I
Old Mrs. Greene was very tired.
When she was tired she talked to herself, and her talk was a jumble
of names. Her sons, her grandsons, her granddaughter, her
granddaughter's husband, jigged about in her brain. They formed
groups, advanced towards her in a solid phalanx, broke up and receded
again. The pattern of their comings and goings was shot with
pleasure at some remembered incident, or again with intense
irritation that found vent in mumbled phrases. "She's always been a
stupid woman."
"What did you say, Mrs. Greene?" asked Miss Dorset, a quiet, pleasant
young woman who acted as her housekeeper and companion.
"I didn't," said Mrs. Greene, annoyed at being interrupted in that
restless uncontrollable reverie which was all that remained to her of
thought, but the innumerable little lines on her old cheeks smoothed
into tranquillity as a sudden recollection of her granddaughter's
last visit established itself momentarily in her mind. Lavinia had
been very sweet and so pretty. That scarlet frock had seemed to
darken her eyes and whiten her skin; even her hair shone as she sat
on a footstool after dinner in front of the fire, her hands clasped
round her knees, and talked about Martin endlessly, glowingly; about
the two Martins, her husband and her son. A happy child Lavinia;
Martin, a satisfactory grandson-in-law, and Martin, the little
great-grandson, a pleasant thing to think about. Why was it that
Lavinia's husband had not been able to come for the week-end with
Lavinia? Mrs. Greene groped in her mind for the reason and then
stumbled on it suddenly as one of the things Lavinia had spoken about
with pride. Martin had been asked to go North to represent the firm
on business. He had to interview two clients and persuade them to
carry through an important deal, and it was a matter for
congratulation that the negotiations had been entrusted to him.
Old Mrs. Greene pondered. The beginnings of life, how terrible they
were; each action, even the most impulsive and ill-considered,
marching steadily on towards its inevitable result, and eliminating
logically the possibility of any other result.
For a moment, looking back, she saw her life move down its long
determined track, marked erratically here and there by emotions,
incidents and circumstances: her passionate love for Geoffrey, her
husband; her passionate maternal love for Rodney and Edwin; the death
of her father; her sons' marriages; her husband's sudden and
widespread literary recognition; Edwin's death, and then her
husband's death followed immediately by the birth of Lavinia's son,
her only great-grandchild. She looked down at her thin old hands
with the loose rings slipping up the fingers, and thought with clear
lucidity: what changes are wrought by the alchemy of years in this
poor human stuff.
Immediately her age, her weariness, her thousand bodily discomforts,
crowded into the present and engulfed the past.
"Miss Dorset," she said querulously, "help me to bed, Miss Dorset,
I'm tired."