Pointed Roofs · Chapter 6 (2/5)

“Well,” said Gertrude, switching back her curtain to lace her boots. “Long may Lily beam. I like summer weather myself.”

Miriam turned away. Gertrude half-dressed behind the curtains was too clever for her. She could not face her unveiled with vacant eyes.

“The summer is jolly, isn’t it?” she said uneasily.

“You’re right, my friend. Hullo! There’s Emmchen looking for you. I expect the Germans have just finished their annual. They never come into the Schwimmbad, they’re always too late. I should think you’d better toddle them home, Hendy⁠—the darlings might catch cold.”

“Don’t we all go together?”

“We go as we are ready, from this establishment, just anyhow as long as we’re not in ones or twos⁠—Lily won’t have twos, as I dare say you’ve observed. Be good, my che-hild,” she said heartily, drawing on her second boot, “and you’ll be happy⁠—sehr sehr happy, I hope, Hendy.”

“Thank you,” laughed Miriam. Emma’s hands were on her muff, stroking it eagerly. “Hendchen, Hendchen,” she cooed in her consoling tones, “to house to house, I am so angry⁠—hangry.”

“Hungry.”

“Hungry, yes, and Minna and Clara is ready. Komm!”

The child linked arms with her and pulled Miriam towards the corridor. Once out of sight under the gallery she slipped her arm round Miriam’s waist. “Oh, Hendchen, my darling beautiful, you have so lovely teint after your badth⁠—oh, I am zo hangry, oh Hendchen, I luff you zo, I am zo haypie, kiss me one small, small kiss.”

“What a baby you are,” said Miriam, half turning as the girl’s warm lips brushed the angle of her jaw. “Yes, we’ll go home, come along.”

The corridor was almost airless. She longed to get out into the open. They found Minna at a table in the entrance hall her head propped on her hand, snoring gently. Clara sat near her with closed eyes.

As the little party of four making its way home, cleansed and hungry, united and happy, stood for a moment on a tree-planted island halfway across a wide-open space, Minna with her eager smile said, gazing, “Oh, I would like a glass Bier.” Miriam saw very distinctly the clear sunlight on the boles of the trees showing every ridge and shade of colour as it had done on the peaked summerhouse porch in the morning. The girls closed in on her during the moment of disgust which postponed her response.

“Dear Hendchen! We are alone! Just we nice four! Just only one most little small glass! Just one! Kind best, Hendchen!” she heard. She pushed her way through the little group pretending to ignore their pleadings and to look for obstacles to their passage to the opposite curb. She felt her disgust was absurd and was asking herself why the girls should not have their beer. She would like to watch them, she knew; these little German Fraus-to-be serenely happy at their Bier table on this bright afternoon. They closed in on her again. Emma in the gutter in front of her. She felt arms and hands, and the pleading voices besieged her again. Emma’s upturned tragic face, her usually motionless lips a beseeching tunnel, her chin and throat moving to her ardent words made Miriam laugh. It was disgusting. “No, no,” she said hastily, backing away from them to the end of the island. “Of course not. Come along. Don’t be silly.” The elder girls gave in. Emma kept up a little solo of reproach hanging on Miriam’s arm. “Very strict. Cold English. No Bier. I want to home. I have Bier to home” until they were in sight of the high walls of Waldstraße.

Pastor Lahmann gave a French lesson the next afternoon.

“Sur l’eau, si beau!”

This refrain threatening for the third time, three or four of the girls led by Bertha Martin, supplied it in a subdued singsong without waiting for Pastor Lahmann’s slow voice. Miriam had scarcely attended to his discourse. He had begun in flat easy tones, describing his visit to Geneva, the snow-clad mountains, the quiet lake, the spring flowers. His words brought her no vision and her mind wandered, half tethered. But when he began reading the poem she sank into the rhythm and turned towards him and fixed expectant eyes upon his face. His expression disturbed her. Why did he read with that half-smile? She felt sure that he felt they were “young ladies,” “demoiselles,” “jeunes filles.” She wanted to tell him she was nothing of the kind and take the book from him and show him how to read. His eyes, soft and brown, were the eyes of a child. She noticed that the lower portion of his flat white cheeks looked broader than the upper without giving an effect of squareness of jaw. Then the rhythm took her again and with the second “sur l’eau, si beau,” she saw a very blue lake and a little boat with lateen sails, and during the third verse began to forget the lifeless voice. As the murmured refrain came from the girls there was a slight movement in Fräulein’s sofa corner. Miriam did not turn her eyes from Pastor Lahmann’s face to look at her, but half expected that at the end of the next verse her low clear devout tones would be heard joining in. Part way through the verse with a startling sweep of draperies against the leather covering of the sofa, Fräulein stood up and towered extraordinarily tall at Pastor Lahmann’s right hand. Her eyes were wide. Miriam thought she had never seen anyone look so pale. She was speaking very quickly in German. Pastor Lahmann rose and faced her. Miriam had just grasped the fact that she was taking the French master to task for reading poetry to his pupils and heard Pastor Lahmann slowly and politely enquire of her whether she or he were conducting the lesson when the two voices broke out together. Fräulein’s fiercely voluble and the Pfaff Pastor’s voluble and mocking and polite. The two voices continued as he made his way, bowing gravely, down the far side of the table to the Saal doors. Here he turned for a moment and his face shone black and white against the dark panelling. “Na, Kinder,” crooned Fräulein gently, when he had disappeared, “a walk⁠—a walk in the beautiful sunshine. Make ready quickly.”

“My sainted uncle,” laughed Bertha as they trooped down the basement stairs. “Oh⁠—my stars!”

“Did you see her eyes?”

“Ja! Wütend!”

“I wonder the poor little man wasn’t burnt up.”

“Hurry up, mädshuns, we’ll have a ripping walk. We’ll see if we can go Tiergartenstraße.”

“Does this sort of thing often happen?” asked Miriam, finding herself bending over a boot box at Gertrude’s side.

Gertrude turned and winked at her. “Only sometimes.”

“What an awful temper she must have,” pursued Miriam.

Gertrude laughed.

Breakfast the next morning was a gay feast. The mood which had seized the girls at the lavishly decked tea table awaiting them on their return from their momentous walk the day before, still held them. They all had come in feeling a little apprehensive, and Fräulein behind her tea urn had met them with the fullest expansion of smiling indulgence Miriam had yet seen. After tea she had suggested an evening’s entertainment and had permitted the English girls to act charades.

For Miriam it was an evening of pure delight. At the end of the first charade, when the girls were standing at a loss in the dimly-lit hall, she made a timid suggestion. It was enthusiastically welcomed and for the rest of the evening she was allowed to take the lead. She found herself making up scene after scene surrounded by eager faces. She wondered whether her raised voice, as she disposed of proffered suggestions⁠—“no, that wouldn’t be clear, this is the thing we’ve got to bring out”⁠—could be heard by Fräulein sitting waiting with the Germans under the lowered lights in the Saal, and she felt Fräulein’s eye on her as she plunged from the hall into the dim schoolroom rapidly arranging effects in the open space in front of the long table which had been turned round and pushed alongside the windows.

Towards the end of the evening, dreaming alone in the schoolroom near the closed door of the little room whence the scenes were lit, she felt herself in a vast space. The ceilings and walls seemed to disappear. She wanted a big scene, something quiet and serious⁠—quite different from the fussy little absurdities they had been rushing through all the evening. A statue⁠ ⁠… one of the Germans. “You think of something this time,” she said, pushing the group of girls out into the hall.

Ulrica. She must manage to bring in Ulrica without giving her anything to do. Just to have her to look at. The height of darkened room above her rose to a sky. An animated discussion, led by Bertha Martin, was going on in the hall.

They had chosen “beehive.” It would be a catch. Fräulein was always calling them her Bienenkorb and the girls would guess Bienenkorb and not discover that they were meant to say the English word.

“The old things can’t possibly get it. It’ll be a lark, just for the end,” said Jimmie.

“No.” Miriam announced radiantly. “They’d hate a sell. We’ll have Romeo.”

“That’ll be awfully long. Four bits altogether, if they don’t guess from the syllables,” objected Solomon wearily.

Rapidly planning farcical scenes for the syllables she carried her tired troupe to a vague appreciation of the final tableau for Ulrica. Shrouding the last syllable beyond recognition, she sent a messenger to the audience through the hall door of the Saal to beg for Ulrica.

Ulrica came, serenely wondering, her great eyes alight with her evening’s enjoyment and was induced by Miriam.

“You’ve only to stand and look down⁠—nothing else.” To mount the schoolroom table in the dimness and standing with her hands on the back of a draped chair to gaze down at Romeo’s upturned face.

Bertha Martin’s pale profile, with her fair hair drawn back and tied at the nape of her neck and a loose cloak round her shoulders would, it was agreed, make the best presentation of a youth they could contrive, and Miriam arranged her, turning her upturned face so that the audience would catch its clear outline. But at the last minute, urged by Solomon’s disapproval of the scene, Bertha withdrew. Miriam put on the cloak, lifted its collar to hide her hair and standing with her back to the audience flung up her hands towards Ulrica as the gas behind the little schoolroom door was turned slowly up. Standing motionless, gazing at the pale oval face bending gravely towards her from the gloom, she felt for a moment the radiance of stars above her and heard the rustle of leaves. Then the guessing voices broke from the Saal. “Ach! ach! Wie schön! Romeo! That is beautifoll. Romeo! Who is our Romeo?” and Fräulein’s smiling, singing, affectionate voice, “Who is Romeo! The rascal!”

Taking the top flight three stairs at a time Miriam reached the garret first and began running about the room at a quick trot with her fists closed, arms doubled and elbows back. The high garret looked wonderfully friendly and warm in the light of her single candle. It seemed full of approving voices. Perhaps one day she would go on the stage. Eve always said so.

People always liked her if she let herself go. She would let herself go more in future at Waldstraße.

It was so jolly being at Waldstraße.

“Qu’est-ce que vous avez?” appealed Mademoiselle, laughing at the door with open face. Miriam continued her trot. Mademoiselle put the candle down on the dressing table and began to run, too, in little quick dancing steps, her wincey skirt billowing out all round her. Their shadows bobbed and darted, swelling and shrinking on the plaster walls. Soon breathless, Mademoiselle sank down on the side of her bed, panting and volleying raillery and broken tinkles of laughter at Miriam standing goose-stepping on the strip of matting with an open umbrella held high over her head. Recovering breath, she began to lament.⁠ ⁠… Miriam had not during the whole evening of dressing up seen the Martins’ summer hats.⁠ ⁠… They were wonderful. Shutting her umbrella Miriam went to her dressing table drawer.⁠ ⁠… It would be impossible, absolutely impossible⁠ ⁠… to imagine hats more beautiful.⁠ ⁠… Miriam sat on her own bed punctuating through a paper-covered comb.⁠ ⁠… Mademoiselle persisted⁠ ⁠… non, écoutez⁠—figurez-vous⁠—the hats were of a pale straw⁠ ⁠… the colour of pepper⁠ ⁠… “Bee⁠ ⁠…” responded the comb on a short low wheeze. “And the trimming⁠—oh, of a charm that no one could describe.”⁠ ⁠… “Beem!” squeaked the comb⁠ ⁠… “stalks of barley”⁠ ⁠… “beem-beem”⁠ ⁠… “of a perfect naturalness”⁠ ⁠… “and the flowers, poppies, of a beauty”⁠—“bee‑eeem-beeem”⁠ ⁠… “oh, oh, vraiment”⁠—Mademoiselle buried her face in her pillow and put her fingers to her ears.

Miriam began playing very softly “The March of the Men of Harlech,” and got to her feet and went marching gently round the room near the walls. Sitting up, Mademoiselle listened. Presently she rounded her eyes and pointed with one finger to the dim roof of the attic.

“Les toiles d’araignées auront peur!” she whispered.

Miriam ceased playing and her eyes went up to the little window frames high in the wall, farthest away from the island made by their two little beds and the matting and toilet chests and scarcely visible in the flickering candlelight, and came back to Mademoiselle’s face.

“Les toiles d’araignées,” she breathed, straining her eyes to their utmost size. They gazed at each other. “Les toiles⁠ ⁠…”

Mademoiselle’s laughter came first. They sat holding each other’s eyes, shaken with laughter, until Mademoiselle said, sighing brokenly, “Et c’est la cloche qui va sonner immédiatement.” As they undressed, she went on talking⁠—“the night comes⁠ ⁠… the black night⁠ ⁠… we must sleep⁠ ⁠… we must sleep in peace⁠ ⁠… we are safe⁠ ⁠… we are protected⁠ ⁠… nous craignons Dieu, n’est ce pas?” Miriam was shocked to find her at her elbow, in her nightgown, speaking very gravely. She looked for a moment into the serious eyes challenging her own. The mouth was frugally compressed. “Oh yes,” said Miriam stiffly.

They blew out the candle when the bell sounded and got into bed. Miriam imagined the Martins’ regular features under their barley and poppy trimmed hats. She knew exactly the kind of English hat it would be. They were certainly not pretty hats⁠—she wondered at Mademoiselle’s French eyes being so impressed. She knew they must be hats with very narrow brims, the trimming coming nearly to the edge and Solomon’s she felt sure inclined to be boat-shaped. Mademoiselle was talking about translated English books she had read. Miriam was glad of her thin voice piercing the darkness⁠—she did not want to sleep. She loved the day that had gone; and the one that was coming. She saw the room again as it had been when Mademoiselle had looked up towards the toiles d’araignées. She had never thought of there being cobwebs up there. Now she saw them dangling in corners, high up near those mysterious windows unnoticed, looking down on her and Mademoiselle⁠ ⁠… Fräulein Pfaff’s cobwebs. They were hers now, had been hers through cold dark nights.⁠ ⁠… Mademoiselle was asking her if she knew a most charming English book⁠ ⁠… La Première Prière de Jessica?

“Oh yes.”

“Oh, the most beautiful book it would be possible to read.” An indrawn breath, “Le Secret de Lady Audley.”

“Yes,” responded Miriam sleepily.

After the gay breakfast Miriam found herself alone in the schoolroom listening inadvertently to a conversation going on apparently in Fräulein Pfaff’s room beyond the little schoolroom. The voices were low, but she knew neither of them, nor could she distinguish words. The sound of the voices, boxed in, filling a little space shut off from the great empty hall made the house seem very still. The Saal was empty, the girls were upstairs at their housework. Miriam restlessly rising early had done her share before breakfast. She took Harriett’s last letter from her pocket and fumbled the disarranged leaves for the conclusion.