Olivia (9 page)

And yet she sometimes showered me with marvellous kindnesses. Often when she was reading aloud to me in the library, she would drop her hand into mine and let me hold it. Once when I had a cold, she visited me in my room, petted me, brought me delicacies from the table, told me stories that made me laugh, left me cheerful and contented. It was during my convalescence from that little indisposition that she put her head into my room one evening and said:

“I’m going out to dinner in Paris, but I’ll look in on you when I get back and see how you are and say good night to you.” Her good night was gay and tender and the next day I was well.

A fortnight later she went out to dinner again. The last train from Paris reached the station at about half-past eleven and she used to be up at the house a little before twelve. How could I help keeping awake that night, half expecting her, listening for her? She had to pass my door to go to her room. Perhaps, perhaps she would come in again. Ah, straining ears and beating heart! But why was she so long? What could she be doing? Again and again I lit my candle and looked at my watch. Can she have passed the door without my having heard her? Impossible. At last, at last, the step came sounding down the long passage. Nearer, nearer. Would it stop? Would it go on? It stopped. A breathless pause.
Would the handle turn? It turned. She came in in the dim light of the unshuttered room and stood beside my bed:

“I’ve brought you a sweet, you greedy little thing,” she said and pulled it out of her bag.

Oh yes, I was greedy, but not for sweets. Her hands were my possession. I covered them with kisses.

“There, there, Olivia,” she said. “You’re too passionate, my child.”

Her lips brushed my forehead and she was gone.

 

 

It was a little later that we had the usual Mardi Gras fancy-dress ball. Oh, yes, it was exactly like all other girls’-school fancy-dress balls. There was a day’s disorganization, while the dresses were being made and we were allowed to run about as we would into each other’s rooms, chattering, laughing, trying on, madly sewing and pinning. And then came the excitement of the evening. The two ladies sat enthroned with the staff at one end of the music room, which had been cleared for dancing; a march was played on the piano and we filed past them two and two, made our bows and our curtsies, were questioned, complimented, and laughed at. Mlle Julie was in her element on such occasions. Tonight was no exception. There was something happier in the atmosphere, a relaxation of tension. Mlle Cara was smiling and cheerful; Mlle Julie’s wit sparkled like her eyes; she was
enjoying it all as much as anyone. We could see her curiosity, her interest in the different self that each girl revealed in her disguise, some betraying their secret longings and fantasies, some abandoning themselves recklessly to their own natural propensities.

So, it was Mary Queen of Scots, that poor, plain Gertrude so pathetically aspired to be; Georgie’s dark eyes burned mysterious and tragic beneath a top hat; with her false moustache and pointed beard, she made a marvellous romantic poet of 1830. On her arm hung Mimi, a charming little grisette in a poke bonnet, a shawl and a crinoline, and the two flirted outrageously to everyone’s delight. Madcap Nina was Puck himself, a torment and an amusement to the whole company. And I? I don’t know what my dress revealed. It was a Parsee lady’s dress which my mother had brought home from India. Very rich and splendid, I thought. The soft Oriental silk was of deep rose colour and it had a gold band inwoven in the material round the edges of the sari and the long skirt. I wore the sari over my head and managed the clinging folds well enough.

But there was no doubt who was the belle of the ball. Cécile, a lovely and complacent Columbia, swam with swanlike grace, a queen among us all. She was draped in the star-spangled banner. An audacious
décolletage
showed her beautiful shoulders and the rise of her breast. Diamond stars crowned her and sparkled round her long slim throat. She was radiantly beautiful.

I was giving her her due of compliments, when Mlle Julie came up.

“
La belle Cécile
!” she cried. “You do us honour,
chère Amérique
—a beauty worthy of Lafayette’s gallantry,” she went on, laughing. “Turn round and let me look at you.”

She put her hands on Cécile’s bare arms and as she twisted her round, bent down and kissed her shoulder. A long deliberate kiss on the naked creamy shoulder. An unknown pang of astonishing violence stabbed me. I hated Cécile. I hated Mlle Julie. As she raised her eyes from the kiss, she saw me watching her. Had she noticed me before? I don’t know. Now, I thought, she was mocking me.

“Is Olivia jealous of so much beauty?” she said. “No, Olivia, you’ll never be beautiful, but you have your points,” appraising me, I thought angrily, as if I had been an animal at a cattle show. “Pretty hands, pretty feet, a pretty figure, grace which is sometimes more than——” but then her voice trailed off into a murmur too low for me to hear. “But even if I wanted to kiss you, fair Indian, how could I, wrapped as you are in all those veils? Come though, I’ll tell you a secret.”

She drew me towards her, pulled back my sari, and whispered close, close in my ear, her lips almost touching me, her breath hot on my cheek:

“I’ll come tonight and bring you a sweet.”

She was gone.

I remember that I felt as if my whole frame had been turned to water. My knees were giving way. I had to cling to a table and support myself till I recovered strength enough to get to a chair—she was coming—tonight—in a few hours——A paean sang in my heart. Had I been weak before? Now, exhilaration flowed through my veins. Why? Why? I didn’t stop to think why. I only knew that there, in the immediate future, soon, soon, something was coming to me, some wild delight, some fierce anguish that my whole being called for. But I mustn’t think of it. Now, I must dance. Just then Georgie passed me.

“Why are you so pale?” she asked and looked at me.

“Georgie,” I said, “have you ever been in love?”

Georgie’s dark eyes gloomed and glowed. I could see her breath quickening.

“Yes,” she answered sombrely, “yes.”

“And what’s it like?”

“Too horrible to speak of.” And then, as though some lovely memory were rising from the depths of her heart into the glowing eyes, they softened, melted, shone, behind a veil of tears. “And too delicious. Come, let’s dance!”

She put her arm round me and pressed me to her. There was comfort in the contact. Comfort, I felt, and pleasure for us both. She was stronger, taller than I. My head could rest on her shoulder; I was conscious of hers bending over me. Our steps, our limbs, harmonized,
swayed, quickened, slackened to the music, as if one spirit informed them. I could trust myself to her guiding, I could abandon myself in a trance of ecstasy to the motion, to the rhythm, to the languors and the passions of the waltz.

That evening, we danced every waltz together (Georgie abandoned her grisette—“she can’t dance for twopence”—), but we knew well enough that we were not dancing with each other, that one of us was clasping, the other being clasped by the phantom of her own dreams.

It was the fashion to end every ball with what was called a “galop.” I don’t think this dance exists nowadays. It was the tempestuous conclusion in those Victorian days to evenings that had been filled with sentimentalities and proprieties—waltzes and Lancers—and people would rush into the frenzy of rapid motion with a fury of excitement. When the waltzes were over that night, Nina and I, sped by some magnetic impulse, shot madly into each other’s arms for the final galop. Excitement was in the air. Fräulein, at the piano, caught it too and added to it by the
brio
of her playing. But no couple could compete with Nina and me. We rushed and whirled, faster and faster, more and more furiously, our hair, our draperies, streaming like Maenads’ behind us, till at last the others gave out exhausted and we were left whirling alone, the only couple on the floor. It was the music that surrendered
first, and as, at last, we dropped to the ground, laughing and breathless, all the watching girls applauded.

The evening was over. It was time to go to bed. I should have been glad for it to last longer. There was something coming that I dreaded as much as I longed for it. I was approaching an abyss into which I was going to fall dizzy and shuddering. I averted my eyes, but I knew that it was there.

After all the noisy good nights, I was at last alone in my room. I tore off my veils impatiently. I must make haste. There was no time to be lost. I slipped into my schoolgirl’s nightgown, high to the throat and buttoned to the wrists—and suddenly the vision of Cécile’s creamy shoulder flashed upon me. I couldn’t bear the hideous nightgown. I took out a clean day-chemise and put it on instead. That was better. My arms and neck at least were bare. I got into bed and blew out the candle.

What had she said? Pretty hands, pretty feet, a pretty figure. Yes, but in French, what strange expression does one use?
Un joli corps.
A pretty body. Mine, a pretty body. I had never thought of my body till that minute. A body! I had a body—and it was pretty. What was it like? I must look at it. There was still time. She wouldn’t be coming yet. I lighted the candle, sprang out of bed and slipped off my chemise. The looking glass—a small one—was over the wash-hand stand. I could only see my face and shoulders in it. I climbed on to a chair. Then I could see more. I looked at the figure in the glass,
queerly lighted, without head or legs, strangely attractive, strangely repulsive. And then I slowly passed my hands down this queer creature’s body from neck to waist. Ah, that was more than I could bear—that excruciating thrill I had never felt before. In a second my chemise was on again, I was back in bed.

And now, I listened, not thinking, not feeling any more, absorbed in listening. The noises gradually died away—slamming doors, footsteps, snatches of talk and laughter. The house was silent now. Not quite. I still heard from time to time a window or a shutter being closed or opened. Now. Yes, now it really was silent. Now was the time to hear a coming footstep, a creaking board. There! My heart beat, stood still, beat. No! A false alarm. How long she was. It must be getting late. How late! How late. And still she didn’t come. She had never been as late as this before. I lighted my candle again and looked at my watch. One o’clock. And we had gone to bed at eleven. I crept to the door and opened it gently. I could see her room a little way off, on the opposite side of the passage. There was no light coming from the crack under the door. Nothing was stirring. Everything was wrapped in profound and deadly silence. I went heavily back to my bed. She had promised. She couldn’t not come now. I must have faith in her. Or could anything have prevented her? Yet surely not for all this time. She knew I should wait for her. Ah, she was cruel. She had no right to promise and not to come. She had forgotten me. She
didn’t know whether I existed or not. She had other thoughts, other cares. Of course, of course. I was nothing to her. A silly schoolgirl. She liked Cécile better than she did me. Hark! A sound! Hope rose and died a dozen times that night. Even when I knew it was impossible—even when the late winter dawn was beginning to glimmer in the room, I still lay, tossing and listening. It must have been five o’clock before I fell asleep.

And yet I was to know other, bitterer vigils, during which I looked back on this one as happy—during which I realized she had never loved me, never would love me as well as on that night.

I
was awakened by Signorina standing by my bedside with a tray and breakfast on it.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Ten o’clock. Orders were that you weren’t to be called. You are to have breakfast in bed, but be ready at 10:45 to join the walk.”

There was just time to breakfast and dress without thinking. I couldn’t think during the walk either, and besides, I didn’t want to. There was a visiting professor that day, so that I didn’t sit beside her at lunch. I was glad of it. My morning’s greeting was given with the others, as we all rose to our feet when the ladies entered the dining room.

The day dragged on, but at about four o’clock someone came into the schoolroom and said:

“Olivia, you’re wanted in the library. Mlle Julie’s giving back the literature
devoirs
. Mine’s not so bad this week. Hooray!”

I went with a sickened heart and faltering steps. A load of resentment, shame, humiliation pressed me down.

She was sitting at the big writing table in the middle of the room, a pile of copy books before her.

“Sit down,
mon chéri
,” she said. “Here’s your
devoir
. There’s no need to tell you, is there, that it’s not at all good. You haven’t been working well lately, Olivia.” She sighed. How kind her voice was. How dreadfully sad. “Olivia,” she went on, “you have many gifts and many graces. It would be a pity if you were to waste them all pursuing chimeras . . .
des chimères!
”