald gravely, “I don’t think _we_ mind
being respected. I think, Mother, if you don’t mind my saying so, that
it is a mistake ever to confuse us with your _fin-de-siècle_
contemporaries. Of course a remark like that would have a thousand
satirical reverberations in—say—a Wilde play. But really, one is able to
take it quite simply.”
“That’s where you all are so wonderful,” said Mrs. Kerr, with the deep
thoughtfulness she brought to bear on his every remark. “Of course I do
date hopelessly, as Sydney says.”
“Sydney? Oh, the girl, yes. Was she asked?”
“Ronald, you’re unkind. Don’t say ‘gurl’ like that. I thought you’d like
her, she’s immensely clever.”
Ronald was surprised to realize that the fact that he did not like
Sydney, of which he was himself only now aware, must long have been
obvious to his mother. “If she were not a ‘gurl,’ she wouldn’t be here.
Anyway, isn’t she rather unnatural? The young Lawrences have at least a
certain crude attractiveness.”
“She’s been crude enough to care for me.”
“I thought you couldn’t tolerate _schwärmerei_.”
“Oh, but that suggests the _backfisch_. Could one be ungenerous enough
not to take what is offered one finely? Don’t be tiresome to her; do
justify yourself. She’s prepared to find you _rather_ tiresome.”
“Was she asked?”
“She thinks twenty is a tiresome age. She’s twenty-two, you see. Anyway,
don’t let’s bother about her now. This ‘respect’ that I’ve just
discovered and you’ve authorized is so very comfortable to me. It does
please me so—you may have felt this but I haven’t put it into words
because these large admissions are embarrassing—that you’ve come down to
me from Germany, given up Germany. I hope it didn’t cost a lot?”
Ronald looked embarrassed.
“I meant in _development_. Pictures? Music?”
“Oh, those, no. Anyway, Mother, as I should have explained” (an
irritated consciousness of having already done so at great length
brought a note into his voice) “those were a purely secondary——”
“Of course they were. How dense I’ve been again. I _mean_ the
Rentenmark.” She laid a hand on his knee, leaned back her head against
the wall and, he believed, even blushed her contrition; yet this was all
said with such a vivid disclosure, such a flash of her personality that
he was overwhelmed. In spite of a convinced feminism which should have
armoured him Ronald never failed to be overwhelmed by sheer femininity.
Not since little boyhood did he remember such flashes from her; she had
seemed for those middle years rather withdrawn and perverse, in her very
elegance abstract.
He stuttered his reasons for coming from Germany, sadly abashed. He told
her how she had distracted him by a letter now and then or a memory from
his regard of the economic confusion upon which he had so admirably
concentrated himself. Her reprehensible undistress had been a perpetual
temptation. Also he had not been able to see when else, in the press of
the next two years, he could be with her for long. Also, he admitted
scrupulously, it did happen to fit in very well with his project of
meeting the Byngs in Sicily.
He did not however admit to a childish feeling of homelessness or to
having been lonely in Munich and bored in Dresden, while several people
had been rude to him in Berlin. He did just glance for a moment
tentatively at his mother, then he gulped the admission down; he drew in
his feet and stared a little haggardly round the drawing-room. He may
have guessed that they were not likely to come nearer to each other than
these precipitate little plunges into intimacy, this succession of
rendezvous, would carry them.
Round him stripes prevailed on the tight brocades of the upholstery, on
the mats methodically diamond-wise on the polish; stripes were repeated
innumerably in the satiny wall-paper and the lace blinds over the door.
One had a sense of being caged into this crowded emptiness. This seemed
the strangest place to sit and make demands on motherhood, the strangest
place for motherhood in answering to make itself palpable. He felt half
impelled to ask his mother some fantastic question: “What do I mean to
you?” or “What part do I play in your life?” or even (a final outrage)
“Do you care for me?” (This he could not remember that she had ever
avowed.) Even were the putting of such questions conceivable a direct
reply from her here was not; there must ensue some cataclysm, the
stretched brocades would rip audibly, the pot-bellied vases crack. His
most daring conception of an intimacy was a freedom to ask or to answer
such questions; though he also conceived that in intimacy the reserves
would have trebly their value.
“It will be dull for you here,” said his mother, interpreting his vague
scrutiny. “I do nothing at all all day long, so I haven’t had time for a
feeling of rootlessness; but if I’d known you were coming out I’d have
taken a villino. Sydney found me the nicest little villino stuck to the
side of a rock and wanted to take it for both of us, but it would have
meant the dear muzzy cousin with the inside coming too, and that Sydney
wouldn’t consider, though she couldn’t for a moment, either, consider
leaving the cousin. So the idea dropped. A pity, I think now,” Mrs. Kerr
said reflectively.
“A disappointment for Sydney.”
“I’m afraid they seem inevitable. She is a very disappointable girl. But
it really is a pity from our point of view, because she’d be moving out
now and you would be moving in. How long is it, I wonder, since you and
I have kept house? Perhaps I have deprived you of something—I cannot
feel that I have?”
“The idea that you should what is called ‘live for me’ is quite
barbarous,” said Ronald reassuringly.
“Yet I cannot disentangle myself from the idea that it isn’t right for a
woman not to be a little barbarous.”
“Being rational,” Ronald considered, “should take them as far. You see,
they can ... they can _canal_ the natural forces——”
“Oh! But I don’t feel as if I had got any natural forces,” said Mrs.
Kerr, alarmed. “And you know, Ronald, you would hate me to be rational.
It’s forbidding and horrible in a woman, I think.”
“But one does want them to understand themselves.”
“Oh, you know you would not be attracted by a woman who did.”
“Do attractions really matter so much?” asked Ronald in the strained
voice of one in whom a whole torrent of conviction banks itself up
behind the narrow escape of speech, impeding its own exit.
“My darling.... Shall we have to be so very hygienic and bald?”
He could put nothing he felt into words.
His mother took up one of his hands, turned it over thoughtfully, then
laying it down on her knee pulled each finger gently, spreading each out
and feeling the tip with her own. “Nice hands,” she said with a sigh. “I
do wish you hadn’t had to go to Germany.”
That “hygienic” had stung Ronald. It was like getting a splash in the
eye from one’s own disinfectant. “I suppose,” he said, as though he were
speaking to her in the dark and had to guess her position, “that you
think I don’t like things to be beautiful.”
“Don’t be chilly with me—I didn’t mean that. I’m frivolous you see and I
can’t express myself. I only do mean that I think you and Sydney are a
little inclined to over-estimate the value of what you call ‘truth’
(though I do agree it is very important) and that this does tend to
produce in your conversation rather an atmosphere of white tiles.”
“It must be depressing for you to have a son like an operating theatre,”
said Ronald with bitter mirth, and amended, more fatally apt, “or a
bathroom.”
Mrs. Kerr leaned her head against the wall again and shut her eyes; her
lids remained closed as though she already were sleeping and a faint and
very mysterious smile suggested to him for some seconds a profound
slumber. With an idea that it might be forbidden to sleep in the
drawing-room (could one have imagined it possible to do so) he got
protestingly up and stood over her.
“_May_ I go to sleep?” she said without moving. “Even for you, darling,
I can’t do without my siesta.”
“Tell me before you go quite away,” he exclaimed, “if I’ve been boorish
and horrible?”
“You’ve been lovely,” breathed out Mrs. Kerr on a sigh, and behind the
mask of her face she perceptibly retreated from consciousness, in the
attitude of the Beata Beatrix. Looking down at her he went back through
his memory, past his admiration for Rossetti to the day when at six
years old he had called his mother “My Beautiful.” As she did not stir
and, the Hotel being absolutely silent, there seemed no danger of
anybody coming in to disturb her, he sat down again silently on a small
chair. From here he could see to the left of her sofa, the long strip of
awning orange against the sun and, beneath it, the blue line of sea,
with clotted geraniums swinging down from their boxes. Across his panel
of sea a fishing-boat made a slow progress; this had vanished behind the
window-frame and another followed it before Mrs. Kerr opened her eyes
again or Ronald stirred from the profound meditation into which, with
folded legs and limply hanging arms, he had relapsed.