Authors: L.P. Hartley
Eustace and Hilda (80 page)
“Why, Harry Morecambe,” said Lady Morecambe, on a rising inflection, “you've only got to look at him. You can see the thoughts simply steaming in his brain.”
Lord Morecambe fixed his eye on Eustace. “He looks rather hot, poor chap. But if I wore as many clothes as he does, you'd see the thoughts sizzling in my brain too.”
But Lady Morecambe held her ground. “Oh no, I shouldn't. I know you think that we Americans can't tell one Englishman from another, but you're wrong. The moment I saw Eustace I said to myself, âHéloise, that's a remarkable young man, and in days to come you'll be proud to say you met him staying with Lady Nelly Staveley in Venice.'”
“You didn't say so at the time,” said Lord Morecambe.
“Do you think I should want to make him uncomfortable? I only say so now because some of you like to pretend he isn't an author. When you look out of this cave what do you see, Harry?”
Lord Morecambe considered. “I don't see very much. I see lots of sand, and some people sitting under an umbrella playing bridge and getting rather cross over it, and a middle-aged woman doing her face, and two, no three, old buffers covering themselves with sand to look like castles, and a long line of bathing-huts that spoil the viewââ”
“And what do you see, Eustace?” Lady Morecambe demanded, and while Eustace was wondering what he did see, she went on, “Of course, I don't know how he'd put it, but he sees those boatmen in their cute pink shirts and big straw hats, and the fishing-boats with rust-coloured sails, and the little waves following each other as flat and shallow as the steps of the Salute, and the bony sea-horses like chessmen, and the darling little crabs that the poor people eat, and those swell sea-anemonesââ”
“He couldn't possibly see a sea-anemone from here,” objected Lord Morecambe, almost sneezing over the words. “Besides, they've all died from the drains. You'll be saying he can see a shrimp next.”
“Well, I dare say he can,” Lady Morecambe retorted. “A poet's eye isn't limited the way yours and mine are.”
Enchanted by her vision of his vision, Eustace tried to see if the two tallied. But he couldn't compare them, for he found himself on another shore, fenced off from the land by a high red cliff. This shore was not meant for lounging on, it was dun-coloured, shining with wet, and scoured by stiff breezes challenging the blood. There, fastened to a sleek green boulder, half in and half out of the water, the lovely milk-pale sea-anemone was devouring its prey. Only Hilda could stop the massacre and he called her, but she did not come; she lingered beside their pond, because of something he had left undone, something she would have to scold him for later. At last she came and saw the shrimp's sad plight, wedged in the anemone's cruel mouth. Hilda knew how to bring good out of evil; with Eustace holding her ankles she sprawled across the rock and drew the shrimp out of the honey-coloured maw. But too late; the shrimp was dead and the anemone was terribly injured, oozing through its own lips like something that had been run over.
Eustace blamed Hilda and called her a murdererâHilda a murderer, who had been like a mother to him as they all said, and Stephen agreed, though he put it differently. “You are her creation, Eustace. She is the author of your slim gilt soul.”
Eustace shook his head till it rattled. As in a kaleidoscope the pattern changed, and he saw again the golden air, the deep blue of the sea, the pale blue of the sky, the sands bleached almost to whiteness, spheres of colour as various but harmonious as a cluster of balloons on a string.
Lord Morecambe was saying, “It's about time we settled this business of Eustace being an author. He'll start giving himself airs and that would never do. I'll appeal to our hostess. Nelly!”
But for once Lady Nelly was too much engrossed in a particular conversation to be aware of remoter claims on her attention.
“Easing up to that foreign body!” muttered Lord Morecambe, for the table was a long one. “Nelly!” he called again.
This time she heard him and looked up, inquiry dawning on her face. “Yes, Harry?”
“Forgive my stentorian shouts, but this is most important. We want a ruling. Is Eustace writing a book, or isn't he? He told Héloise he is, but we don't trust him.”
“Of course he is,” said Lady Nelly. “My best friends all write books.”
Eustace got very red.
“That counts me out,” said Lord Morecambe. “Héloise, where's my pen?”
“An author? That is most interesting,” said the Count, giving Eustace a courteous but slightly sceptical look. “I too should like to write a book. But in Italy there is so much life we do not find a great deal of time for reading. I should not like to write a book that nobody read. Unless it was going to be a success I should not attempt it.”
“That's frank, anyhow,” said Lord Morecambe. “Eustace here's quite different; he just writes for the love of the thing.”
The Count's expression changed.
“Ah, love!” he said, lightly but significantly. “I could write more easily for love. But love for someone, some person. In love I should find my inspiration.”
“I'm afraid we can't help you there,” Lord Morecambe said.
Lady Nelly's rising was the signal for a general fumbling dive for bags, tennis racquets, and other beach accoutrements. Her Italian guests were effusive in their thanks, and Eustace heard her say to the Count, as he bent over her hand, “Well, some evening about six, then; don't forget.”
Half-right across the sands, the last in its row, Lady Nelly's capanna awaited them. The little parterre in front was gay with coloured sunshades, deck-chairs, mattresses, and cushions. As they stumbled out of the Grotto the patient ardour of the day, like a dog's welcome that warms with waiting, gave them its canicular salute.
Hilda was back at the clinic: that was the main fact that emerged from Aunt Sarah's letter.
I don't think she was quite fit to go [Miss Cherrington had written]. She hadn't got her appetite back, or her spirits. But she had set her heart on going, and the doctor thought it would do her less harm to stay at home, fretting. Two or three times she went up to London in the evening to dine with friends, and seemed quite excited by the prospect. I noticed that she seemed more tired and restless when she got back, but I couldn't persuade her not to go again. As you know, she never cared for needlework or housework, she only did them from a sense of duty, and she regards incessant reading, as I'm afraid I do, as a waste of time. The only recreation she allows herself is a game of Patience. I see no great harm in this, and got two new packs for her from Parfitts' (which she thought rather extravagant of me), as her own were rather worn. I found them the next morning where I had left them, on the table by her bed, unused. Mr. Hilliard came in one evening and showed her two or three kinds she did not know, but she didn't seem able to remember them after he had gone. So perhaps Highcross is the best place for her; and of course she can have first-rate medical attention there. The doctors think it is some kind of nervous strain due to overwork. I hope they may be right. Hilda never spares herself or takes a holiday, and the heat, too, has been particularly trying this August. I suppose you are having it much hotter in Venice, but it's different if you have to work. When do you think of coming back to us, I wonder? There is no
need
, of course, but we shall all be glad to see you. Hilda spoke of you several times, and we were amused by your picture in the paper, especially Barbara. Someone told me this Lady Nelly used to be rather a fast woman, but I never listen to gossip.
Isn't it a surprise that Barbara and Jimmy have taken our old house at Anchorstone? Dear Barbara has not been quite well, but I think she would wish to tell you about that herself. She is such a gay, brave young person, bless her. I only wish that Hilda could take illness in the same contented spiritâbut of course her case is different. She had the childish ailments that you all had, but I don't remember her having any other complaint, and she is apt to be impatient with herself and others....
There was still another letter. This was a post indeed.
My Dear Eustace,
How goes the beach-combing? Needless to say we have all seen THE pictureââthe speaking likeness,' as it's now generally called. You always liked looking up to something, didn't you? There was a time when I flattered myself.... But those days are long since past. From your present altitude I must be quite invisible, a mite on a discarded cheese, a weevil in the loaf the girl trod on. How you must adore the Excelsior Hotel, your spiritual home.
Twisting himself round on his elbow, Eustace considered the Excelsior. It impended over him, a vast grand-stand in the Moorish style. But Stephen was wrong. To anyone acquainted with even the shade of Whaplode, these architectural excesses could only be distasteful; and Stephen's gibe no longer hurt him. He got up to pull his mattress farther under the shadow of the orange umbrella, and then returned to Stephen's letter.
Well, after this envious exordium I will proceed to business, for in business even a cat can look at a king. I am now established in a humble way, in the basement, so to speak, of Hilliard, Lampeter and Hilliard, and in normal times I keep what they call office hours. But in August business is not very brisk, so last Thursday I took âthe afternoon off' (this phrase will mean nothing to you, whose life is one long holiday), and having taken what might be called the necessary precautions, I went to see your sister at Highcross Hill.
I had a special reason for going. The last time I saw her, which was at Willesden, she was not very well, but she did not want you to know, because she thought you might be worried about her. I assured her that you wouldn't be, and that you only worried about matters that were on your conscience, and she was not likely to be there! But all the same, she wouldn't hear of it. “It's nothing to bother about,” she said more than once. I said in that case there was no harm in telling you, but she wouldn't be convinced.
On Thursday, however, she said she was so much better she didn't mind your knowing. To be frank, I didn't think her looking well, she has got rather thin. We didn't have tea in her roomâshe said it was too untidy. I gather there had been changes of staff, so I helped her to clear a space among the periodicals on the table in the waiting-room. Afterwards she took me for a look round. The extension isn't finished yet; she told me that while she was away the workmen adopted what are called “go slow” methods; still, you can see that some progress has been made. Not so with her new acquisition, Naboth's Vineyard. The place has not been touched; it's overgrown with weeds. She told me she hadn't realised that fruit trees couldn't be planted in the summer.
I touched on the financial side, and here again she said she had been meeting with difficulties. The directors hadn't liked her taking such a long rest, although it was under doctor's orders; and nothing had gone right while she was away âshe kept returning to that.
In spite of these set-backs she spoke several timesâthough in very vague termsâof some new project which would need, I gathered, a considerable capital outlay; she admitted that her interest began to flag unless some new development was being contemplated. Perhaps over-bold, I urged her to recover her losses and consolidate her gains; but I am afraid my warning may have fallen on deaf ears, as they say. She confessed that at the moment she couldn't muster the energy to carry out a new scheme, but felt that to set one on foot would act as a kind of tonic to herâa dangerous state of mind, I thought.
I can't pretend that she was at the top of her form. Before I left she went to her room and brought down some Patience cards Miss Cherrington had given her, and asked me if I would show her again a new Patience I had tried to teach her at Willesdenâquite a simple one, really, much simpler than many that she plays, called the Clock. We did it two or three times, and she said, “I think I've got the hang of it now, but I dare say I shall forget when you go away.” I said I was in no hurry to go, and should be pleased to teach her Patience now or at any time. At that she smiled rather sadly, and asked me when I thought you would be back. “I can't expect to hear from him often, because I never write to him.” “But surely,” I said, “he's written to you?” She said, oh yes, you had written to ask her to send you some money. I said I hoped she kept a tight hand on the purse strings, and she said it was nothing, only fifty pounds.
Now, Eustace, I don't want to be tiresome and a kill-joy, and you will say (in the manner of Cicero's opponents) that I've told you the Moral Law no longer runs, so undermined has it been by the popular interpretation put on the theories of Darwin and Marx and Freud. But that was before I was a lawyer, and above all, before I was
your
lawyer.
Rather than risk the charge of inconsistency, I now appeal, not to your conscienceâfor I distrust its workings and always haveâbut to a faculty you've never, if I may say so, treated as a social equal: I mean your sense of proportion.
Don't
spend all the money that Miss Fothergill (blessed be her name) bequeathed you on antimacassars of Venetian point lace for your Aunt Sarah, who won't appreciate them, or on Murano glass negroes for Mrs. Crankshaw, who'll only break them. And as to Hilda, the best present you could give her would be yourself, and
bis dat qui cito dat
.
I call her by her Christian name because her letter saying she could see me on Thursday was signed Hilda
tout court
. Perhaps this was an oversight, and she thought she was writing to someone else. I have not dared to try the effect of the naked nomination (to quote your friend Sir Thomas Browne) on her. But when she saw me off she said “Good-bye, Stephen,” almost as naturally as I say “Good-bye, Eustace.”
Yours affectionately,
S.H.
