Civil to Strangers and Other Writings

by Barbara Pym

  There was a silence which was broken by the sound of someone banging on the carved wooden door on which Gervase had hurt his hands. Was there no bell in this curious place? he wondered.

  ‘Excuse me, please, that is my daughter. I must attend to her.’

  Fru Lindblom went out of the room closing the door behind her. Gervase could hear the murmur of voices. This seemed to go on for a very long time, then after a while there came the sound of weeping. Gervase saw himself a prisoner in this house until the tears were dried. Resolutely, though with some embarrassment, he opened the door and went into the other room.

  Mrs Lindblom was sitting at the table weeping. Her hand was resting on the body of the plucked bird. Ingeborg was standing beside her mother, her face buried in her hands and her shoulders shaking. She was wearing a heavy coat of some coarse, long-haired fur, which looked to Gervase’s inexperienced eye very much like a hearth-rug. On her head was a black velvet cap edged with fur. Her feet were clad in heavy snow-boots and her legs and the hands which were hiding her face were very thin. When Gervase came in she raised her head and looked at him for a moment. She had a thin, delicately modelled face and long straight flaxen hair. When she had taken Gervase in, she covered her face with her hands and went on weeping. Her whole body drooped and she seemed to sway. Gervase ran forward and, putting his arm around her furry shoulders, supported her to a seat beside the table. He then placed himself between the two weeping women and, turning first to one and then to the other, tried to find out what was the matter. But he could make out nothing clearly. Fru Lindblom seemed to have forgotten her excellent English. It was immensely unfortunate. So much he could have guessed. Perhaps it was something to do with the bird, for Fru Lindblom kept laying her hand upon it from time to time as if the feel of it under her fingers gave her some obscure sort of comfort. He made a move towards the door, but that caused Fru Lindblom to break into fresh lamentations and it was not until he had promised to return the next day that she would let him go. Outside, he looked at his watch and saw that it was four o’clock. O blessed four o’clock, tea-time. He hurried gratefully back to his aunt’s house where such good English customs were still observed.

  Gervase stood examining a faded sepia photograph of a sickly-looking young man in a high clerical collar. He nerved himself to speak. He was annoyed to find that his manner had lost something of its firmness and that his voice sounded almost timid.

  ‘I have found lodgings with a Finnish family and I will be moving in at once,’ he said.

  To his surprise his aunt seemed almost relieved at his news. Indeed she had begun to find the presence of a young man in the house slightly disruptive of her comfort, and so she merely said graciously that she would always be pleased to see him at her At Home days and the matter was settled.

  Gervase had telephoned Fru Lindblom the evening before and she had told him, in a voice mercifully free of tears or any other sort of emotion, that the room would be ready for him the next day.

  As the days went by Gervase became quite at home. He liked Fru Lindblom, in spite of her melancholy manner, although he could make little of Ingeborg. She seemed to be a negative personality, sitting in the room busy with an interminable piece of knitting in an ugly shade of fawn. Gervase hoped it was not for him, though its shape did not look like that of any known masculine garment. It was probably something for herself, for she was not at all elegant in her dress although she had a graceful, slender figure and pretty flaxen hair. She did not often smile and Gervase had never heard her laugh. She went to an art school, studying some mysterious form of art, but not wood-carving. She and her mother had never repeated the curious and distressing scene that had taken place on the day of his first visit, but Gervase was always rather nervous of a repetition and went hastily out of the room when they began talking together vehemently in Swedish.

  Gervase’s first visit to his aunt was not on her At Home day since he felt more able to cope with her on her own. As he went into the drawing room he sensed a decided air of excitement and she made several references to a surprise. As they drank their tea Miss Moberley kept smiling to herself as if she had a secret that was amusing her. Conversation, though, was much as usual, dealing as it did with the better families, in England and in Helsingfors, that Miss Moberley had known, so that Gervase, who had not been listening very attentively, was taken by surprise when Miss Moberley announced that she was expecting Flora Palfrey to come and visit her.

  Gervase felt himself going hot and cold. A net was closing round him. An English girl of good family was being brought out to Helsingfors to marry him. Miss Moberley, Flora herself and, in all probability, Canon Palfrey as well had decided that it should be so.

  The day came for Flora’s arrival and he went reluctantly to tea at his aunt’s, part of the welcoming party. Flora was a tall, big-boned girl with a fresh complexion and large, bright, intelligent grey eyes. Her mouth was broad and she was always laughing or smiling. She had light brown hair with golden streaks in it. Most people described her as handsome or comely. Had she been smaller and older, her manner might almost have been bustling, but as it was she was energetic and cheerful, a jolly girl. Gervase thought she was alarming, never more so than at this moment when she almost bounded into the room, a green tweed figure with a silver fox over one shoulder, its glassy eyes staring out from her breast.

  ‘Aunt Emily! I can call you Aunt Emily?’ Flora had a clear, pleasant voice. ‘I have imagined this moment for three weeks, and now it’s really here!’ She embraced Miss Moberley firmly, towering above her.

  ‘Well, dear Flora,’ Miss Moberley sounded slightly overwhelmed, ‘you must have some tea and toast.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. I’m simply exhausted. A cup of tea will revive me beautifully.’

  Whatever would a revived Flora be like? Gervase wondered. After tea Miss Moberley made some excuse to leave them alone together and Flora turned to Gervase. ‘Well, this is nice, isn’t it?’ she said, her voice losing a little of its certainty.

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Gervase heartily. ‘I’m extremely glad to see you.’ He took out his cigarette case and offered her one. He stood over her with a match. There was a pause while she took a light from it.

  ‘Oh, Gervase,’ she said, keeping her hand on his, ‘why didn’t you answer any of my letters? You could at least have sent a postcard of the Hauptbahnhof if there is one.’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed, it’s quite celebrated. But you know that I’m a bad letter writer,’ he said lamely. Could one also claim to be a bad postcard writer? he wondered.

  ‘It would have been much nicer coming here if I had thought you wanted to see me,’ persisted Flora.

  ‘But I do want to see you,’ said Gervase, putting his arm around her shoulders. ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you do.’ Flora did not sound convinced, but then neither had Gervase.

  In a few days Flora knew everybody and was going everywhere. She was a great success with the English colony, some of whom even went so far as to hint to Gervase that he was a lucky man. Flora herself was, however (or Gott sei dank, as she would have said), less trying than he had feared she would be. After her display of affection on their first meeting she had more or less ignored him, or at least made no special attempt to seek his company. She was even learning Swedish and Finnish and knew more than Gervase did, which annoyed him considerably.

  One evening Gervase was getting ready to go out to a social evening at the Reverend Augustine Boulding’s – he was the English chaplain in Helsingfors and, as such, constantly criticized by Miss Moberley, who made a point of remembering how much better everything had been done in her father’s time. Gervase had promised to meet Flora there, feeling that there would be safety in numbers. As he dressed he heard the sound of raised voices in Swedish, but he took little notice since it was not unusual.

  Suddenly the door of his room opened and in rushed Ingeborg. When she saw Gervase tying his tie she stopped and stood in the doorw
ay with a wild look on her face. She was dishevelled, with the tears still wet on her cheeks.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Gervase.

  ‘Oh, I wish I were dead,’ she moaned. ‘I cannot stay here, it is unbearable!’

  ‘Why, what is the matter?’ Gervase took her hand. Although he saw little of her he was fond of her and wanted to comfort her. She was so weak and dependent, and yet somehow aloof.

  ‘Oh, I am so immensely unhappy.’ This was a favourite expression of both mother and daughter and they said it so often that Gervase had learned not to attach very much importance to it. But now Ingeborg began to cry again.

  ‘Take me away, please, take me away now. I cannot stay here,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Where shall I take you, Ingeborg?’ asked Gervase gently, getting out his handkerchief and wiping away her tears.

  ‘Oh, take me away anywhere. Where you are going tonight, take me there.’

  He stroked her hand. It was thin and rather rough.

  ‘You can come with me to Augustine Boulding’s if you like. It might take your mind off your troubles.’

  ‘Augustine Boulding?’ repeated Ingeborg in a wondering tone. ‘What is that?’

  Gervase laughed. ‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘Hurry up and get ready.’

  Ingeborg went quickly from the room. In an amazingly short time she was back again, wearing a black lace dress. She was very pale and had put on neither rouge nor lipstick, but Gervase thought that she looked curiously beautiful. Just as they were going out Fru Lindblom came in from the kitchen. She had quite recovered her equanimity.

  ‘It is kind of you to take Ingeborg out,’ she said. ‘An old woman is not a good companion for a young girl. We know that young girls like to be with young men. I am glad to see you together.’

  Ingeborg looked rather uncomfortable and moved towards the door. As they walked along she said, ‘Must I speak English tonight? It is so difficult.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid the people we are going to meet will not be speaking much Swedish,’ said Gervase.

  The first person they saw on entering the room was Flora, sitting by Miss Moberley, who examined Ingeborg carefully.

  ‘I think that must be Fru Lindblom’s daughter,’ she said. ‘She looks a quiet, genteel sort of girl, no paint or powder and quite a plain black dress.’

  Flora advanced to greet them.

  Ingeborg smiled at her and blushed nervously. ‘I don’t speak English much,’ she said.

  ‘Flora is learning Swedish,’ said Gervase unkindly.

  Ingeborg at once began talking rapidly in her native language while Flora stood by with a bewildered expression on her face.

  ‘I really don’t understand very much,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Ingeborg. They both laughed.

  Flora took her arm. ‘Come and have something to eat,’ she said. ‘No, Gervase, I think we will go by ourselves. Ingeborg and I will prefer to talk on our own.’

  ‘What about?’ asked Gervase suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, Herz und Schmerz,’ said Flora lightly.

  ‘Dichtung und Wahrheit,’ continued Ingeborg, who had now quite brightened up.

  *

  After a while Gervase went over to Flora and Ingeborg.

  ‘Have you had your talk?’ he asked indulgently.

  ‘Yes, we have become great friends,’ said Flora in a clear penetrating voice. She turned to Ingeborg and wished her good night. Gervase heard them arranging to meet for coffee one afternoon.

  ‘Oh, I like Flora,’ said Ingeborg enthusiastically, as they were driving home in a taxi. ‘Oh, fancy that I should find such a friend!’ She had quite recovered from her brooding unhappy mood of earlier in the evening. Now it was Gervase who was brooding. He resented Ingeborg’s high spirits. He wanted them to be together in their unhappiness.

  Flora sat up in bed and untied the turquoise blue ribbon which was supposed to keep her hair tidy during the night. But the bed was so comfortable that it was some minutes before she could bring herself to get out of it. When she put her feet on to the floor the carpet was thick and warm. Everything in the room was solid and heavy and good. The same adjectives could be applied to the pictures, Flora thought. There were a great many rich oil paintings of unknown places, but her favourite was a portrait of the late Bishop Burton, which hung, rather curiously she thought, over the bed.

  At breakfast Miss Moberley was in a minatory mood.

  ‘Your father has had a hard life,’ she declared surprisingly. ‘I know that you, his daughter, the apple of his eye, are not going to disappoint him.’

  Flora murmured something about hoping so too.

  ‘There is a responsibility resting on you, as there is on every daughter. I think you should realize that a young girl of good family has to be careful whom she encourages. People of good family stand out in a foreign town. Their example will be followed.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt Emily, do you mean that I have been setting a bad example to the Finns?’

  ‘Well, dear, that may be putting it rather strongly, but you should not let them take advantage of your good nature. Rhoda told me that a Finn had called here yesterday and asked for you. You can be quite civil to him when you meet, but don’t encourage him to seek your company.’

  ‘His name is Ooli Ruomini-Forstenborg. He is a student of Gervase’s and of very good family. I met him at Mr Boulding’s. Perhaps Mr Boulding would be a suitable match for me?’

  Miss Moberley spoke of Mr Boulding with carefully modified rapture. He was a good-living man, sound in his views, an able preacher but he was not quite good enough for their dear Flora.

  ‘I must be very wonderful,’ said Flora rather bitterly. ‘Is there anyone who is good enough for me? I feel that there may not be. I feel that I may be condemned to keep myself to myself all my life.’

  ‘Now, Flora,’ said Miss Moberley archly, ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you what is suitable and what is not. I have already told Gervase of my feelings in the matter. He understands.’

  Oh, poor Gervase, thought Flora. ‘You must let things take their course,’ she said lightly. ‘Now that you have drawn such a flattering portrait of me, I feel I could do better for myself. Ingeborg Lindblom had a proposal of marriage from a German Baron. I’m not going to be outdone!’

  ‘Then she is engaged?’ asked Miss Moberley.

  ‘Oh, no, she refused him. Her mother was furious with her and never lets her forget it. She makes Ingeborg’s life a misery.’

  ‘Poor Mrs Lindblom,’ said Miss Moberley, ‘what a terrible thing.’

  ‘Poor Ingeborg!’ said Flora indignantly. ‘It is hard for her to be called an undutiful daughter simply because she refused to marry a man she didn’t love.’

  Flora’s eyes grew bright and sentimental.

  Flora often wondered what would become of her. She had been in love with Gervase for so long that she could not imagine a life in which he had no part. Nor, on the other hand, could she imagine a life in which he returned her love. That would somehow spoil the picture she had made of herself. It was an interesting picture, very dear to her, and she could not bear the idea of it being spoilt. Noble, faithful, long-suffering, although not without its funny side, it was like something out of Tchekov, she thought. The first two years were the worst, she reflected calmly. She could tell any young woman that. But it was really no use entering upon an unrequited passion unless you were prepared to keep it up for at least five years. Seven years was best. There was something very noble about loving a person for seven years and getting nothing in return.

  Flora stood looking out of the window. She liked watching people in the street. She was always hoping that flowers would arrive for her from an unknown admirer. She saw Gervase hurrying along towards the house. He was wearing his blue overcoat (now lined with fur) but he looked cold and in a bad temper.

  ‘What have you been doing all morning?’ he asked as she let him in.

  ‘Oh, I have had breakfast. I have
talked a great deal. I have tidied my room and manicured my nails. I have read a poem by Cleveland. Oh Gervase.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘“Not one of all these ravenous hours, but thee devours.” That was Cleveland’s message to me this morning.’

  ‘A very solemn thought,’ said Gervase, looking down at her rosy nails against his coat sleeve. ‘You shouldn’t read Cleveland in the morning. I’m not sure that he’s worth reading anyway.’

  ‘Aunt Emily and I had a talk this morning about marriage and marrying people you didn’t love.’ Flora paused. ‘Did Ingeborg tell you about her German Baron?’

  ‘No. She never confides in me,’ said Gervase rather evasively.

  Flora told him the story.

  ‘So that’s why the mother and daughter are always quarrelling and weeping,’ said Gervase. ‘Well, well, it would surely have been much simpler if Ingeborg had married him.’

  ‘Oh, Gervase, what a sordid attitude towards marriage!’ Flora linked her arm through his.

  ‘I have no “attitude towards marriage” as you call it,’ he said. ‘I simply said that because it seemed to me the simplest way out of a difficulty. Indeed, isn’t it usually that?’ he added, disengaging Flora’s arm as tactfully as he could.

  ‘Well at least you agree with St Paul that it is better to marry than to burn,’ persisted Flora.

  ‘One isn’t usually offered the alternative,’ said Gervase, ‘and, anyway, I am not in the habit of agreeing with St Paul.’

  Flora felt suddenly depressed. This afternoon she was having tea with Ingeborg. It would be nice to see her again, but what else could their meeting be but an outpouring of sorrow on both sides?

  Flora was feeling more cheerful as she walked to Fazer’s where she had arranged to meet Ingeborg for tea. She saw some nice fur shoes in a shop window. Were they made of reindeer skin? Should she buy them? It was lovely being in a really Northern country. You could walk about in a fur coat, snow-boots and a fur hat and feel perfectly natural and at the same time like something out of a Russian film.