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Der Blinde
- Hans Wulz, 1948 (Wien Museum)
Dance after dance with an old fogey. Three running now, pressed to his paunch.
It seemed as if it might go on for ever. Not even Reggie to the rescue. Reggie
must be at the buffet with the Martins. Neither he nor they had appeared upon
the floor for a considerable time. No hope, no help. Programme a blank right on
till Number 19, and that seemed now distant and improbable as a dream.
His name was Mr. Verity. He spoke of the little shack he had recently acquired
in the vicinity; of the wonder of the sunsets viewed from his study window. He
mentioned his best friends his books, and quoted more than once from the Poet.
Gather ye rosebuds, he said. Also, Then come kiss me sweet and twenty. Also, Si
joonesse savvy. He asked her if she would take tea one day with a lonely old
man; his housekeeper, dear devoted old soul, would make her welcome. He talked a
good deal too about people with titles whom he fished and shot with.
Her senses shrank away from him. They seemed to shout their frantic distaste
into his heedless, his leathery ear. I don’t like you. I don’t like touching
you. I hate dancing with you. I can’t bear you. She gave up smiling; almost gave
up answering. Her face set stiffly, in utter dejection. Next dance I’ll say I’m
booked and go and hide in the cloakroom. But he’ll know it’s an excuse. It’ll
hurt his feelings. He’ll go away and think, I’m a lonely old man. Oh, help!
help! Will no one help?
As she accompanied him for the fourth time towards the ballroom, Marigold
appeared suddenly from nowhere, caught at her arm; whisked her aside, drew her
far away without a word to him or a backward look.
‘I thought you needed rescuing.’
‘Oh, I did! You angel!’
She clasped Marigold’s hand in pure relief and gratitude.
‘I thought sudden tactics would be the most effictitious. … You did look
downhearted.’
‘I thought I’d never get away from him.’
‘I know what he’s like—the old octopus—’ Her voice was harsh with contempt. ‘He
fished and fished for an invitation to this. He’s our neighbour, worse luck.
He’s taken that cottage by the south gate. He tells every one Daddy and he were
lads together at Cambridge, and that Daddy begged him to come and settle near
him. I call him Johnny Walker, Did he ask you to tea?’
‘Yes. He did.’
‘I thought as much. He’s always trying that on. Mum thinks he’s harmless, but of
course he’s not likely to be up to any of his tricks with her. They talk
politics and county together, and he butters her up, and she thinks he’s so
sensible and so fond of young people and so picturesque and old-world with his
white hair. In fact she was quite umbrageous with me when I called him a dirty
old man. But of course Mum’s hopeless. She thinks virgins are sacred to all
men—you know, all the Tennyson flower stuff. Of course he’s the most infernal
snob too, but she can’t see that. Still, I must admit he’s quite different with
the elderly ones. You wouldn’t know him. It’s the young ones that rouse
him—especially the ones in their teens.’
‘How queer. … Have you been to tea with him?’
‘Catch me. He did try it on once, but I said could I bring my governess, so he
changed the subject.’
‘What d’you suppose he’d do?’
‘Oh, fumble about a bit, I expect—you know, feel your muscle and mess about with
your hands pretending he’s a fortune-teller, and measure how tall you were
against him—that sort of feeble pawing. It’s a sort of disease old men get, I
believe.’
‘Yes, I think it must be.’
‘They go native. Honestly it’s a warning. Did he tell you he’d got a grown-up
son and daughter?’
‘No, he didn’t. He kept on hinting he was all alone in the world.’
‘He would. But he’s got two children, and they won’t live with him. Mum thinks
it’s this modern selfishness, but I bet the trouble was he was too sprightly for
them. Fancy having a lasciverous old father prodding and stroking every girl you
brought into the house. Mine’s not like that—not yet, anyway. Is yours?’
‘Oh no. Not in the least.’
Dad prodding young girls. … Olivia giggled.
‘Though he adores a mild flirt with the pretty ones.’
‘I don’t think mine even does that,’ said Olivia, after reflection.
She saw Johnny Walker standing alone by the ballroom door, pretending not to
watch them out of the corner of his eye. He knows we’re talking about him. How
was it that Marigold, so sheltered, so well brought up, knew so much, in such a
shrewd, cynical, coarse-grained way, about the facts of life?—had on the tip of
her tongue the best sort of snub for a tiresome old man, so that he knew it was
no go, so that he feared her? Whereas oneself, one would never know what to say,
one never spotted hidden motives, swallowed any story, trusted everybody, would
very likely land oneself in a mess one day. … Even now, seeing him furtively
watch Marigold’s pert expressive face, feeling him brood sheepishly over the
ungracious, the wanton, flouting way they’d left him in the lurch, yet not dare
to approach them, feeling the sickly collapse of his self-esteem, even now she
was tempted to reassure him somehow, apologize, show him she was sorry. For it
was Major Skinner all over again—the painfulness of seeing an old white-haired
person humiliated before youth, ashamed of wanting the thing he wanted. He’d
never get it. It was too late. He was old and done for. How his heart must ache.
… Oh dear! I wish I could want to comfort you. … She saw the faintly stricken
expression on his face. He stood there representing the pathos, the indignity of
being old; of the dancing days being done. Oh, maidens! he cried in vain. He
wouldn’t dare ask any more of them to dance to-night. Soon he would creep off
home. And Marigold had done this to him without an instant’s compunction or
compassion … out of kindness to, pity for, oneself? … out of pure malice and
scorn for him? A strange impulse, a curious action—one of Marigold’s. Why,
whence, out of her new estrangement and excitement, had she noticed, and darted?
⁂
‘There’s Rex waiting for me. I must fly. Are you enjoying yourself? Have you had
lots of partners?’
‘I haven’t got very much more booked,’ admitted Olivia. ‘Only Number Nineteen.’
‘Oh, you must fill up or he’ll pounce again.’ She gave a chuckle. ‘Who d’you
fancy? Oh, there’s Timmy Douglas. He’s so sweet. He’s my favourite
man—almost—no, quite. He’s sure not to be full up, poor darling. When his wife’s
dancing with some one else, he mostly just stands and waits. Come on, I’ll
introduce you.’
She saw, against the wall inside the ballroom, a young man, tall, pale, standing
and waiting. He seemed to be smiling; but on a closer view, it seemed not to be
a smile after all. It was a queer taut set of the muscles round his mouth.
‘He’s a marvellous dancer,’ said Marigold. ‘You’d never dream he’s—’ She lowered
her voice abruptly as they came near to him, and her last words were
inaudible—stone something or other, it sounded like.
She cried:
‘Timmy, hullo!’
He had been looking towards her without recognition, but now his face lit up
faintly.
‘Marigold?’
His voice had an edge of question. He put his hand out in a wooden way, straight
in front of him, and she clasped it in both her own.
‘Timmy darling, I meant to come and find you ages ago. But I’ve been so whizzed
about all the evening. Are you happy?’
Her voice had a softer, more caressing note than one had ever heard before. He
answered with not quite convincing enthusiasm:
‘Yes, rather.’ He waited a moment, then said hesitatingly: ‘When can I have a
dance, Marigold?’
Then he waited again. His face became suddenly patient and listening. His voice
was patient too, quiet, flat, rapid. He didn’t look at her.
‘Oh, darling! I’m so full up. Isn’t it sickening?’
‘That’s bad luck—for me.’
Patient and cheerful.
‘Timmy, I’ve brought Olivia Curtis to dance with you.’ He turned his head
slightly and sharply; out came his hand again. His eyes, upon which the full
lids constantly opened and fell with a long spasmodic movement, were opaque,
navy blue in colour, like those of a new-born baby.
‘How d’you do?’
The smile that wasn’t a smile tightened the muscles of mouth and cheek.
‘Olivia’s very nice with her practically black hair turned round each side of
her face in a plaited bun, and a red dress.’
Had she really said that? The dream had come on again.
‘I must fly, Timmy darling. I’ll come back later, for sure and certain.’
Brushing past Olivia, her fingers clung for a second on her arm, she whispered
fiercely: ‘Did you hear? He’s—’ but again the last word, sharply muted, was lost
as she fled on.
He stood without moving, his head a little bent as if he were listening to her
going. He said in his pleasant flat voice:
‘She’s got more vitality than half a dozen ordinary people. She just leaves it
in the air around her, wherever she’s been.’
It was quite true. It was the secret of Marigold, that one had never been able
to define. She agreed, pleased, surprised. It was an unusual thing to say.
‘It’s a marvellous possession,’ he said. ‘The only gift I’d trouble a fairy
godmother for. If you’ve got it, you can’t be beaten. What’s more, you make
other people imagine they can’t be. …’
He smiled now, a real smile, but faint. He himself looked as if he lacked
vitality. He was pale and thin, rather worn-looking. He had beautifully-cut long
delicate features and straight light hair growing rather far back above a high
frail prominent forehead. He gave an impression of scrupulous cleanness and
neatness.
‘Would you care to dance?’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’m apt to barge into people.
The room’s pretty full, isn’t it?’
‘Rather full.’
She looked at him, puzzled. Once again he had turned an obvious statement into a
question. She looked at him, and in a sudden stab and flash of realization, saw
him as one
isolated, remote, a figure alone in a far place. He was—
‘However, if you don’t mind steering a bit. I generally manage more or less.’
He stood and waited, crooking his right arm ready to receive her. She saw that
he was blind. She led him out on to the floor, and they started to dance.
I’ll guide you, I’ll look after you. Depend on me. … Blinded in the war? There
wasn’t a scar—nothing to proclaim it—only the opaque swimming irises between the
heavily-twitching lids; and the set of his face. His hand, holding hers,
vibrated as if it had a separate, infinitely sensitive life—long fingers,
exquisite nails. He’ll guess what I’m like from my voice, from touching me. What
will he guess? They say blind people always know, you can’t deceive them.
They collided badly with another couple, who looked at him in cold surprise.
‘Sorry,’ he said pleasantly, ‘my fault.’
He waited while they moved on. She saw the girl’s face alter suddenly, not in
pity, but in a look of avid curiosity. She whispered something to her partner,
they both turned to stare at him. How dare they stare like that! …
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I never saw them. You dance so beautifully, I just
forgot to steer.’
He looked a little bit pleased.
‘We used to dance a lot at the place I was—St. Dunstan’s, you know. I don’t do
much in that line now. Molly’s awfully keen on it. I wish she got more.’
‘Is that your wife?’
‘Yes, she’s dancing, I think—I believe she’s dancing with Rollo Spencer.’
‘Oh yes, I see her.’
She saw Rollo quite close to them, dancing with a shortish person in rather a
dowdy royal-blue dress—quite commonplace, quite insignificant. She had a good
deal of straight brown hair, inclined to wispiness at the sides, blue eyes, some
moles on her face, a weather-beaten skin without powder or make-up. There was
nothing one could say about her, think about her. Olivia searched in vain for
traces of spiritual intensity, renunciation, suffering, such as might fitly mark
the face of one devoting, sacrificing all to a blind husband. She looked
sensible, capable, her eyes clear and hard. Rollo must be dancing with her out
of niceness. She glanced at her husband and his partner, but only for a minute,
without apparent interest. I suppose you get used—I suppose you soon get used. …
It all depends how you let yourself think about it. Even now, already, it was
getting quite easy to behave towards him as his simplicity, his utter
non-assumption of the role of martyr, his rather negative, low-pitched but
unforced cheerfulness demanded—to treat him as one like other men. It was as if
he were tacitly demonstrating: You see, it isn’t a tragedy at all. You needn’t
be sorry for me. … Yet the first image persisted in the background of her mind:
a figure in its essence far apart.
‘The Spencers are most frightfully nice, aren’t they?’ he said. ‘They’ve been
most awfully decent to us.’
‘Do you live near?’
‘Oh yes, I’m one of their tenants. We’ve got that little house beyond the
church—about a mile away. Do you know it? Cherry Tree Cottage it’s called—and
it’s actually got a cherry tree too.’ His voice was more lively now. He liked
talking about his house. ‘Lady Spencer’s helped us no end—Sir John too—We’re
chicken farmers. Thanks to them, we’ve worked up quite a big connection—that’s
the right term, isn’t it? We supply all the eggs and poultry for the house too.’
‘Do you like doing it?’
‘Oh yes, I like it all right. There’s more in chickens than you’d think.’ He
smiled. ‘I used to think they were the most ghastly feeble animals. If anybody’d
told me I’d be keeping them for a living, I’d have—well, I don’t know what. As a
matter of fact, I wanted to be an architect—that’s what I was keen on. But if
you really take up a thing you can’t help getting interested—don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes, I quite agree.’
She searched his face—it was placid; his voice, now he was surer of his ground,
equable and very young-sounding. How did one look after chickens when one was
blind?
‘Molly’s awfully keen on it, luckily. In fact it was she who got the whole thing
going. She’s awfully practical and good at running things. She does most of the
dirty work, really. It keeps us busy. It’s all jolly scientific these days, a
proper chicken farm, I can tell you.’
‘Is it? How frightfully interesting.’
‘Molly’s always lived in the country, but I’m a London bird. I didn’t think I’d
like it at first, but I’ve got quite used to it. I must say one does feel
better—don’t you think? Sort of more peaceful. It’s nice for the infant too, to
be brought up in the country. She loves animals. She’s got a pet duckling that
follows her everywhere.’
His smile spread clear over his face.
‘Have you got a little girl?’
‘Rather.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Getting on for two. She runs about like anything, and chatters all day. She’s
pretty forward, I think.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Elizabeth. Molly wanted Marjorie and I wanted Susan, so we split the difference
with Elizabeth. It’s a good name, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. I love the old English names.’
She was moved by his simple pride and pleasure in his possessions—his family,
his farm, everything that told him he was a man with a background, a place in
the world; a successful grown-up man who had by his own labours established his
security. But he looked so young to be a husband and father—not more than
twenty-two. Molly didn’t look nearly so young. Perhaps she’d been his nurse.
Probably he’d never seen her. … He’d never see his daughter either. One must try
not to let that seem too pathetic. It was the sort of thing that brought a
too-easy sob in the throat. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter really.
‘Marigold rides over to see us pretty often,’ he said. ‘We look forward to
that.’ (It was queer really that Marigold had never mentioned him. … But she was
so secretive.) ‘She’d buck anybody up, wouldn’t she? She’s so frightfully
amusing, isn’t she? Really witty. … Otherwise it’s a quiet life. Not that I
mind. I play the gramophone a lot in the evenings. I like music awfully. But I
wish Molly got out more. It’s dull for her.’
She plucked up courage to say timidly:
‘Do you—can you find your way about—fairly well in your house?’
‘Oh Lord, yes. Anywhere. Like a cat, you know. I see in the dark.’ He smiled at
his joke, adding mildly but emphatically:
‘Oh, Molly’s not tied like that—not to that extent. I can do pretty well
everything for myself.’
She saw him going up and downstairs, dressing, undressing, feeding himself,
patiently listening to his gramophone, changing the needle, walking over his
farm, scattering grain to the hens, painstakingly independent, giving no
trouble.
She murmured:
‘I know—I’m sure—you’re simply—It’s so difficult to realize there’s anything
wrong. I hadn’t an idea.’
‘Oh well,’ he said equably, ‘it’s all a question of one’s point of view, isn’t
it? One’s taught not to—well, not to think of it as a misfortune, you know.’
‘When were you—how long ago—?’
‘June 1918.’ His voice was even. ‘I went out from school. I only had three
months of it. A sniper got me plunk behind the eyes.’
She was silent. War, a cloud on early adolescence, weighing not too darkly, long
lifted. … A cousin in the flying corps killed, the cook’s nephew gone down at
Jutland, rumour of the death of neighbours’ sons—(that included Marigold’s elder
brother), and among the village faces, about half a dozen familiar ones that had
disappeared and never come back … and butter and sugar rations; and the lawn dug
up for potatoes (the crop had failed); and knitting scratchy mittens and
mufflers; and Dad being a special constable and getting bronchitis from it: that
was about all that war had meant. And during that safe, that sheltered
unthinking time, he had gone out to fight, and had his eyes destroyed. She saw
him reel backwards, his hands on his face, crying: I’m blind … or coming to in
hospital, not realizing, thinking it was the middle of the night. … Imagination
stretched shudderingly towards his experience. She had a moment’s dizziness: a
moment’s wild new conscious indignation and revolt, thinking for the first time:
This was war—never, never to be forgiven or forgotten, for his sake.
I’d stay with you, I’d look after you. I’d be your eyes and show you everything.
Oh—is she nice enough to you? But if it was me, I’d be too sorry, I’d upset him.
She’s sensible, she’s matter-of-fact, she takes it for granted. How dare she. …
She keeps his life practical and orderly, keeps him cheerful. They’ve got a
child. So he must love her. And it doesn’t matter to him that she’s not young or
pretty. … Yes, all his gratitude, all his solicitude were for her.
The band stopped.
‘Thank you very much indeed,’ he said. ‘I’m just getting the hang of the room.
It’s jolly big, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, very big, with big mirrors in the panels, and chandeliers. It’s very
bright—the light, I mean.’
‘I can remember photographs of this house in some paper. I remember it quite
well. It’s a beautiful house. A perfect specimen, but just unconventional enough
to have a character of its own.’
He stood in the middle of the room, thinking about it.
She said nervously:
‘What would you like to do? Shall we go and sit somewhere?’
‘Rather. Anything you like—’
‘Would you like an ice—or anything?’
‘Yes, what about an ice? A drink anyway—I could do with a drink.’
He laid his fingers on the tip of her elbow, and she led him to the dining-room.
He walked with a light quick step straight on his course, his touch on her arm
almost imperceptible; not at all like one’s idea of the shuffle and grope of a
blind man. Only his head looked somehow vulnerable and wary. She felt important,
self-assured, helping him, not shy or self-conscious in spite of people staring.
‘Here’s a beautiful armchair,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’
He lowered himself into it after a second’s hesitation.
‘Wait here, I’ll get you a drink. What would you like?’
‘Oh, anything cool, thanks. I’m a teetotaller these days.’
Waiting at the buffet for orangeade, she watched him take out his silver case
and a matchbox and light his cigarette, slowly and carefully. Then he smoothed
his hair, adjusted his tie, brushed his sleeve, his shoulders. In case I’ve left
any mark, powder, a hair or anything. He’s afraid of looking slovenly,
neglected, ridiculous, and not knowing it. That’s why he’s neater, more polished
up than anybody else. He didn’t smoke his cigarette, but let it burn away
between his long fingers. He sat back, his head slightly bent, the muscles taut
in his face, waiting.
Now he looks like a blind man.
He was very easy to talk to. She chatted to him without effort or embarrassment
until the next dance began, and his wife came strolling towards them. She walked
with her square shoulders hunched. The skin of her neck and arms was rather
rough and red, and her legs were short, muscular, slightly bandy. She looked
like a hockey-playing cross-country-striding person, in striking contrast to his
pallor, his elegant narrow-hipped length.
‘Hullo!’ she said. Her voice was rather rough too, with a twang in it.
He stirred without lifting his face.
‘Oh hullo, Molly!’ He added politely to Olivia: ‘Can I introduce my wife?’
She smiled, meeting Olivia’s shy and eager beam. Her smile was limited, but
direct and pleasant, and her eyes were nice too, a clear bright blue.
Reggie was approaching. He looked a little congested about the face. He mustn’t
meet Timmy.
‘Good-bye,’ she said, and walked away.
She heard him say after a moment:
‘Has she gone?’
It was just a question. No suspicion, regret, or relief in it. No interest.
[...]
⁂
The band hung out a little sign saying Extra, and started to play a waltz. A
good many people had left, more were leaving. The dance would soon be over now.
It must be very late, surely Kate would be thinking of going soon. Kate’s had a
lovely time, I’m sure. Looking round for her, she noticed the blind man sitting
by himself in the little room that opened on the ballroom. Waiting for some one?
He sat beneath the lamp; yet she saw suddenly, struck to the heart, he seemed to
sit in shadow. Light had vanished not from his eyes alone but from his ruined
brow and all his being. He would never emerge again. She saw how his young weak
face was frozen, how it was wrenched, compelled into unnatural lines; so that it
was a mask, a grotesque mask of strength and patience. She saw him sitting alone
downstairs in his house, waiting, and the doctor coming in to tell him it was
all over—he was a father. It was not—not what should have happened to him. His
mating and begetting should have been otherwise; and not yet. They’d wronged
him, they’d abused him. That scene was blasphemous, a sin, a counterfeit of life
bred from his murdered youth.
He mustn’t go on sitting there alone. She went quickly to him and said, almost
in a whisper:
‘Hullo!’
Without moving, he became suddenly alert. He said rapidly:
‘Marigold!’
‘No, it’s not Marigold,’ she said softly, with regret.
‘Oh! … Miss Curtis. I didn’t recognize your voice for a moment. Hullo!’
She felt him hastily readjusting the disturbed mechanism of his composure. This
was his difficult achievement, the method by which he lived. It mustn’t fail
him. His face was empty and cheerful again, his voice had returned to its usual
light surface level. He’d been expecting Marigold, but it was quite all right—it
didn’t matter. He didn’t want anything.
She said timidly:
‘Shall I try and find her for you?’
‘Good Lord, no. She must be fearfully busy.’
He didn’t like having given himself away. He didn’t want her to remind him of
his little mistake. After a pause he said lightly:
‘Who’s she dancing with, I wonder?’
She looked. It was the sleek dark boy, Rex, attractive, narrow-skulled,
rat-skulled, whom she’d been with a good deal during the evening. An obscure
instinct prompted her to say:
‘I can’t see her at the moment. She was talking to another girl in the hall a
little while ago.’
She saw the dark boy dip his smooth head suddenly and dart a kiss on Marigold’s
hair. Marigold looked vague, her eyes narrow, her lips half smiling.
‘Shall we dance?’ she said.
‘Rather. Love to.’ He got up with a show of alacrity. ‘Blue Danube, too. We
mustn’t miss that.’
And they waltzed together to the music made for joy. She danced with him in love
and sorrow. He held her close to him, and he was far away from her, far from the
music, buried and indifferent. She danced with his youth and his death.
21
She hurried. She’d seen them when the waltz was over, running upstairs, he
pulling Marigold after him lightly by the hand. Now a fox-trot had begun. I must
catch her before she gets down again and gets lost.
She waited, leaning against the banisters. A door on the top landing burst open.
She heard Marigold laugh softly in her throat and call out ‘No!’ looking back
over her shoulder as she ran out.
‘Marigold!’
‘Olivia, hullo! … What d’you want?’
Her voice was harsh. She looked startled, staring rather blankly out of a
flushed, somehow dazed face.
‘Marigold, he’s still waiting for you.’
‘Who?’
Her eyes with their dilated pupils opened wide.
‘The blind—’
‘Oh—’ A spasm crossed her face. ‘Timmy! Oh hell, I never went back. How lousy of
me. I did mean to too. I wanted to. Have you been dancing with him? Isn’t he
sweet? I think he’s divine. Honestly, he’s about my favourite man. Isn’t it a
damned shame? … And I’ve never never heard him complain. If it was me I’d shoot
every one I could lay hands on and then myself. But he never seems to get the
blues—he’s always the same. You simply forget about him being—’ Just as before,
she wouldn’t say the word. She continued rapidly: ‘His wife’s awfully nice too.
She’s really awfully nice—’ she frowned—‘but you know—she’s different,—I mean—if
one wanted to be snobby one would say so. She was his nurse. She’s about ten
years older at least. And so fearfully sensible and managing. Of course it’s a
good thing, as they’re so poor, and him being like that—only it makes you feel
he hasn’t any—you know—frothing and frisking in his life. Perhaps he doesn’t
mind. I suppose it was tremendous luck finding some one willing to—Not that you
could make a martyrship out of living with such a darling. Still, I suppose it’s
not every one—I mean, a very young pretty person would probably make a mess of
it. I mean loving wouldn’t be enough. He wants somebody to take him for granted
and make him feel ordinary and safe and practical, and she does that. They do
seem to get on splendidly, and they’ve got a nice ordinary little girl. It’s
amazing to see him going about among the coops and things, on his farm, lifting
the hens off and collecting the eggs, and picking up the tiny chicks when they
scatter—he just seems to see with his fingers—have you noticed his hands?—and he
never stumbles or makes a mistake. I go quite often. He loves being absurd and
making silly jokes—only he needs starting off. Thank heaven you reminded me. …’
She had spoken as if out of a dream, as if scarcely aware of what she meant to
do or say. But suddenly, at the sound of a door opening above her on the
landing, she started, seemed to shake off a kind of haze.
‘I’ll go to him now this minute,’ she said, with intense determination, staring
downwards into the hall as if she could see him, as if she must see only him,
and listen to no one else.
‘I left him in the little room,’ said Olivia.
The dark boy Rex came sauntering towards the stairhead, sleeking his hair. He
didn’t look pleased. She repeated:
‘I’ll go to him now.’ And swiftly, without looking at him, she started to run
away from him down the stairs; seemed to fly and float in her airy skirts from
landing to landing; and vanished through the pillars.
Olivia went down slowly to the first half-landing. There was an armchair there
which she had noticed earlier in the evening. It was covered in white velvet. It
was empty and she sat down in it. I’m very tired. She heard the last
reverberations of the dance roll far away from her. Not one blown flurry from
one wave of it will reach me any more. I don’t care any more. I don’t mind in
the least. To have come to the place of not caring was very soothing, very
peaceful. … I’ve come to it because I’m not going away empty. I’ve had a lot
really, one way and another. What was it that, at the last, had made almost a
richness? Curious fragments, odds and ends of looks, speeches. … Nothing for
myself really. Rollo leaving me to go to Nicola. Rollo and his father smiling at
one another. Peter crying, saying, ‘Are you my friend? …’ Kate looking so happy.
… Waltzing with Timmy. Marigold flying downstairs to him. Yes, I can say I’ve
enjoyed myself. Although my dress … She thought with longing of her dark
bedroom, her bed waiting for her at home. I’m so tired. She went on thinking
drowsily of white velvet, of its whiteness, its sheen and texture, thinking of
the colour of her dress against it … red on white, blood on snow. … Yes. It’s
been extraordinary. … Her eyelids dropped. Half an hour passed.
ϟ
Rosamond Lehmann (1901–1990) was born on the day of Queen Victoria’s funeral, in
Buckinghamshire, England, the second of four children. In 1927, a few years
after graduating from the University of Cambridge, she published her first
novel, Dusty Answer, to critical acclaim and instantaneous celebrity. Lehmann
continued to write and publish between 1930 and 1976, penning works including
The Weather in the Streets, The Ballad and the Source, and the short memoir The
Swan in the Evening. Lehmann was made a Commander of the Order of the British
Empire (CBE) in 1982 and remains one of the most distinguished novelists of the
twentieth century.
Invitation to the Waltz
Conto de Rosamond Lehmann (1932)
sobre o primeiro baile de uma jovem |
by Natasha Tripney
Há uma qualidade atemporal no mundo apresentado
no romance de 1932, de Rosamond Lehmann, agora reeditado pela Virago como parte
de uma série de histórias de amadurecimento de mulheres. Na personagem de Olivia
Curtis, de 17 anos, preparando-se para o seu primeiro grande baile, Lehmann
capta perfeitamente o que é ser ser apanhado entre a meninice e a feminilidade.
Há um estilo quase de fluxo de consciência na escrita de Lehmann enquanto ela
guia o leitor através de cada um desses breves encontros, com o jovem poeta
auto-envolvido, o malandro de meia-idade, homem cego cortês e sensível. Cada
personagem é habilmente esboçado. A longa sombra da guerra recente é subtilmente
evocada, assim como o complexo meio social e a interação entre as irmãs; a
mistura de rivalidade e profundo afeto é maravilhosamente bem desenhada. |
The Guardian
Invitation to the Waltz
excerpts: chapters 14, 20 & 21
A Novel
by Rosamond Lehmann
(1932)
edition: Open Road, New York (2015)
13.Jun.2023
Publicado por
MJA
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