5
“I can never make out whether Walter’s a second rate Olympian or a first rate demi-god.” “No George.” “I can never make out whether his music has got him or he has got his music.” “Yes, George.” “And on the other hand, I can never see whether that little black beetle of a woman has entangled him or whether he really wants to marry her.” “Marry her, George?” “Yes. What do you think Dryad.”
“I don’t know what I think George. It seemed a matter of — of—” “Why don’t you ever achieve your utterances. You are an oracle manqué.” “Perhaps George, the — the — worshipper — I mean—” “Well, what do you mean? You seem, if I as your nearest male relative may say so, somewhat gauche, your clothes don’t look right. You seem somehow more provincial than ever.” “Provincial?” “Provincial. Or perhaps you prefer Surbiton.” Hermione was beginning to wish she had not after all seen George Lowndes, answered his peremptory summons. “Meet me at the Cottage Tea Rooms at the corner of Piccadilly Circus, upstairs, at half past three so we can get a table.” She had found the post card (forwarded from Paris to their London address and the day scratched in on the other side where George had fenced off a little space in pencil, “Friday. If I don’t hear, will look.”). There wasn’t time to say no. Why shouldn’t she see George?
“But I thought you were engaged to him” stormed Fayne Rabb “and then I thought you broke it off.” “I was engaged to him.” “Well, you don’t after you are engaged to people and then break it off, see them again, do you Madre? What would her mother think?” This was the first time in some weeks that Fayne Rabb had mentioned (ever so distantly) Eugenia. Clara as her way was, went on sewing. Leaves from Bloomsbury sycamores drifted down making a premature autumn. “Madre. Tell her.” “I don’t know. Yes. No. Have you any, Hermione, by any chance sort of tan coloured sewing thread (they call it sewing cotton). This brown doesn’t look right. Yes. No. I mean, what were we saying?” “You heard what we were saying, Madre. Don’t you think it would be the height of foolishness of Hermione to see George Lowndes here away from home, in London where conventions are so strict, where everything is different?” “Yes. No. I mean you say you broke off the engagement, didn’t you?” “Well yes. I broke it off or rather he did.” “He did?” “Well you see there’d been a row but I’ve told you all about that. And I was ill but you know I never like — to — talk about — it—” “Well, why should you see him?” “I don’t know. . after I was well again. . after Fayne came back again, he wrote.” “He would do. . after everything was over.” “He was in Spain then, lying in the sun. He sent me yellow jasmine.” “Jasmine? Pretty mangy jasmine, I should imagine.” “It wasn’t somehow. Something (it was dry but full of colour in the envelope) happened to it.” “Like Saint Elizabeth and the roses—” “Yes. Something. It smelt of — of—” “Of what? Stutter. Stammer. Can’t you ever achieve your meaning?” “That’s like George. Sometimes, Fayne, you are just like George. That’s how George used to go on at me.” “Well, anyhow, should she, Madre?”
Should she. Shouldn’t she. One I love, two I love. “Clara, I have found the very exact shade you’re looking for.” “Hermione, I wish Paulet would be as interested in her things as you are. All so neat.” “No. It was mama — Eugenia who prepared my little work bag. Things I’d never think of. My mother you know. I call her Eugenia except when I’m at home. She’s mama at home.” “Why, pray, Eugenia?” “It’s her name. My grandfather had a sort of adoration for the empress—” “Empress?” “Eugénie.”
Should she. Shouldn’t she. Leaves prematurely drifting down from tall peeling sycamores. Strange scent of sun-burnt sycamores (that was a rare hot early autumn) and the odd curious cut-off feeling like being in a birds cage, high up above the old square with the corner going on and the other corner going on. The corners seemed to be separated, odd square boat hulks stranded there, all so quiet, rumble in the distance, rumble, rumble, the eternal rumble of London. Cut apart in their little back-water. Bloomsbury.
“Well but if you have broken it finally — off—” “Well. I mean, we did. I mean he did. Then he came back and we got engaged again.” “Well that alters everything.” “I mean we got engaged then we — I mean he — no it was I this time — I mean I broke — it — off — I mean it was broken off—” “Well are or are you not engaged to George Lowndes?” But how answer that thing? “I don’t know, Josepha. I had better ask him.”
“We’re not engaged, George?” “Gawd forbid.” “I thought you felt that way about it George. Mrs. Merrick and Stephen Merrick sent their love. He expects to be back in Rome in a year or so and wants to see you. Do you like Rome? Or have you ever been there? Everything’s so odd, exciting. I don’t know where I have been. I don’t know where I haven’t. Those pictures in the Louvre transported one and I felt the same way about the Nike. The winged Victory. I told the Rabbs I didn’t. I don’t mean that. What do I mean? I mean seeing the Elgin marbles this morning gave me the same feeling and I didn’t know, don’t know whether I’m in Rome or Paris. I mean the Louvre and the British Museum hold one together, keep one from going to bits. For one is all in bits. I even like awful things, awful (I believe they are awful) like Delacroix and the Lancrets. I saw Napoleon’s snuff box and the Corots. There was a little bad picture of a ship in a storm, simply awful but like one in our attic like Eugenia did once. . but you never liked Eugenia’s funny pictures. I — love — Europe.”
“Its so quaint, she loves London.” “Yes, isn’t it odd — she loves London.” “This is Miss Gart — they call her Her short for Hermione — she loves London.” “O I am — so — glad. Why do you love London?” “O let me really tell you Bertie, that Miss Her Gart loves London. Such a quaint person—” “Yes, I love London.”
“This is Miss — O did you know what her name is? — but you love London—” O Walter.
Coming across the room, bowing to someone. Someone different, out of something that never was that never could be. It was too bad about Walter, acted as if he were, as if he were something like the first aeroplane ever invented or a dug-up Dinosaur. All hushing down, fluttering down, sinking down into arm-chairs pushed aside and jumbled in little knots, islands of arm-chairs. Walter comes across the room, people fall, all turned toward him, sun-flowers to the sun. Sunflowers to the sun, whispering, whispering “Dowel you know. Only Delia in all London can procure him.” Procure? How did Delia procure Walter? And where was Delia? Hermione had been jostled through crowds of people and hadn’t got near Delia. Delia standing somewhere, somewhere far away, crowds and she was always interrupted, George at her elbow, “no you come here Dryad, here’s another prize specimen.” George produced prize specimens. They cropped up on the stairs, upstairs and when she got upstairs to find Delia George pronounced that Delia had gone downstairs and “you needn’t worry about your book of etiquette, dear Dryad. Don’t be so provincial.” Was it provincial to find Delia, Lillian Merrick’s sister Delia, all mixed up, one with another, the Merricks, school at Rome, people in the legations, poets. Everything at Delia’s was like that. “Where is Delia?” It was George who had told her how to say it. “Don’t be so provincial Dryad. Don’t let me hear you saying Lady Prescott that way again. It’s back-stairs. Everybody calls her Delia.”