The Weather in the Streets (The Olivia Curtis Novels)

by Rosamond Lehmann

  “I adore her,” said Olivia, gazing at her hostess. “I’ve known her since I was a child. Marigold and I did lessons together.”

  “Did you indeed … did you?” That sends me up a place or two. “What a charming child she was! Dear me, yes; exquisite. …” He stuck his eyeglass in, and blew out a reminiscent sigh. “But she’ll never be what her mother was. Never.”

  “No, I suppose not. The scale’s entirely different for one thing, isn’t it?—the difference between—say a lyric and an ode: an Elizabethan lyric and a grand rolling Miltonic ode.” Another blow for culture, at a venture.

  “Precisely. Very apt.” He was pleased. “Both rare and precious in veir degree—in veir degree Or—, to make a more general comparison, let us say between ve romantic and ve classical. My personal taste has always leaned towards ve classical. Particularly nowadays,” he added mildly, “as I descend gradually towards ve brink of total decrepitude, do I find its austerities and formalities a consolation … But in youf,” he added, smiling with charm, “in youf we can afford to dally wiv caprice and irregularity.”

  “Reason has moons … you know,” she cooed, feeling more and more exquisite.

  “What is vat? It seems unfamiliar …”

  She continued to quote in a dainty voice:

  Reason has moons, but moons not hers

  Lie mirrored on her sea,

  Confounding her astronomers,

  But oh! delighting me!

  “Delighting me too, I’m afraid.” She gave him a slightly wistful smile.

  “Ah!” He meditated, surveying her, owing to the monocle, with one libertine’s orb, and one seraphic one. “A very pretty little case for it. Whevver or no we subscribe to ve doctrine … whevver or no …” He sighed. “Even a horny old crustacean like myself is capable of a sharp unmefodical twinge on spring or autumn evenings … or in ve company of ve young and fair.” Another old-world smile. “Le coeur a ses raisons … I often fink of vat. It’s one of ve trufs we haven’t outgrown yet … not yet.”

  No end to the tossing back and forth of this fragrant nostalgic aesthetical cowslip-ball … In what career had he doubtless distinguished himself—lisp, monocle and all? The aura of authority was around him; drawing-rooms of taste, cultured evening parties seemed his obvious setting; upper-class Egerias his natural companions: all gracefully, spaciously, securely à la recherche du temps perdu. Connoisseur of … collector of … He suggested that sort of thing.

  The savoury was before him now, rich, succulent. He was respecting it with silent gravity and concentration.

  “What a pretty room this is.” Deep sea-blue walls, panelled, picked out in gold leaf, elaborate moulding, ceiling a slight finely turned vault, painted with tumbling sea-nymphs, and glowing wreaths, shells, tritons, and Venus emerging among it all. “It’s such a nice shape.”

  “A gem,” he said with satisfaction. “Unique, I should judge. Although of course vere’s Holkhurst—know Holkhurst? … Ah, you ought to go to Holkhurst. Glorious place. I was vere last week-end. Now, ve dining-room vere—ve small dining-room not ve large one—is after ve same style. Fought to be a copy. Ve detail is distinctly coarser—distinctly coarser.” He spared a moment to stick his monocle in and survey the ceiling; continued: “I sometimes ask myself whevver ve work doesn’t show traces of more van one hand. It’s uneven. Ve painting of ve right-hand group in ve corner, for instance … Vat’s always seemed to me a fought crude …”

  “Yes.” She examined a few wantoning nymphs. “I see what you mean …”

  “Ah, vese treasures are a goodly heritage!” He shot out his monocle with an elastic flick, wiped his moustache and squeaked with sudden violence: “And what’s to happen to vem all? Look at Holkhurst! Look at Hilton! Closed free-quarters of ve year!”

  She hazarded tentatively:

  “I suppose it’s the end of a chapter …?”

  “Yes, ve end of a chapter! Ve end of all aesfetic standards! I ask myself: who’ll care a hundred years from now for art and letters …? I ask myself who …”

  “More people perhaps?” Careful now, careful … His eye was glinting with a fixed fanatical inward spark … Soothe him. “… with more leisure, better education …?”

  “Ach …!” He controlled himself, swallowed, brought his voice down an octave. “Potted! Re-hashed! Distributed cheap to all consumers. Yes, yes, yes. … No doubt. Museums plentiful as blackberries. Ve long gallery at Holkhurst railed off wiv greasy ropes, guides in attendance, ve cheap excursions disgorging at ve gates and shuffling froug …” Overcome yet assuaged by the drama of the conjured vision, he added with quiet and mournful solemnity: “Yes. Sometimes when I look round I tell myself: Yes, all I care for’s well-nigh had its day, and so have I, fank God …”

  It was best to smile deprecatingly, sympathetically. One more false step and he might leave the table; or at best awake with indigestion in the night.

  He continued with nobility:

  “One must try to take ve long view—ve historical perspective … But what goes to my heart”—he leaned towards her, and muttered—“is to see vem so hard up. It does indeed. Ve worry tells on vem. Vey put a brave face on it but ve worry tells. It’s told on him.” He jerked his monocle in the direction of Sir John.

  “I’m afraid it has … An estate like this must be a terrible problem these days.”

  “Parting wiv ve Rembrandt was a terrible blow. And heaven knows what’ll have to go next!” Another jerk, towards Rollo. “What’s to happen in his time I can’t imagine. Unless he contrives to make some money. He’s very able—oh, very able … Of course, a—an advantageous marriage would have helped matters, but vere it is … We couldn’t wish vat uvverwise. Wiv a young man of his mettle, ve highest fings come first … Dear Nicky … Do you know his wife, his Nicola?”

  “Only by sight.”

  “Beautiful creature, charming creature … Ve most devoted couple … No, one cannot wish vat uvverwise … Only”—he sank his voice to a mutter—“one could wish her stronger.”

  “Is she so very delicate?”

  “Raver delicate, I fear. Very poor helf. Poor dear. Hmm. Pity.” He cleared his throat and continued in stronger tones: “Ah, but when I call to mind ve way life was lived once here! … in ve old days … before ve War … What happy times we had, to be sure! Everybody came here in vose days. Veir weekend parties were famous … She had vat extraordinary knack of getting ve best out of everybody …” It was like reading a Times obituary notice. “Ah dear!” He laughed wistfully. “I shall never forget some of ve charades. Quite elaborate dramatic performances vey used to develop into: everybody used to dress up and have a part: even ve butler and ve ladies’ maids. Dear me! I remember a maid of my wife’s wiv ve most remarkable soprano—untrained, of course, but really charming. Vere was some idea of paying for her training … I don’t fink anyfing came of it … I was always called upon to provide ve musical accompaniment. Hours I spent at ve piano … very small beer, you know—I was never a composer—but it served,—it served. My wife and Millicent—Lady Spencer, you know—bof had pretty musical voices, trained voices, and vey used to sing duets … Why does nobody sing nowadays?”

  The image came up sharp to her mind’s eye: Blanche and Millicent, in white, with hour-glass waists and rosebuds sewn all over their flounces, standing up together by the piano, all splendid curves and sparkle, opening their unpainted lips and warbling out duets. Dear me! … And there sat one of them, opposite, elderly, powerful and sober, frowning a little, giving some view with obvious trenchancy: practical farming perhaps or the housing committee; the other, a few places up, cracking a walnut with deliberation, unwieldy, rather torpid, stertorous-looking: both in black. Dear me! …

  “I remember so well—little Guy, as Eros, in a classical charade—wiv his little winged cap, and a bow … and miffing else on … how enchanting he looked … How it shocked some
of ve neighbours … Dear oh dear! Did you know Guy? What a dear handsome boy he was! …”

  “No, I never saw Guy. I suppose I was just too young.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I was forgetting. Yes. Of course. It was long before your time …”

  “I’ve seen his portrait often. He looks wonderful.”

  The charcoal head of him as a boy, by Sargent: an Edwardian dream-child with romantic hair, and one of those long necks in an open cricket shirt …

  “Ve flower of ve flock …”

  But he died for England: going over the top, at the head of his men, shot through the heart … All as it should be. And they’d done what could be done: worn white for mourning; put a memorial window in the church; collected his letters and poems and all the tributes to him, had them printed for private circulation. All bore witness—nurses, governesses, schoolmasters, broken-hearted friends—all said the same: gay, brilliant, winning, virtuous, brave Guy: pattern of the eldest son …

  “I remember—a very handsome boy, a cousin—called Archie—” she hazarded. For of course he must be Archie’s father: yet one never knew: Archie might have died, or turned out a problem or a disgrace …

  “Ah, you knew Archie, did you? My young hopeful … Young scamp vat he was …” His voice seemed to lose warmth, to suggest dissatisfaction, perhaps reluctance. “Yes, he spent a good deal of his time here as a schoolboy. His aunt was extraordinarily good to him … extraordinarily good. She had a weakness for him …” He shook his head. It was clear that Archie was no part of the pink sunset glow of the past. “We had no settled home in England ven of course … It was during my last governorship …”

  “Oh, yes, of course …” So that was it. But where? Where are Governors? …

  Sir Ronald turned to his other neighbour.

  “Cigarette, Olivia?”

  “Thank you.” She turned joyfully to Rollo. The way he said “Olivia” sounded pleasant and strange, setting up a kind of echo in her ears. She met his eye, ironical, over the lighter he held out to her.

  “The point is,” she murmured, “nothing is as good as it was before we knew about it.”

  “And any one dead is automatically superior to any one alive … All the same, if he was telling you what a much better person Guy was than me, you can believe him. It happens to be the truth. Dear old Guy, he was a good chap, he really was. He had that dead right touch …”

  “Do you miss him very much?”

  “I did once. Mostly I forget him now.” He relit his cigar. “Occasionally I still feel a vague impersonal annoyance when I reflect on the waste … and the inferior article’s aptitude for survival. Mine I mean.”

  She said nothing. After a bit he went on in the same colourlessly reflective voice:

  “He loathed the war, it shocked him, he believed in God. I’m never shocked. I dare say I’d have taken very kindly to the war … Dash it all, most people did, didn’t they?”

  “I suppose it was easy to get apathetic … One can’t keep up horror and indignation … They’re too wearing.”

  “They’re no good anyway.”

  “Why not?” There he goes again …” Surely one must believe something’s some good?”

  “Oh, rather …” He puffed away at his cigar, narrowing his eyes; then continued: “What I should like is to be able to keep my head—sort of on the sly—wouldn’t you?—whatever I found myself involved in … I feel that might be some good.”

  “Some satisfaction, you mean. Awfully superior feeling.”

  “Well, no.” He nibbled his forefinger, frowning a little. “It’s a kind of belief, really …”

  “Living privately—no matter how publicly …?”

  “Something of that, perhaps …”

  Marigold called across the table:

  “Rollo, haven’t you got a foul temper?”

  “Foul.”

  “Mummy’s saying none of her children ever quarrelled. Did you ever! I can remember when I was about four, looking down from the top landing and seeing you and Archie trying to throw each other over the banisters.”

  “Marigold, what nonsense.”

  “Well, I did. Didn’t I, Rollo?”

  “Don’t remember. I dare say you did, though.”

  “I was thrilled.”

  “It was a game, you silly girl,” said Lady Spencer, almost annoyed.

  “Well, it wasn’t. Because they didn’t make any noise at all. It was like a fight in a film. That’s how I suddenly realised they meant it. I’ve never forgotten it.”

  “You dreamt it.”

  “Well, fancy not wanting us to have tempers,” said Marigold, subsiding with a pout. “We’re not eunuchs.”

  There was laughter; and the table broke up again, into separate pieces.

  “What’s happened to Archie?” said Olivia, low to Rollo.

  “Oh, he hangs around … When did you last see him?”

  “At Marigold’s coming-out party. He made rather an impression.”

  “Oh, did he?” Rather harsh, hostile voice.

  “He was the beautifullest young man I’d ever seen.”

  “Was he? He’s gone off a bit, I fear. He’s put on a tummy and his hair’s a bit thin.”

  “Oh, how sad.”

  “Terribly sad. I’m afraid he’s worried.”

  “Also he was the first drunk person I’d ever talked to. It was a shock.”

  “Oh, was he a bore?”

  “It wasn’t so much that. It was something more general—more important. About people changing and forgetting—and not meaning what they said … It turned life suddenly into such a black problem—too much to go through with almost. When one’s young and gets a knock, all humanity seems involved … As a matter of fact that was why I went out on the terrace …”

  “Where I also had gone for a breath of air …” He stared at a wine-glass, turning it in his hand. “Very odd.”

  They were silent … And when we came in again, Archie was shouting for Nicola. Rollo shouldered him out of his way, it was clear then, the impact of their dislike and jealousy … Nicola came down the stairs and held her hand up.

  “And ever since then,” he said, “I’ve wanted to see you again.”

  She looked quickly away from him, round the table. It sounded preposterous—like a voice in a dream.

  “So have I …”

  Change was in the air. The wheels were running down. Lady Spencer and Aunt Blanche were on their feet. Rollo stood up and pulled her chair back without looking at her at all. Lady Spencer held out a hand affectionately as she passed and drew her on into the doorway.

  Replete, at ease, smoothing their hips, warming their backs, the ladies stood round the drawing-room fire … Now Mari gold and I will talk … But no. Marigold, wandering absently, touching things with vague fingers, sketching fragmentary smiles, powdering her nose without looking at it, said suddenly:

  “Mummy, I must dash up and see Nannie. I promised I would. She’s got hurt feelings because we haven’t had a heart-to-heart, and you know what that means … purple patches on her neck and hell for the housemaids. I shan’t be longer than I can help.”

  She darted out of the room without so much as a glance in Olivia’s direction. As if she’d forgotten my existence. Nothing could have been more disconcertingly typical. She hadn’t changed at all; still restlessly appearing and disappearing, suddenly attentive, suddenly remote; like a cat.

  “Poor old Nannie.” Lady Spencer looked thoughtful. “She’s getting very difficult. She’s so rheumatic and crotchety and trying with the young servants … But what’s one to do?”

  “Can’t you pension her off?” said Aunt Blanche.

  “That’s what I’d like to do, but where’s she to go? She’s hardly got any relations left—only one old married sister somewhere in Wales, and the
y don’t get on. And she won’t just take it easy here and potter about. It would break her heart to feel she’s not useful any more. And of course she lives for the children’s visits. Marigold’s so sweet to her.”

  “I often think,” said Cousin Mary, sitting down and drawing a piece of tapestry work from a large black silk bag, “what a sad life it is to be a Nannie. I’m sure I don’t know what I’m going to do with mine. John goes to school next term and the guvvie will take on both girls in the schoolroom. There’ll really be nothing for the poor dear to do. I suppose I might keep her on for sewing. She’s very clever at loose covers and so forth. But Harry thinks we shouldn’t afford it.” She sighed complacently, threading a needle.

  “And then of course you do so much sewing yourself.” Aunt Blanche sat down with a heave and a creak, knees spread, legs planted foursquare on a pair of incongruously elegant narrow feet.

  “I make most of the girl’s clothes, of course,” said Mary, in a modest voice.

  “Marvellous.”

  “It’s a saving, of course.”

  “What’s that you’re on now?” Aunt Blanche put up a lorgnette and leaned forward tremendously to peer. “Jolly colours.”

  “Do you like it?” Mary smoothed out the canvas, appearing to deprecate it. “It is rather a nice design. Tudor.”

  “Mary always did lovely work,” sighed Lady Spencer. “Do you remember, dear, the cushion you did for me, years ago? It’s in my boudoir to this day.”

  “Oh, that!” She looked scornful. “Quilted. I remember. It wasn’t a bad pattern.”

  “I wish I was clever with my fingers.”

  “I can’t bear having idle hands,” Mary confessed gently, “I got the children’s winter jumpers finished, and stockings for John, so I thought to myself, well, why shouldn’t I give myself a treat and do something in the ornamental line for a change.”