The Tunnel · Chapter 4 (2/3)

“Hoh! Has she?” The brisk footsteps approached and the door was closed. The dimly shining mysteries of the room moved about Miriam, the outside darkness flowing up to the windows moved away as the tall dressing-gowned figure lowered the thin drab loosely rattling Venetian blinds; the light seemed to go up and distant objects became more visible; the crowded bookshelf, the dark littered table under it, the empty table pushed against the wall near the window⁠—the bamboo bookshelf between the windows above a square mystery draped to the ground with a table cover⁠—the little sofa behind Mag’s chair, the little pictures, cattle gazing out across a bridge of snow, cattish complacent sweepy women. Albert⁠ ⁠… ? Moore? the framed photographs of Dickens and Irving, the litter on the serge draped mantelpiece in front of the mirror of the bamboo overmantel, silver candlesticks, photographs of German women and Canon Wilberforce⁠ ⁠… all the riches of comfortable life.

“You are late.”

“Yes I am fear‑fully late.”

“Why are you late Frederika Elizabeth von Bohlen?”

The powerful rounded square figure was in the leather armchair opposite the blaze, strongly moulded brown knickered black stockinged legs comfortably crossed stuck firmly out between the heavy soft folds of a grey flannel dressing gown. The shoes had gone, grey woollen bedroom slippers blurred all but the shapely small ankles. Mag was lighting another cigarette, von Bohlen was not doing needlework, the room settled suddenly to its best rich exciting blur.

“Tonight I must smoke or die.”

“Must you, my dear.”

“Why.”

“To-nate⁠—a, ay must smoke⁠—a, or daye.”

“Es ist bestimmt, in Gottes Rath.”

“Tell us what you think of the Pierson, child.”

“She was awfully nice. Is it your landlady?”

“Yes⁠—isn’t she nice? We think she’s extraordinary⁠—all things considered. You know we hadn’t the least idea what she was when we came here.”

“What is she?”

“Well⁠—er⁠—you embarrass me, child, how shall we put it to her, Jan?”

“D’you mean to say she’s improper?”

“Yes⁠—she’s improper. We hadn’t the faintest notion of it when we came.”

“How extraordinary.”

“It is extraordinary. We’re living in an improper house⁠—the whole street’s improper we’re discovering.”

“How absolutely awful.”

“Now we know why Mother Cosway hinted when we left her to come here that we wanted to be free for devil’s mirth.”

“How did you find out?”

“Henriette told us; you see she works for the Pierson.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Well⁠—she told us.”

“Six”⁠—laughed Mag, quoting towards Jan.

“Six,” trumpeted Jan, “and if not six, seven.”

They both laughed.

“In one evening,” trumpeted Jan.

“I say are you going to leave?” The thought of the improper street was terrible and horrible; but they might go right away to some other part of London. Mag answered instantly but the interval had seemed long and Miriam was cold with anxiety.

“No; we don’t see why we should.”

Miriam gazed dumbly from one to the other, finding herself admiring and wondering more than ever at their independence and strength.

“You see the woman’s so absolutely self-respecting.”

“Much more so than we are!”

“Out of doors she’s a model of decorum and good style.”

“We’re ashamed when we meet her.”

“We are. We skip into the gutter.”

“We babble and slink!”

“Indoors she’s a perfect landlady. She’s been awfully good to us.”

“A perfect brick!”

“She doesn’t drink; she’s most exquisitely clean. There’s nothing whatever to⁠—to indicate the er⁠—nature of her profession.”

“Except that she sits at the window.”

“But she does not tire her hair and look forth.”

“Or fifth.”

“Fool.”

Miriam giggled.

“Really Miriam she is rather wonderful you know. We like her.”

“Henriette is devoted to her.”

“And so apparently is her husband.”

“Her husband?”

“Yes⁠—she has a husband⁠—he appears at rare intervals⁠—and a little girl at boarding school. She goes to see her but the child never comes here. She tells us quite frankly that she wants to keep her out of harm’s way.”

“How amazing!”

“Yes, she’s extraordinary. She’s Eurasian. She was born in India.”

“That accounts for a good deal. Eurasians are awful; they’ve got all the faults of both sides.”

“East is East and West is West and never the two shall meet.”

“Well, we like her.”

“So we have decided to ignore her little peccadilloes.”

“I don’t see that it’s our business. Frankly I can’t see that it has anything whatever to do with us. Do you?”

“Well I don’t know; I don’t suppose it has really.”

“What would you do in our place?”

“I don’t know⁠ ⁠… I don’t believe I should have found out.”

“I don’t believe you would; but if you had?”

“I think I should have been awfully scared.”

“You would have been afraid that the sixth.”

“Or the seventh.”

“Might have wandered upstairs.”

“No; I mean the whole idea.”

“Oh; the idea.⁠ ⁠…”

“London, my dear Miriam, is full of ideas.”

“I will go and get the suppe.”

Jan rose; her bright head and grey shoulders went up above the lamplight, darkening to steady massive outlines, strongly moving as she padded and fluttered briskly out of the room.

The rich blur of the room free of the troubling talk and the swift conversational movements of the two, lifted and was touched with a faint grey, a suggestion of dawn or twilight, as if coming from the hidden windows. Mag sat motionless in her chair, gazing into the fire.

“… Wise and happy infant, I want to ask your opinion.”

Miriam roused herself and glanced steadily across. The outlines of things grew sharp. She could imagine the room in daylight and felt a faint sharp sinking; hungry.

“I’m going to state you a case. I think you have an extraordinarily sharp sense of right and wrong.”

“Oh no.”

“You have an extraordinarily sharp sense of right and wrong. Imagine a woman. Can you imagine a woman?”

“Go on.”

“Imagine a woman engaged to a man. Imagine her allowing⁠—another man⁠—to kiss her.”

Miriam sat thinking. She imagined the two, the snatched caress, the other man alone and unconscious.

“Would you call that treachery to the other person?”

“It would depend upon which she liked best.”

“That’s just the difficulty.”

“Oh. That’s awful.”

“Don’t you think a kiss, just a kiss⁠—might be⁠—well⁠—neither here nor there.”

“Well, if it’s nothing, there’s nothing in the whole thing. If there is anything⁠—you can’t talk about just kisses.”

“Dreadful Miriam.”

“Do you believe in blunted sensibilities?” How funny that Mag should have led up to that new phrase⁠ ⁠… but this was a case.

“You mean⁠—”

“Whether if a sensibility is blunted it can ever grow sharp again.”

“No. I suppose that’s it. How can it?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure. It’s a perfectly awful idea, I think.”

“It is awful⁠—because we are all blunting our sensibilities all the time⁠—are we not?”

“That’s just it⁠—whether we ought.”

“Does one always know?”

“Don’t you think so? There’s a feeling. Yes I think one always knows.”

“Suppe, children.”

Miriam took her bowl with eager embarrassment⁠ ⁠… the sugar-basin, the pudding basin and the slop bowl together on a tray, the quickly produced soup⁠—the wonderful rich life the girls lived in their glowing rooms⁠—each room with a different glow.⁠ ⁠… Jan’s narrow green clean room with its suite and hair brushes and cosmetics and pictures of Christ, Mag’s crowded shadowy little square, its litter and its many photographs, their eiderdowns and baths and hot water bottles; the kitchen alive with eyes and foreheads⁠—musicians, artists philosophers pasted on the walls⁠ ⁠… why? Why?⁠ ⁠… Jan with wonderful easy knowledge of the world’s great people⁠ ⁠… and strange curious intimate liking for them⁠ ⁠… the sad separate effect of all those engraved faces⁠ ⁠… the perfectly beautiful blur they made all together in patches on the walls⁠ ⁠… the sitting room, Mag, nearly all Mag, except the photographs on the mantelpiece⁠ ⁠… the whole rooms from the top of the stairs⁠ ⁠… her thoughts folded down; they were not going away; not; that was certain.

“I say I can’t go on forever eating your soup.”

“Drink it then for a change my child.”

“No but really.”

“This is special soup; there is a charge; one guinea a basin.”

“Use of room two guineas.”

“Intellectual conversation⁠—”

“One and eleven three.”

Miriam flung out delighted admiring glances and laughed unrestrainedly. Mag’s look saying “it does not take much to keep the child amused” took nothing from her mirthful joy. Their wit, or was it humour?⁠—always brought the same happy shock⁠ ⁠… they were so funny; there was a secret in it.

“It’s awfully good soup.”

“Desiccated⁠—”

“A penny a packet.”

“Thickened with pea flour.”

“Twopence a packet.”

“Was she your favourite schoolfellow?”

Miriam’s jarred mind worked eagerly. The girls thought this was a revival of some great school friendship⁠ ⁠… they would not be in the least jealous; they were curious and interested, but they must understand⁠ ⁠… they must realise that Alma was wonderful⁠ ⁠… something to be proud of⁠ ⁠… in the strange difficult scientific way; something they knew hardly anything about. Mag almost not at all and Jan only in a general way in her neat wide education; but not in Alma’s way of being rigid and reverent and personally interested about, so that every other way of looking at things made her angry. But they must understand, they must in some quite certain way be quickly made to understand at the same time that she was outside⁠ ⁠… an extra⁠ ⁠… a curious bright distant resource, nothing whatever to do with the wonderful present⁠ ⁠… the London life was sacred and secret, away from everything else in the world. It would disappear if one had ties outside⁠ ⁠… anything besides the things of holidays and weekends that they all three had and brought back from outside to talk about. It would be easy and exciting to meet Alma if that were clear, and to come back and tell the girls about it.

“I don’t think so.”

They both looked up, stirring in their quick way, and waited.

Miriam moved her head uneasily. It was painful. They were using a sort of language⁠ ⁠… that was the trouble⁠ ⁠… your favourite flower⁠ ⁠… your favourite colour⁠ ⁠… it was just the sort of pain that came in trying to fill up confession albums. This bit of conversation would be at an end presently. Her anger would shut it up, and they would put it away without understanding and Mag would go on to something else.

“No⁠—I don’t think she was. She was very small and pretty⁠—petite. She had the most wonderful limpid eyes.”

Mag was sitting forward with her elbows on her knees and her little hands sticking out into the air. A comfortable tinkling chuckle shook her shoulders. Miriam tugged and wrenched.

“I don’t think she cared for me, really⁠ ⁠… she was an only child.”

Mag’s chuckle pealed up into a little festoon of clear laughter.

“She doesn’t care for you because⁠—she’s⁠—an⁠—only⁠—child,” she shook out.

“One of the sheltered ones.” Jan returned to her chiffon pleats. She was making conversation. She did not care how much or how little Alma mattered.

“She’s sheltered now anyhow⁠—she’s married.”

“Oh⁠—she’s married.⁠ ⁠…”

“She’s married is she?”

Polite tones⁠ ⁠… they were not a bit surprised⁠ ⁠… both faces looked calm and abstracted. The room was dark and clear in the cold entanglement. It must be got over now, as if she had not mentioned Alma. She felt for her packet of cigarettes with an uneasy face, watching Mag’s firm movements as she rearranged herself and her dressing gown in her chair.

“How old is she?”

“About my age.”

“Oh⁠—about nine; that’s early to begin the sheltered life.”

“You can’t begin the sheltered life too early; if you are going to begin it at all.”

“Why begin it at all, Jan?”

“Well my dear little Miriam I think there is a good deal to be said for the sheltered life.”

“Yes⁠—” Mag settled more deeply into her chair, burrowing with her shoulders and crossing her knees with a fling⁠—“and if you don’t begin it jolly early it’s too late to begin it at all.⁠ ⁠…”

Then Mag meant to stay always as she was⁠ ⁠… oh, good, good⁠ ⁠… with several people interested in her⁠ ⁠… what a curious worry her engagement must be⁠ ⁠… irrelevant⁠ ⁠… and with her ideas of loyalty. “Don’t you think soh?” Irritating⁠—why did she do it⁠—what was it⁠—not a provincialism⁠—some kind of affectation as if she were on the stage. It sounded brisk and important⁠—soh⁠—as if her thoughts had gone on and she was making conversation with her lips. Why not let them and drop it⁠ ⁠… there was something waiting, always something waiting just outside the nag of conversation.

“I can’t imagine anything more awful than what you call the sheltered life,” said Miriam with a little pain in her forehead. Perhaps they would laugh and that would finish it and something would begin.

“For us yes. Imagine either of us coming down to it in the morning; the regular breakfast table, the steaming coffee, the dashes of rishers⁠ ⁠… dishers of rashes I mean, the eggs.⁠ ⁠…”

“You are alluding I presume to the beggs and acon.”

“Precisely. We should die.”

“Of boredom.”

“Imagine not being able to turn up on Sunday morning in your knickers with your hair down.”

“I love Sundays. That first cigarette over the Referee.”

“Is like nothing on earth.”

“Or in heaven.”

“Well, or in heaven.”

“The first cigarette anyhow, with or without the Referee. It’s just pure absolute bliss that first bit of Sunday morning; complete well-being and happiness.”

“While the sheltered people are flushed with breakfast table-talk⁠—”

“Or awkward silences.”

“The deep damned silence of disillusionment.”

“And thinking about getting ready for church.”

“The men smoke.”

“Stealthily and sleepily in armchairs like cats⁠—ever seen a cat smoke?⁠—like cats⁠—with the wife or somebody they are tired of talking to on the doormat⁠—as it were⁠—tentatively, I speak tentatively⁠ ⁠… in a dead-alley⁠—Dedale⁠—Dedalus⁠—coming into the room any minute in Sunday clothes⁠—”

“To stand on the hearthrug.”

“No hanging about the room. If there’s any hearthrug standing it’s the men who do it, smoking blissfully alone, and trying to look weary and wise and important if anyone comes in.”

“Like Cabinet ministers?”

“Yes; when they are really⁠—er.”

“Cabinets.”

“Footstools; office stools; you never saw a sheltered woman venture on to the hearthrug except for a second if she’s shortsighted to look at the clock.” Miriam sprang to the hearthrug and waved her cigarette. “Con‑fu‑sion to the sheltered life!” The vast open of London swung, welcoming, before her eyes.

“Hoch! Hoch!”

“Banzai!”

“We certainly have our compensations.”

“Com‑pen‑sa‑tions?”

“Well⁠—for all the things we have to give up.”

“What things?”

“The things that belong to us. To our youth. Tennis, dancing⁠—er, irresponsibility in general.⁠ ⁠…”

“I’ve never once thought about any of those things; never once since I came to town,” said Miriam grappling with little anxious pangs that assailed her suddenly; dimly seeing the light on garden trees, hearing distant shouts, the sound of rowlocks, the lapping of water against smoothing swinging sculls. But all that life meant people, daily association with sheltered women and complacent abominable men, there half the time and half the time away on their own affairs which gave them a sort of mean advantage, and money. There was nothing really to regret. It was different for Mag. She did not mind ordinary women. Did not know the difference; or men.

“Yes but anyhow. If we were in the sheltered life we should either have done with that sort of thing and be married⁠—or still keeping it up and anxious about not being married. Besides anyhow; think of the awful people.”

“Intolerant child.”

“Isn’t she intolerant. What a good thing you met us.”

“Yes of course; but I’m not intolerant. And look here. Heaps of those women envy us. They envy us our freedom. What we’re having is wanderyahre; the next best thing to wanderyahre.”

“Women don’t want wanderyahre.”

“I do, Jan.”