Bliss, and other stories
“Sit down. Drink it. And don’t talk.” And he stood over her while she
obeyed. Then he took the glass, rinsed it and put it back in its case.
“Would you like a cushion?”
“No, I’m quite all right. Come over here. Sit down by me just a minute,
will you, Robert? Ah, that’s very nice.” She turned and thrust the
piece of heliotrope in the lapel of his coat. “That,” she said, “is
most becoming.” And then she leaned her head against his shoulder, and
he put his arm round her.
“Robert——” her voice like a sigh—like a breath.
“Yes——”
They sat there for a long while. The sky flamed, paled; the two white
beds were like two ships. . . . At last he heard the servant girl
running along the corridor with the hot water cans, and gently he
released her and turned on the light.
“Oh, what time is it? Oh, what a heavenly evening. Oh, Robert, I was
thinking while you were away this afternoon . . .”
They were the last couple to enter the dining-room. The Countess was
there with her lorgnette and her fan, the General was there with his
special chair and the air cushion and the small rug over his knees. The
American Woman was there showing Klaymongso a copy of the _Saturday
Evening Post._ . . . “We’re having a feast of reason and a flow of
soul.” The Two Topknots were there feeling over the peaches and the
pears in their dish of fruit, and putting aside all they considered
unripe or overripe to show to the manager, and the Honeymoon Couple
leaned across the table, whispering, trying not to burst out laughing.
Mr. Queet, in everyday clothes and white canvas shoes, served the soup,
and Antonio, in full evening dress, handed it round.
“No,” said the American Woman, “take it away, Antonio. We can’t eat
soup. We can’t eat anything mushy, can we, Klaymongso?”
“Take them back and fill them to the rim!” said the Topknots, and they
turned and watched while Antonio delivered the message.
“What is it? Rice? Is it cooked?” The Countess peered through her
lorgnette. “Mr. Queet, the General can have some of this soup if it is
cooked.”
“Very good, Countess.”
The Honeymoon Couple had their fish instead.
“Give me that one. That’s the one I caught. No it’s not. Yes, it is. No
it’s not. Well, it’s looking at me with its eye so it must be. Tee!
Hee! Hee!” Their feet were locked together under the table.
“Robert, you’re not eating again. Is anything the matter?”
“No. Off food, that’s all.”
“Oh, what a bother. There are eggs and spinach coming. You don’t like
spinach, do you. I must tell them in future . . .”
An egg and mashed potatoes for the General.
“Mr. Queet! Mr. Queet!”
“Yes, Countess.”
“The General’s egg’s too hard again.”
“Caw! Caw! Caw!”
“Very sorry, Countess. Shall I have you another cooked, General?”
. . . They are the first to leave the dining-room. She rises, gathering
her shawl and he stands aside, waiting for her to pass, turning the
ring, turning the signet ring on his little finger. In the hall Mr.
Queet hovers. “I thought you might not want to wait for the lift.
Antonio’s just serving the finger bowls. And I’m sorry the bell won’t
ring, it’s out of order. I can’t think what’s happened.”
“Oh, I do hope . . .” from her.
“Get in,” says he.
Mr. Queet steps after them and slams the door. . . .
. . . “Robert, do you mind if I go to bed very soon? Won’t you go down
to the _salon_ or out into the garden? Or perhaps you might smoke a
cigar on the balcony. It’s lovely out there. And I like cigar smoke. I
always did. But if you’d rather . . .”
“No, I’ll sit here.”
He takes a chair and sits on the balcony. He hears her moving about in
the room, lightly, lightly, moving and rustling. Then she comes over to
him. “Good night, Robert.”
“Good night.” He takes her hand and kisses the palm. “Don’t catch
cold.”
The sky is the colour of jade. There are a great many stars; an
enormous white moon hangs over the garden. Far away lightning
flutters—flutters like a wing—flutters like a broken bird that tries to
fly and sinks again and again struggles.
The lights from the _salon_ shine across the garden path and there is
the sound of a piano. And once the American Woman, opening the French
window to let Klaymongso into the garden, cries: “Have you seen this
moon?” But nobody answers.
He gets very cold sitting there, staring at the balcony rail. Finally
he comes inside. The moon—the room is painted white with moonlight. The
light trembles in the mirrors; the two beds seem to float. She is
asleep. He sees her through the nets, half sitting, banked up with
pillows, her white hands crossed on the sheet. Her white cheeks, her
fair hair pressed against the pillow, are silvered over. He undresses
quickly, stealthily and gets into bed. Lying there, his hands clasped
behind his head. . . .
. . . In his study. Late summer. The Virginia creeper just on the turn.
. . .
“Well, my dear chap, that’s the whole story. That’s the long and the
short of it. If she can’t cut away for the next two years and give a
decent climate a chance she don’t stand a dog’s—h’m—show. Better be
frank about these things.” “Oh, certainly. . . .” “And hang it all, old
man, what’s to prevent you going with her? It isn’t as though you’ve
got a regular job like us wage earners. You can do what you do wherever
you are——” “Two years.” “Yes, I should give it two years. You’ll have
no trouble about letting this house you know. As a matter of fact . .
.”
. . . He is with her. “Robert, the awful thing is—I suppose it’s my
illness—I simply feel I could not go alone. You see—you’re everything.
You’re bread and wine, Robert, bread and wine. Oh, my darling—what am I
saying? Of course I could, of course I won’t take you away. . . .”
He hears her stirring. Does she want something?
“Boogles?”
Good Lord! She is talking in her sleep. They haven’t used that name for
years.
“Boogles. Are you awake?”
“Yes, do you want anything?”
“Oh, I’m going to be a bother. I’m so sorry. Do you mind? There’s a
wretched mosquito inside my net—I can hear him singing. Would you catch
him? I don’t want to move because of my heart.”
“No, don’t move. Stay where you are.” He switches on the light, lifts
the net. “Where is the little beggar? Have you spotted him?”
“Yes, there, over by the corner. Oh, I do feel such a fiend to have
dragged you out of bed. Do you mind dreadfully?”
“No, of course not.” For a moment he hovers in his blue and white
pyjamas. Then, “got him,” he said.
“Oh, good. Was he a juicy one?”
“Beastly.” He went over to the washstand and dipped his fingers in
water. “Are you all right now? Shall I switch off the light?”
“Yes, please. No. Boogles! Come back here a moment. Sit down by me.
Give me your hand.” She turns his signet ring. “Why weren’t you asleep?
Boogles, listen. Come closer. I sometimes wonder—do you mind awfully
being out here with me?”
He bends down. He kisses her. He tucks her in, he smoothes the pillow.
“Rot!” he whispers.
Mr. Reginald Peacock’s Day
If there was one thing that he hated more than another it was the way
she had of waking him in the morning. She did it on purpose, of course.
It was her way of establishing her grievance for the day, and he was
not going to let her know how successful it was. But really, really, to
wake a sensitive person like that was positively dangerous! It took him
hours to get over it—simply hours. She came into the room buttoned up
in an overall, with a handkerchief over her head—thereby proving that
she had been up herself and slaving since dawn—and called in a low,
warning voice: “Reginald!”
“Eh! What! What’s that? What’s the matter?”
“It’s time to get up; it’s half-past eight.” And out she went, shutting
the door quietly after her, to gloat over her triumph, he supposed.
He rolled over in the big bed, his heart still beating in quick, dull
throbs, and with every throb he felt his energy escaping him, his—his
inspiration for the day stifling under those thudding blows. It seemed
that she took a malicious delight in making life more difficult for him
than—Heaven knows—it was, by denying him his rights as an artist, by
trying to drag him down to her level. What was the matter with her?
What the hell did she want? Hadn’t he three times as many pupils now as
when they were first married, earned three times as much, paid for
every stick and stone that they possessed, and now had begun to shell
out for Adrian’s kindergarten? . . . And had he ever reproached her for
not having a penny to her name? Never a word—never a sign! The truth
was that once you married a woman she became insatiable, and the truth
was that nothing was more fatal for an artist than marriage, at any
rate until he was well over forty. . . . Why had he married her? He
asked himself this question on an average about three times a day, but
he never could answer it satisfactorily. She had caught him at a weak
moment, when the first plunge into reality had bewildered and
overwhelmed him for a time. Looking back, he saw a pathetic, youthful
creature, half child, half wild untamed bird, totally incompetent to
cope with bills and creditors and all the sordid details of existence.
Well—she had done her best to clip his wings, if that was any
satisfaction for her, and she could congratulate herself on the success
of this early morning trick. One ought to wake exquisitely,
reluctantly, he thought, slipping down in the warm bed. He began to
imagine a series of enchanting scenes which ended with his latest, most
charming pupil putting her bare, scented arms round his neck, and
covering him with her long, perfumed hair. “Awake, my love!” . . .
As was his daily habit, while the bath water ran, Reginald Peacock
tried his voice.
When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror,
Looping up her laces, tying up her hair,
he sang, softly at first, listening to the quality, nursing his voice
until he came to the third line:
Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded . . .
and upon the word “wedded” he burst into such a shout of triumph that
the tooth-glass on the bathroom shelf trembled and even the bath tap
seemed to gush stormy applause. . . .
Well, there was nothing wrong with his voice, he thought, leaping into
the bath and soaping his soft, pink body all over with a loofah shaped
like a fish. He could fill Covent Garden with it! “_Wedded_,” he
shouted again, seizing the towel with a magnificent operatic gesture,
and went on singing while he rubbed as though he had been Lohengrin
tipped out by an unwary Swan and drying himself in the greatest haste
before that tiresome Elsa came along along. . . .
Back in his bedroom, he pulled the blind up with a jerk, and standing
upon the pale square of sunlight that lay upon the carpet like a sheet
of cream blotting-paper, he began to do his exercises—deep breathing,
bending forward and back, squatting like a frog and shooting out his
legs—for if there was one thing he had a horror of it was of getting
fat, and men in his profession had a dreadful tendency that way.
However, there was no sign of it at present. He was, he decided, just
right, just in good proportion. In fact, he could not help a thrill of
satisfaction when he saw himself in the glass, dressed in a morning
coat, dark grey trousers, grey socks and a black tie with a silver
thread in it. Not that he was vain—he couldn’t stand vain men—no; the
sight of himself gave him a thrill of purely artistic satisfaction.
“_Voilà tout!”_ said he, passing his hand over his sleek hair.
That little, easy French phrase blown so lightly from his lips, like a
whiff of smoke, reminded him that someone had asked him again, the
evening before, if he was English. People seemed to find it impossible
to believe that he hadn’t some Southern blood. True, there was an