Love Is My Reason (15 page)

“
I—never said so.
”

“
Not in words.
”
He smiled slightly.
“
There
’
s no need to be ashamed of it, my dear. It
’
s natural to love the gods who lift us to Olympus, even if, when their backs are turned, we find ourselves slipping from the exalted position again. I
suppose if you
had
been Teresa Preston
’
s grandchild
—
”

He broke off and shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“
Never mind. That
’
s over now,
”
Anya said, with the quiet finality of one who has learned resignation in a hard school.

He did not deny this. Perhaps because he knew his own world and his own cousin very well and privately agreed with her. Instead, he changed the subject abruptly by asking,

“
What are you going to do now, Anya?
”

“
Do?
”
She gave him the bewildered glance of someone who had never been allowed to make the decisions—only to accept them.
“
I don
’
t know. Except that I can
’
t stay here and be a burden to David. And your mother,
”
she added, as a naive afterthought.

“
But you have no actual plans, eh?
”

She shook her head. But she looked at him with the sudden, groundless hope of a lost puppy to whom someone has spoken at last.

For a moment longer he stood there, frowning down at the path in apparent thought. Then he said,

“
Come along with me into the music-room. I want to talk to you.
”

She came obediently, though she could not imagine what he had to say to her which could not be said in the garden. But there was an air of purpose about the usually casual Bertram which would have compelled the attention of someone much less compliant than Anya.

The music-room, she found, was a long pleasant room, situated on the opposite side of the house from Lady Ranmere
’
s study. It had a grand piano, a gramophone, shelves of records, some comfortable chairs and very little else besides. There was no carpet on its polished floor. Only a few (and, Anya thought, very good) rugs.

“
Now—
”
Bertram indicated a chair, in which Anya sat down, though he himself remained standing
—“
do you remember telling me
some time
ago—almost the first morning we talked together, I think—that you used to do sketches and songs for some theatre director you knew in the camp?
”

“
Yes. Of course.
”

“
I think you said they were all in Russian or German?
”

“
Some were in Polish.
”

“
Oh, yes. Something outlandish,
”
he agreed impatiently.
“
Never mind. Perhaps I can judge. I want you to do something for me now. Anything. Any one that you remember and can do easily.
”

“
But I—I haven
’
t done it for over a year. And there
’
s the language. And, anyway, I—I don
’
t feel very much like play-acting this morning,
”
she stammered.

“
One never does,
”
Bertram assured her drily.
“
Come on, there
’
s a good girl. Just to please me.
”

“
You mean—just anything that I can remember at the moment?
”
She got slowly to her feet, and began to move towards the end of the room, as though this were a stage.

“
Yes.
”

She stood with her head bent in thought for a moment. Then she glanced up and said,

“
Do you want me to explain it to you beforehand?
”

“
Only as much as one might put in a couple of lines in a programme.
”

She gave him a quick, half-enquiring smile. But she said,
“
Very well.
”
And then, after another few seconds of thought,
“
I am a village girl who has just been kissed for the first time by the boy who matters. I put on my new bonnet, meaning to go out and charm him afresh. When I am ready, I look from the window—and he is walking away with another girl, in a prettier bonnet.
”

“
And that
’
s all?
”

“
Yes. That
’
s all.
”

“
Excellent. Go on.
”

Anya walked to the side of the room. Then suddenly she swung round and made a light, eager rush of an entrance on to the improvised stage. She was talking to herself in little breathless rapturous snatches, and by the small
move
ments of her hands and the naked rapture in her young face, one knew what had happened. Indeed, as she put her hands to her face for a moment, it was obvious that her cheeks were hot. One even knew which one had been kissed.

Then she sat down and examined herself eagerly, inexpertly—in a non-existent mirror, and the tip of an excited tongue flicked her lips as she hovered between laughter and tears.

And then there followed a little
pantomime
so unbearably funny and pathetic that the watching man narrowed his eyes as though anxious not to miss a single detail. Still talking to herself, in half-encouraging, half-admonishing tones, she began, with trembling, eager, too hasty hands to make herself ready to meet and enchant the boy she loved.

But it was all just a bit wrong. Though there was no rouge there, one knew she was putting on a little too much. She nervously licked her fingers and painstakingly made slightly too large curls each side of her face. And all the time she turned this way and that, to consult the mirror which was not there.

Then came the final moment when she lifted the imaginary bonnet. It had a feather, one felt, and possibly a rose too, and as she perched it on her head, again the tip of that excited tongue protruded between her lips.

She tied the ribbons. She asked the mirror if he would love her like that. She even shut her eyes tightly for a moment and, with clasped hands, grabbed a small prayer that he would. And then she was ready.

She ran to where the window might be, looked out
—
and suddenly was so completely still that it seemed the world had stopped. It was impossible not to share her shattering disillusionment and shock, or the physical ache of the disappointment which stilled the breathless half-sentences with which she had been encouraging herself.
”

For perhaps half a minute she stood there, while rapture ebbed and the light went out. She was not even pretty any more. Just a clumsy, silly, mistaken little girl, whose bonnet was slightly awry.

Slowly she turned away from the window, untying the ribbons from under her chin. As she took off the bonnet, she took off the crown which love puts on every girl
’
s head. She looked at it for a moment in incredulous revulsion. Then she flung it from her and rushed from the
“
stage
”
with childish, choking sobs.

There was silence, until she turned and smiled at Bertram and became Anya once more.

“
Did you like it?
”
she enquired.

“
Yes,
”
Bertram said heavily.
“
I liked it. Would it be tempting Providence to ask i
f
you have a lot of these sketches?
”

“
Oh—
”
she shrugged
—“
eight or ten, I suppose. Perhaps a dozen. We made up some of them ourselves—the
Polish theatre director and I. It was something to do in the long evenings.
”

“
Yes. It must have been,
”
agreed Bertram with friendly irony. And then he said, half whimsically, half seriously,
“
My God, let me be awake and not dreaming!
”

Anya looked enquiring.

“
It
’
s all right,
”
he told her, in answer to her glance.
“
I don
’
t want to say too much at the moment, just in case it
’
s a flash in the pan, and you can only do it once. But—I feel a bit stunned. I suppose one always does before genius.
”

“
Genius?
”
She repeated the word, on a note of incredulous amusement.
“
Oh, it
’
s not genius. It
’
s just a—a sort of talent
”

“
Perhaps.
”
He looked at her almost sombrely.
“
Who knows?—You said you could sing too, didn
’
t you?
”

“
Not much.
”
She laughed apologetically.
“
If you want me to sing, it will have to be something where it doesn
’
t matter much about the tone. I haven
’
t sung for ages.
”

“
Whatever you like,
”
he said.

She frowned thoughtfully.

“
You know Schubert
’
s
‘
Hurdy-Gurdy Man
’
?
”

“
Certainly.
”

“
Well—
”
she made a slight gesture towards the piano
—“
could you give me a few leading notes?
”

“
I think so.
”
He went over to the piano and opened it
“
It
’
s a man
’
s song, though.
”

“
It can be a girl
’
s song too, with the very slightest alter
a
tion,
”
she replied quickly.

“
Very well.
”
He struck one or two chords, and she nodded to him when he gave her the key she wanted.

And then, almost before he knew what was happening, a magical transformation had taken place. She was no longer the attractively dressed, properly fed girl who had been in Lady Ranmere
’
s charge for a week or two. She was cold and wet and hungry, and she was moving slowly along the gutter, singing in a husky, heart-searching little voice.

Perhaps, with her special experience, it was not surprising that she knew so well how to portray hopeless appeal to an indifferent world. But what chilled the heart and misted the eye was the impression of physical wretchedness which she managed to convey. The hands she held out were cold and capped. The feet which shuffled in the gutter were icy from the water that seeped into her broken shoes. She was not attractive—only unbearably pathetic, as she wiped her cold, damp nose with the back of a colder hand.

The song went on in its touching, monotonous repetition, and one could count the people who passed without noticing her by the number of times a mechanical, hopeless smile flickered on to her face and was gone again. Then the music trickled away into silence and that was all.

Anya glanced at Bertram a trifle anxiously this time. As though it had suddenly become important that his first good impression should be confirmed.

But he said nothing as he got up from the piano and came slowly across to where she was standing. Then, to her immeasurable astonishment, he took her face in his hands and kissed her.

“
And we very nearly didn
’
t find you!
”
he said, with a sort of rough seriousness quite unlike his usual manner.
“
I wonder how many other artists of rare quality are living and dying in squalor, while the world writes them off as forgotten people.
”