Bliss, and other stories
knew she could not answer them. In the Square Gardens she found a
little wire basket to drop the form into. And then she sat down on one
of the benches to powder her nose. But the person in the pocket mirror
made a hideous face at her, and that was too much for Miss Moss; she
had a good cry. It cheered her wonderfully.
“Well, that’s over,” she sighed. “It’s one comfort to be off my feet.
And my nose will soon get cool in the air. . . . It’s very nice in
here. Look at the sparrows. Cheep. Cheep. How close they come. I expect
somebody feeds them. No, I’ve nothing for you, you cheeky little
things. . . .” She looked away from them. What was the big building
opposite—the Café de Madrid? My goodness, what a smack that little
child came down! Poor little mite! Never mind—up again. . . . By eight
o’clock to-night . . . Café de Madrid. “I could just go in and sit
there and have a coffee, that’s all,” thought Miss Moss. “It’s such a
place for artists too. I might just have a stroke of luck. . . . A dark
handsome gentleman in a fur coat comes in with a friend, and sits at my
table, perhaps. ‘No, old chap, I’ve searched London for a contralto and
I can’t find a soul. You see, the music is difficult; have a look at
it.’” And Miss Moss heard herself saying: “Excuse me, I happen to be a
contralto, and I have sung that part many times. . . . Extraordinary!
‘Come back to my studio and I’ll try your voice now.’ . . . Ten pounds
a week. . . . Why should I feel nervous? It’s not nervousness. Why
shouldn’t I go to the Café de Madrid? I’m a respectable woman—I’m a
contralto singer. And I’m only trembling because I’ve had nothing to
eat to-day. . . . ‘A nice little piece of evidence, _my lady._’ . . .
Very well, Mrs. Pine. Café de Madrid. They have concerts there in the
evenings. . . . ‘Why don’t they begin?’ The contralto has not arrived.
. . . ‘Excuse me, I happen to be a contralto; I have sung that music
many times.’”
It was almost dark in the café. Men, palms, red plush seats, white
marble tables, waiters in aprons, Miss Moss walked through them all.
Hardly had she sat down when a very stout gentleman wearing a very
small hat that floated on the top of his head like a little yacht
flopped into the chair opposite hers.
“Good evening!” said he.
Miss Moss said, in her cheerful way: “Good evening!”
“Fine evening,” said the stout gentleman.
“Yes, very fine. Quite a treat, isn’t it?” said she.
He crooked a sausage finger at the waiter—“Bring me a large whisky”—and
turned to Miss Moss. “What’s yours?”
“Well, I think I’ll take a brandy if it’s all the same.”
Five minutes later the stout gentleman leaned across the table and blew
a puff of cigar smoke full in her face.
“That’s a tempting bit o’ ribbon!” said he.
Miss Moss blushed until a pulse at the top of her head that she never
had felt before pounded away.
“I always was one for pink,” said she.
The stout gentleman considered her, drumming with her fingers on the
table.
“I like ’em firm and well covered,” said he.
Miss Moss, to her surprise, gave a loud snigger.
Five minutes later the stout gentleman heaved himself up. “Well, am I
goin’ your way, or are you comin’ mine?” he asked.
“I’ll come with you, if it’s all the same,” said Miss Moss. And she
sailed after the little yacht out of the café.
The Man without a Temperament
He stood at the hall door turning the ring, turning the heavy signet
ring upon his little finger while his glance travelled coolly,
deliberately, over the round tables and basket chairs scattered about
the glassed-in verandah. He pursed his lips—he might have been going to
whistle—but he did not whistle—only turned the ring—turned the ring on
his pink, freshly washed hands.
Over in the corner sat The Two Topknots, drinking a decoction they
always drank at this hour—something whitish, greyish, in glasses, with
little husks floating on the top—and rooting in a tin full of paper
shavings for pieces of speckled biscuit, which they broke, dropped into
the glasses and fished for with spoons. Their two coils of knitting,
like two snakes, slumbered beside the tray.
The American Woman sat where she always sat against the glass wall, in
the shadow of a great creeping thing with wide open purple eyes that
pressed—that flattened itself against the glass, hungrily watching her.
And she knoo it was there—she knoo it was looking at her just that way.
She played up to it; she gave herself little airs. Sometimes she even
pointed at it, crying: “Isn’t that the most terrible thing you’ve ever
seen! Isn’t that ghoulish!” It was on the other side of the verandah,
after all . . . and besides it couldn’t touch her, could it,
Klaymongso? She was an American Woman, wasn’t she Klaymongso, and she’d
just go right away to her Consul. Klaymongso, curled in her lap, with
her torn antique brocade bag, a grubby handkerchief, and a pile of
letters from home on top of him, sneezed for reply.
The other tables were empty. A glance passed between the American and
the Topknots. She gave a foreign little shrug; they waved an
understanding biscuit. But he saw nothing. Now he was still, now from
his eyes you saw he listened. “Hoo-e-zip-zoo-oo!” sounded the lift. The
iron cage clanged open. Light dragging steps sounded across the hall,
coming towards him. A hand, like a leaf, fell on his shoulder. A soft
voice said: “Let’s go and sit over there—where we can see the drive.
The trees are so lovely.” And he moved forward with the hand still on
his shoulder, and the light, dragging steps beside his. He pulled out a
chair and she sank into it, slowly, leaning her head against the back,
her arms falling along the sides.
“Won’t you bring the other up closer? It’s such miles away.” But he did
not move.
“Where’s your shawl?” he asked.
“Oh!” She gave a little groan of dismay. “How silly I am, I’ve left it
upstairs on the bed. Never mind. Please don’t go for it. I shan’t want
it, I know I shan’t.”
“You’d better have it.” And he turned and swiftly crossed the verandah
into the dim hall with its scarlet plush and gilt furniture—conjuror’s
furniture—its Notice of Services at the English Church, its green baize
board with the unclaimed letters climbing the black lattice, huge
“Presentation” clock that struck the hours at the half-hours, bundles
of sticks and umbrellas and sunshades in the clasp of a brown wooden
bear, past the two crippled palms, two ancient beggars at the foot of
the staircase, up the marble stairs three at a time, past the life-size
group on the landing of two stout peasant children with their marble
pinnies full of marble grapes, and along the corridor, with its
piled-up wreckage of old tin boxes, leather trunks, canvas hold-alls,
to their room.
The servant girl was in their room, singing loudly while she emptied
soapy water into a pail. The windows were open wide, the shutters put
back, and the light glared in. She had thrown the carpets and the big
white pillows over the balcony rails; the nets were looped up from the
beds; on the writing table there stood a pan of fluff and match-ends.
When she saw him her small impudent eyes snapped and her singing
changed to humming. But he gave no sign. His eyes searched the glaring
room. Where the devil was the shawl!
“_Vous desirez, Monsieur?_” mocked the servant girl.
No answer. He had seen it. He strode across the room, grabbed the grey
cobweb and went out, banging the door. The servant girl’s voice at its
loudest and shrillest followed him along the corridor.
“Oh, there you are. What happened? What kept you? The tea’s here, you
see. I’ve just sent Antonio off for the hot water. Isn’t it
extraordinary? I must have told him about it sixty times at least, and
still he doesn’t bring it. Thank you. That’s very nice. One does just
feel the air when one bends forward.”
“Thanks.” He took his tea and sat down in the other chair. “No, nothing
to eat.”
“Oh do! Just one, you had so little at lunch and it’s hours before
dinner.”
Her shawl dropped off as she bent forward to hand him the biscuits. He
took one and put it in his saucer.
“Oh, those trees along the drive,” she cried, “I could look at them for
ever. They are like the most exquisite huge ferns. And you see that one
with the grey-silver bark and the clusters of cream coloured flowers, I
pulled down a head of them yesterday to smell and the scent”—she shut
her eyes at the memory and her voice thinned away, faint, airy—“was
like freshly ground nutmegs.” A little pause. She turned to him and
smiled. “You do know what nutmegs smell like—do you, Robert?”
And he smiled back at her. “Now how am I going to prove to you that I
do?”
Back came Antonio with not only the hot water—with letters on a salver
and three rolls of paper.
“Oh, the post! Oh, how lovely! Oh, Robert, they mustn’t be all for you!
Have they just come, Antonio?” Her thin hands flew up and hovered over
the letters that Antonio offered her, bending forward.
“Just this moment, Signora,” grinned Antonio. “I took-a them from the
postman myself. I made-a the postman give them for me.”
“Noble Antonio!” laughed she. “There—those are mine, Robert; the rest
are yours.”
Antonio wheeled sharply, stiffened, the grin went out of his face. His
striped linen jacket and his flat gleaming fringe made him look like a
wooden doll.
Mr. Salesby put the letters into his pocket; the papers lay on the
table. He turned the ring, turned the signet ring on his little finger
and stared in front of him, blinking, vacant.
But she—with her teacup in one hand, the sheets of thin paper in the
other, her head tilted back, her lips open, a brush of bright colour on
her cheek-bones, sipped, sipped, drank . . . drank. . . .
“From Lottie,” came her soft murmur. “Poor dear . . . such trouble . .
. left foot. She thought . . . neuritis . . . Doctor Blyth . . . flat
foot . . . massage. So many robins this year . . . maid most
satisfactory . . . Indian Colonel . . . every grain of rice separate .
. . very heavy fall of snow.” And her wide lighted eyes looked up from
the letter. “Snow, Robert! Think of it!” And she touched the little
dark violets pinned on her thin bosom and went back to the letter.
. . . Snow. Snow in London. Millie with the early morning cup of tea.
“There’s been a terrible fall of snow in the night, Sir.” “Oh, has
there, Millie?” The curtains ring apart, letting in the pale, reluctant
light. He raises himself in the bed; he catches a glimpse of the solid
houses opposite framed in white, of their window boxes full of great
sprays of white coral. . . . In the bathroom—overlooking the back
garden. Snow—heavy snow over everything. The lawn is covered with a
wavy pattern of cat’s paws; there is a thick, thick icing on the garden
table; the withered pods of the laburnum tree are white tassels; only
here and there in the ivy is a dark leaf showing. . . . Warming his
back at the dining-room fire, the paper drying over a chair. Millie
with the bacon. “Oh, if you please, Sir, there’s two little boys come
as will do the steps and front for a shilling, shall I let them?” . . .
And then flying lightly, lightly down the stairs—Jinnie. “Oh, Robert,
isn’t it wonderful! Oh, what a pity it has to melt. Where’s the
pussy-wee?” “I’ll get him from Millie” . . . “Millie, you might just
hand me up the kitten if you’ve got him down there.” “Very good, Sir.”
He feels the little beating heart under his hand. “Come on, old chap,
your Missus wants you.” “Oh, Robert, do show him the snow—his first
snow. Shall I open the window and give him a little piece on his paw to
hold? . . .”
“Well, that’s very satisfactory on the whole—very. Poor Lottie! Darling
Anne! How I only wish I could send them something of this,” she cried,
waving her letters at the brilliant, dazzling garden. “More tea,