The Flower Beneath the Foot

by Ronald Firbank

  “If she loved him absolutely,” she told herself, as she turned the handle of her door, “she would not care about the colour of the sky —; even if it snowed, or hailed!”

  Depositing her fan upon the lid of an old wedding-chest that formed a couch, she smiled contentedly about her. It would be a wrench abandoning this little apartment that she had identified already with herself, when the day should come to leave it for others more spacious in the Keep. Although scarcely the size of a ship’s cabin, it was amazing how many people one could receive together at a time merely by pushing the piano back against the wall, and wheeling the wedding-chest on to the stairs, and once no fewer than seventeen persons had sat down to a birthday fête, without being made too much to feel like herrings. In the so-called salon, divided from her bedroom by a folding lacquer screen, hung a few studies in oils executed by herself, and which, except to the initiated, or the naturally instinctive, looked sufficiently enigmatic against a wall-paper with a stealthy design.

  Yes it would be a wrench to quit the little place, she reflected, as she began setting about her toilet for the night. It was agreeable going to bed late without anybody’s aid, when one could pirouette interestingly before the mirror in the last stages of déshabille, and do a thousand (and one) things besides [2] that one might otherwise lack the courage for. But this evening being in no frivolous mood, she changed her ball-dress swiftly for a robe-de-chambre bordered deeply with ermins, that made her feel nearer somehow to Yousef, and helped her to realise, in its various facets, her position as future Queen.

  “Queen!” she breathed, trailing her fur flounces towards the window.

  Already the blue revolving lights of the Café Cleopatra were growing paler with the dawn, and the moon had veered a little towards the Convent of the Flaming-Hood.

  Ah… how often as a lay boarder there had she gazed up towards the palace wondering half-shrinkingly what life “in the world” was like; for there had been a period indeed, when the impulse to take the veil had been strong with her—more, perhaps, to be near one of the nuns whom she had idolised than from any more immediate vocation.

  She remained immersed in thoughts, her introspectiveness fanned insensibly by the floating zephyrs that spring with morning, the slight sway-sway of the trees, the awakening birds in the castle eaves, the green-veined bougainvilleas that fringed the sill—these thrilled her heart with joy. All virginal in the early dawn what magic the world possessed! Slow speeding clouds like knots of pink roses came blowing across the sky, sailing away in titanic bouquets above the town.

  Just such a morning should be their wedding-day! she mused, beginning lightly to apply the contents of a jar of Milk of Almonds to her breast and arms. Ah, before that Spina Christi lost its leaves, or that swallow should migrate… that historic day would come!

  Troops… hysteria… throngs… The Blue Jesus packed to suffocation… She could envisage it all.

  And there would be a whole holiday in the Convent, she reflected falling drowsily at her bedside to her knees.

  “Oh! help me heaven,” she prayed, “to be decorative and to do right! Let me always look young, never more than sixteen or seventeen—at the very outside, and let Yousef love me—as much as I do him. And I thank you for creating such a darling, God (for he’s a perfect dear), and I can’t tell you how much I love him; especially when he wags it! I mean his tongue… Bless all the sisters at the Flaming-Hood—above all Sister Ursula… and be sweet, besides, to old Jane… Shew me the straight path! And keep me ever free from the malicious scandal of the Court: Amen.”

  And her orisons (ending in a brief self-examination) over. Mademoiselle de Nazianzi climbed into bed.

  III

  IN the Salle de Prince or Cabinet d’Antoine, above the Café Cleopatra, Madame Wetme the wife of the proprietor, sat perusing the Court gazettes.

  It was not often that a cabinet particulier like Antoine was disengaged at luncheon time, being as a rule reserved many days in advance, but it had been a ‘funny’ season, as the saying went, and there was the possibility that a party of late-risers might look in yet (officers, or artistes from the Halls), who had been passing a night on the, tiles., But Madame Wetme trusted not. It was pleasant to escape every now and again from her lugubrious back-drawing-room that only faced a wall, or to peruse the early newspapers without having first to wait for them. And to-day precisely was the day for the hebdomadal causerie in the Jaw-waws’ Journal on matters appertaining to society, signed by that ever popular diarist “Eva Schnerb.”

  “Never,” Madame Wetme read, “was a gathering more brilliant than that which I witnessed last night! I stood in a corner of the Great ball room and literally gasped at the wealth of jewels… Beauty and bravery abounded but no one, I thought, looked better than our most-gracious Queen, etc… Among the supper-guests I saw their Excellencies Prince and Princess Paul de Pismiche,—the Princess impressed me as being just a trifle pale: she is by no means strong, and unhappily our nefarious climate does not agree with everybody! Their Excellencies, Sir Somebody and Lady Something (Miss Ivy Something charming in cornflower charmeuse danced indefatigably all the evening, as did also one of the de Lambèse girls). The Count and Countess of Tolga—she all in blue furs and literally ablaze with gorgeous gems (I hear on excellent authority she is shortly relinquishing her post of Woman of the Bedchamber which she finds is really too arduous for her). The Duchess of Varna, looking veritably radiant (by the way where has she been?) in the palest of pistachio-green mashlaks, which are all the rage at present.

  Have you a Mashlak?

  Owing to the visit of King Jotifa and Queen Thleeanouhee, the Eastern mashlak is being worn by many of the smart women about the Court. I saw an example at the Opera the other night in silver and gold lamé that I thought too—”

  Madame Wetme broke off to look up, as a waiter entered the room.

  “Did Madame ring?”

  “No!…”

  “Then it must have been, Ptolomy!” the young man murmured, bustling out.

  “I daresay. When will you know your bells?” Madame Wetme retorted, returning with a headshake to the gazette: Her beloved Eva was full of information this week and breathlessly she read on:

  “I saw Minnie, Lady Violetrock (whose daughter Sonia is being educated here) at the garden fête the other day, at the Château des Fleurs, looking chic as she always does, in a combination of petunia and purple ninon raffling a donkey.

  “I hear on the best authority that before the Court goes to the Summer-Palace later on, there will be at least one more Drawing-room. Applications, from those entitled to attend, should be made to the Lord Chamberlain as soon as possible.”

  One more Drawing-room —! the journal fell from Madame Wetme’s hand.

  “I’m getting on now,” she reflected, “and if I’m not presented soon, I never will be…”

  She raised imploring eyes to the mural imagery—to the “Cleopatra couchant,” to the “Arrival of Anthony,” to the “Sphinx,” to the “Temple of Ra,” as though seeking inspiration: “Ah my God!” she groaned.

  But Madame Wetme’s religion, her cruel God, was the Chic: The God Chic.

  The sound of music from below reached her faintly. There was not a better orchestra (even at the Palace) than that which discoursed at the Café Cleopatra—and they played, the thought had sometimes pleased her, the same identical tunes! “Does it say when?” she murmured, reopening the gazette. No: But it would be “before” the Court left… . And when would that be?

  “I have good grounds for believing,” she continued to read: “that in order to meet his creditors, the Duke of Varna is selling a large portion of his country estate.”

  If it were true… Madame Wetme’s eyes rested in speculation on the Oleanders in the great flower-tubs before the Café, if it were true, why the Varnas must be desperate, and the Duchess ready to do anything. “Anything—for remuneration,” she murmured, rising and going towards a table usually used for correspondence.
And seating herself with a look of decision, she opened a leather writing-pad, full of crab-coloured ink-marked blotting paper.

  In the fan-shaped mirror above the writing-table she could see herself in fancy, all veils and aigrettes, as she would be on “the day” when coiffed by Ernst.

  “Among a bevy of charming débutantes, no one looked more striking than Madame Wetme, who was presented by the Duchess of Varna.” Being a client of the house (with an unpaid bill) she could dictate to Eva… But first, of course, she must secure the Duchess. And taking up her pen she wrote: “Madame Wetme would give the Duchess of Varna fifty thousand crowns to introduce her at Court.” A trifle terse perhaps?? Madame Wetme considered. How if the Duchess should take offence… It was just conceivable! And besides, by specifying no fixed sum, she might be got for less.

  “Something more mysterious, more delicate in style…” Madame Wetme murmured with a sigh, beginning the letter anew:

  “If the Duchess of Varna will call on Madame Wetme this afternoon, about five, and partake of a cup of tea, she will hear of something to her advantage.”

  Madame Wetme smiled: “That should get her!” she reflected, and selecting an envelope, she directed it boldly to the Ritz. “Being hard up, she is sure to be there!” she reasoned, as she left the room in quest of a page.

  The French maid of the Duchess of Varna was just putting on her mistress’s shoes, in a private sitting-room at the Ritz, when Madame Wetme’s letter arrived.

  The pleasure of being in the capital once more, after a long spell of the country, had given her an appetite for her lunch and she was feeling braced after an excellent meal.

  “I shall not be back, I expect, till late, Louison,” she said to her maid, “and should anyone enquire where I am, I shall either be at the Palace, or at the Skating-Rink.”

  “Madame la Duchesse will not be going to her corsetier’s?”

  “It depends if there’s time. What did I do with my shopping-list?” the Duchess replied, gathering up abstractedly a large, becoroneted vanity-case and a parasol. She had a gown of khaki and daffodil and a black tricorne hat trimmed with green. “Give me my other sunshade, the jade—and don’t forget —: On me trouvera, Soit au Palais Royal, soit, au Palais de Glace!” she enjoined sailing quickly out.

  Leaving the Ritz by a side door, she found herself in a quiet, shady street, bordering the Regina Gardens. Above a sky so blue, so clear, so luminous seemed to cry out: “Nothing matters! Why worry? Be sanguine! Amuse yourself! Nothing matters!”

  Traversing the gardens, her mind pre-occupied by Madame Wetme’s note, the Duchess branched off into a busy thoroughfare, leading towards the Opera, in whose vicinity lay the city’s principal shops. To learn of anything to one’s advantage was, of course, always welcome, but there were various other claims upon her besides that afternoon, which she was unable, or loath to ignore—the palace, a thé dansant or two, and then her favourite rink… although the unfortunate part was, most of the rink instructors were still unpaid, and, on the last occasion she had hired a man to waltz with her, he had taken advantage of the fact by pressing her waist with greater freedom than she felt he need have done.

  Turning into the Opera Square with its fine arcades, she paused, half furtively, before a Florist’s shop. Only her solicitors and a few in the secret were aware that the premises known as Habouhet of Egypt were her own; for fearful lest they might be occupied one day by sheriffs’ officers, the little business venture had been kept the closest mystery. Lilies “from Karnak” Roses “from the Land of Punt” (all grown in the gardens of her country house, in the purlieus of the capital) found immediate and daily favour among amateurs of the choice. Indeed as her gardener frequently said, the demand for Roses from the Land of Punt, was more than he could possibly cope with without an extra man.

  “I may as well run in and take whatever there’s in the till,” she reflected— “not that, I fear, there’s much…”

  The superintendent, a slim Tunisian boy, was crouching pitcher-posture upon the floor, chanting languidly to himself, his head supported by an osier pannier lately arrived from “Punt.”

  ‘‘Up, Bachir!” the Duchess upbraided. “Remember the fresh consignments perish, while you dream there and sing.”

  The young Tunisian smiled.

  He worshipped the Duchess, and the song he was improvising as she entered, had been inspired by her. In it (had she known) he had led her by devious tender stages to his Father’s fondouk at Tifilalet, “on the blue Lake of Fetzara,” where he was about to present her to the Cheikh, and the whole assembled village, as his chosen bride.

  The Duchess considered him. He had a beautiful face spoiled by a bad complexion, which doubtless (the period of puberty passed) he would outgrow.

  “Consignment him come not two minute,” the youth replied.

  “Ah Bachir? Bachir!”

  “By the glorious Koran, I will swear it.”

  “Be careful not to shake those Alexandrian Balls,” the Duchess peremptorily enjoined pointing towards some Guelder-roses—“or they’ll fall before they’re sold!”

  “No matter at all. They sold already! An American lady this morning, she purchase all my Alexandrian-Balls; two heavy bunch.”

  “Let me see your takings.”…

  With a smile of triumph, Bachir turned towards the till. He had the welfare of the establishment at heart as well as his own, and of an evening often he would flit, garbed in his long gandourah, through the chief Cafés and Dancings’ of the city, a vast pannier heaped high with flowers upon his head, which he would dispose of to dazzled clients for an often exorbitant sum. But for these excursions of his (which ended on occasion in adventure) he had received no authority at all.

  “Not so bad,” the Duchess commented: “And, as there’s to be a Court again soon, many orders for bouquets are sure to come in!”

  “I call in outside hands to assist me: I summon Ouardi! He an Armenian boy. Sympathetic. My friend. More attached to him am I than a branch of Jessamine is about a Vine.”

  “I suppose he’s capable?” the Duchess murmured, pinning a green-ribbed orchid to her dress.

  “The garlands of Ouardi would make even a jackal look bewitching!”

  “Ah: he has taste?” “I engage my friend. Much work always in the month of Redjeb!”

  “Engage nobody,” the Duchess answered as she left the shop, “until I come again.”

  Hailing one of the little shuttered cabs of the city in the square she directed the driver to drop her at the palace gates, and pursued by an obstreperous newsboy with an evening paper, yelling: “Chedorlahomor! Sodom! Extra Special!” the cab clattered off at a languid trot. Under the plane-trees, near the Houses of Parliament, she was overtaken by the large easy-stepping horses of the Ambassadress of England, and acknowledged with a winning movement of the wrist, Lady Something’s passing acceuil. It was yet not quite the correct hour for the Promenade, where beneath the great acacias Society liked best to ride or drive, but, notwithstanding, that zealous reporter of social deeds, the irrepressible Eva Schnerb was already on the prowl and able with satisfaction to note: “I saw the Duchess of Varna early driving in the Park, all alone in a little one-horse shay, that really looked more elegant than any Delaunay-Belleville!”

  Arriving before the palace gates, the Duchess perceived an array of empty carriages waiting in the drive, which made her apprehensive of a function. She had anticipated an intimate chat with the Queen alone, but this it seemed was not to be.

  Following a youthful page with a resigned face, down a long black rug woven with green and violet flowers, who left her with a sigh (as if disappointed of a tip) in charge of a couple of giggling colleagues, and who, in turn, propelled her towards a band of sophisticated-looking footmen and grim officials, she was shewn at last into a vast white drawing-room whose ceiling formed a dome.

  Knowing the Queen’s interest in the Chedorlahomor Excavation Bill, a number of representative folk, such as the wives of
certain Politicians or Diplomats, as well as a few of her own more immediate circle, had called to felicitate her upon its success. Parliament had declared itself willing to do the unlimited graceful by all those concerned, and this in a great measure was due to the brilliant wire-pulling of the Queen.

  She was looking singularly French in a gold helmet and a violet Vortniansky gown, and wore a rope of faultless pearls, clasped very high beneath the chin.

  “I hope the Archbishop will bless the Excavators’ tools!” she was saying to the wife of the Premier, as the Duchess entered. “The picks at any rate…”

  That lady made no reply: In presence of royalty she would usually sit and smile at her knees, raising her eyes from time to time to throw, beneath her lashes, an ineffable expiring glance.

  “God speed them safe home again!” the Archduchess Elizabeth who was busy knitting said. An ardent philanthropist she had begun already making “comforts” for the men, as the nights in the East are cold. The most philanthropic perhaps of all the Royal Family, her hobby was designing, for the use of the public, sanitary, but artistic, places of Necessity on a novel system of ventilation. The King had consented to open (and it was expected appropriately) one of these in course of construction in the Opera Square.

  “Amen,” the Queen answered, signalling amiably to the Duchess of Varna, whose infrequent visits to court disposed her always to make a fuss of her.

  But no fuss the Queen could make of the Duchess of Varna, could exceed that being made by Queen Thleeanouhee, in a far-off corner, of her Excellency, Lady Something. The sympathy, the entente indeed that had arisen between these two ladies was exercising considerably the minds of certain members of the diplomatic corps, although had anyone wished to eavesdrop, their conversation upon the whole must have been found to be anything but esoteric.

  “What I want,” Queen Thleeanouhee was saying, resting her hand confidentially on her Excellency’s knee: “what I want is an English maid with Frenchified fingers—Is there such a thing to be had?”