The state of confusion this booklet left her in, she allayed with a little old brown leather volume of Longfellow. And Hyperion was so much more to her liking that she even ventured to borrow it from its place on the shelf, in order to read it at her leisure, braving the chance that her loan, were it discovered, might be counted against her as a theft.
It hung together, no doubt, with the after-effects of her dip into Ibsen, that, on her sitting down to write the work that was to form her passport to the Society, her mind should incline to the most romantic of romantic themes. Not altogether, though: Laura’s taste, such as it was, for literature, had, like all young people’s, a mighty bias towards those books which turned their backs on reality: she sought not truth, but the miracle. However, though she had thus taken sides, there was still a yawning gap to be bridged over, between her ready acceptance of the honourable invitation, and her composition of a masterpiece. Thanks to her wonted inability to project her thoughts beyond the moment, she had been so unthinking of possible failure that Cupid had found it necessary to interject: ‘Here, I say, don’t blow!’ Whereas, when she came to write, Laura sat, her pen poised over the paper, for nearly half an hour, without bringing forth a word. First, there was the question of form: she considered, then abruptly dismissed, the idea of writing verses: the rhymes with love and dove, and heart and part, which could have been managed, were, she felt, too silly and sentimental to be laid before her quizzical audience. Next, what to write about—a simple theme, such as a fairytale, was not for a moment to be contemplated. No, Laura had always flown her hawk high, and she was now bent on making a splutter. It ended by being a toss-up between a play in the Shakespearian manner, and a novel after Scott. She decided on the novel. It should be a romance of Venice, with abundant murder and mystery in it, and a black, black villain, such as her soul loved—no macaroon-nibblers, or rompers with children, for her! And having thus attuned her mind to scarlet deeds, she set to work. But she found it tremendously difficult to pin her story to paper: she saw things clearly enough, and could have related them by word of mouth; but did she try to write them down, they ran to mist; and though she toiled, quite literally in the sweat of her brow, yet, when the eventful day came, she had but three niggardly pages to show for her pains.
About twenty girls formed the Society, which assembled one Saturday evening, in an empty music room. All were not, of course, equally productive: some had brought it no further than a riddle: and it was just these drones, who, knowing nothing of the pother composition implied, criticised most stringently the efforts of the rest. Several members had pretty enough talents, Laura’s two room-mates among the number: on the night Laura made her debut, the weightiest achievement was, without doubt, M. P.’s essay on ‘Magnanimity’; and Laura’s eyes grew moist, as she listened to its stirring phrases. Next best—to her thinking, at least—was a humorous episode by Cupid, who had a gift that threw Laura into a fit of amaze; and this was, the ability to expand infinitely little into infinitely much; to rig out a trifle in many words, so that in the end it seemed ever so much bigger than it really was—just as a thrifty merchant boils his oranges to swell them to twice their size.
As youngest member, Laura’s affair came last on the programme: she had to sit and listen to the others, her cheeks hot, her hands very cold. Presently, all were done, and then Cupid, who was chairman, called on ‘a new author, Rambotham, who, it is hoped, will prove a valuable acquisition to the Society, to read us his maiden effort’.
Laura rose to her feet, and, trembling with nervousness, stuttered forth her prose. The three little pages shot past like a flash; she had barely stood up before she was obliged to sit down again, leaving her hearers, who had only just re-adopted their listening attitudes, agape with astonishment. She could have endured, with phlegm, the ridicule this malheur earned her: what was harder to stomach was, that her paper heroics made utterly no impression. She suffered all the humiliation of a flabby fiasco, and, till bedtime came, shrank out of her friends’ way.
‘You were warned not to be too cocky, you know,’ Mary said judicially, on seeing her downcast air.
‘I didn’t meant to be, really. Then you don’t think what I wrote was up to much, M. P.?’
‘Mm,’ said the elder girl, in a non-committal way.
Here Cupid chimed in. ‘Look here, Infant, I want to ask you something. Have you ever been in Venice?’
‘No.’
‘Ever seen a gondola?’
‘No.’
‘Or the Doge’s palace?—or a black-cloaked assassin?—or a masked lady?’
‘You know I haven’t,’ murmured Laura, humbled to the dust.
‘And probably never will. Well then, why on earth try to write wooden, second-hand rubbish like that?’
‘Second-hand!…But Cupid…think of Scott! He couldn’t have seen half he told about?’
‘My gracious!’ ejaculated Cupid, and sat down and fanned herself with a hairbrush. ‘You don’t imagine you’re a Scott, do you? Here, hold me, M. P., I’m going to faint!’—and at Laura’s quick and scarlet denial, she added: ‘Well, why the unmentionable not use the eyes the Lord has given you, and write about what’s before them every day of your life?’
‘Do you think that would be better?’
‘I don’t think—I know it would.’
But Laura was not so easily convinced as all that.
Ever a talented imitator, she next tried her hand at an essay on an abstract subject. This was a failure: you could not see things, when you wrote about, say, ‘Beneficence’; and Laura’s thinking was done mainly in pictures. Matters were still worse when she tinkered at Cupid’s especial genre: her worthless little incident, set down, stared at her, naked and scraggy, from the sheet; she had no wealth of words at her disposal, in which to deck it out. So, with a sigh, she turned back to the advice Cupid had given her and prepared to make a faithful transcript of actuality. She called what she now wrote: ‘A Day at School’, and conscientiously set down detail on detail; so fearful, this time, of over-brevity, that she spun the account out to twenty pages; though the writing of it was as distasteful to her as her reading of A Doll’s House had been.
At the subsequent meeting of the Society, expression of opinion was not lacking.
‘Oh, Jehosophat! How much more!’
‘Here, let me get out. I’ve had enough.’
‘I say, you forgot to count how many steps it took you to come downstairs.’
Till the chairman had pity on the embarrassed author, and said: ‘Look here, Laura, I think you’d better keep the rest for another time.’
‘It was just what you told me to do,’ Laura reproached Cupid that night: she was on the brink of tears.
But Cupid was disinclined to shoulder the responsibility. ‘Told you to be as dull and long-winded as that! Infant, it’s a whacker!’
‘But it was true what I wrote—every word of it.’
Neither of the two elder girls was prepared to discuss this vital point. Cupid shifted ground. ‘Good Lord, Laura, but it’s hard to drive a thing into your brain-pan. You don’t need to be all true on paper, silly child!’
‘Last time you said I had to.’
‘Well, my candid opinion is, if you want it, that you haven’t any talent for this kind of thing. Now, turn off the gas.’
As the light in the room went out, a kind of inner light seemed to go up in Laura; and both then, and on the following days, she thought hard. She was very ambitious, anxious to shine, not ready to accept defeat; and to the next literary contest, she brought the description of an excursion to the hills and gullies that surrounded Warrenega; into which she had worked an adventure with some vagrant blacks. She and Pin and the boys had often picnicked on these hills, with their lunches packed in billies; and she had seen the caves and rocky holes where blackfellows were said to have hidden themselves, in early times; but neither this particular excursion, nor the exciting incident, which she described with all the aplomb of an eyewitn
ess, had ever taken place. That is to say: not a word of her narration was true, but every word of it might have been true.
And with this, she had an unqualified success.
‘I believe there’s something in you after all,’ said Cupid to her, that night. ‘Anyhow, you know now, what it is to be true, yet not dull and prosy.’
And Laura manfully choked back her violent desire to cry out, that not a word of her story was fact.
She was long in falling asleep. Naturally, she was elated and excited by her success; but, also, a new and odd piece of knowledge had niched itself in her brain. It was this. In your speech, your talk with others, you must be exact to the point of pedantry, and never romance or draw the long-bow; or else you would be branded as an abominable liar. Whereas, as soon as you put pen to paper, provided you kept one foot planted on probability, you might lie as hard as you liked: indeed, the more vigorously you lied, the louder would be your hearers’ applause.
And Laura fell asleep over a chuckle.
XXII
Und vergesst mir auch das gute Lachen nicht!
Nietzsche.
And then, alas! just as she rode high on this wave of approbation, Laura suffered another of those drops in the esteem of her fellows, another of those mental upsets, which from time to time had thrown her young life out of gear.
True, what now came, was not exactly her own fault; though it is doubtful whether a single one of her companions would have made her free of an excuse. They looked on, round-eyed, mouths a-stretch. Once more, the lambkin called Laura saw fit to sunder itself from the flock, and to cut mad capers on the sward, in sight of them all. And their delectation was as frank as their former wrath had been. As for Laura, she did not, as usual, stop to think, till it was too late; but danced lightly away to her own undoing.
The affair began pleasantly enough. A member of the Literary Society was the girl with the twinkly brown eyes—she who had gone out of her way to give Laura a kindly word after the Shepherd debacle. This girl, Evelyn Souttar by name, was also the only one of the audience who had not joined in the laugh provoked by Laura’s first appearance as an author. Laura had never forgotten this; and she would smile shyly at Evelyn, when their looks met. But a dozen reasons existed why there should have been no further rapport between them. Although now in the Fifth form, Laura had remained childish for her age: whereas Evelyn was over eighteen, and only needed to turn up her hair, to be quite grown up. She had matriculated the previous Christmas, and was at present putting away a rather desultory half-year, before leaving school for good. In addition, she was rich, pampered, and very pretty—the last comrade in the world for drab little Laura.
One evening, as the latter was passing through the dining hall, she found Evelyn, who studied where she chose, disconsolately running her fingers through her gold-brown hair.
‘I say, kiddy,’ she called to Laura. ‘You know Latin, don’t you? Just give us a hand with this.’ Latin had not been one of Evelyn’s subjects, and she was now employing some of her spare time in studying the language with Mr Strachey, who taught it after a fashion of his own. ‘How on earth would you say: “We had not however rid here so long, but should have tided it up the river”? What’s the old fool mean by that?’ and she pushed an open volume of Robinson Crusoe towards Laura.
Laura helped to the best of her ability.
‘Thanks awfully,’ said Evelyn. ‘You’re a clever chickabiddy. But you must let me help you with something, in return. What’s hardest?’
‘Filling baths and papering rooms,’ replied Laura candidly.
‘Arithmetic, eh? Well, if ever you want a sum done, come to me.’
But Laura was temperamentally unable to accept so vague an invitation; and here the matter closed.
When, consequently, Miss Chapman summoned her one evening, to tell her that she was to change her present bedroom for Evelyn’s, the news came as a great shock to her.
‘Change my room?’ she echoed, in slow disgust. ‘Oh, I can’t, Miss Chapman!’
‘You’ve got to, Laura, if Mrs Gurley says so,’ expostulated the kindly governess.
‘But I won’t! There must be some mistake. Just when I’m so comfortably settled, too. Very well, then, Miss Chapman! I’ll speak to Mrs Gurley myself.’
She carried out this threat, and, for daring to question orders, received the soundest snubbing she had had for many a long day.
That night she was very bitter about it all, and the more so, because Mary and Cupid did not, to her thinking, show sufficient sympathy.
‘I believe you’re both glad I’m going. It’s a beastly shame. Why must I always be odd man out?’
‘Look here, Infant, don’t adopt that tone, please,’ said Cupid magisterially. ‘Or you’ll make us glad in earnest. People who are always up in arms about things are the greatest bores in the world.’
The following afternoon, Laura wryly took up armfuls of her belongings, mounted a storey higher, and deposited them on the second bed in Evelyn’s room.
The elder girl had had this room to herself for over a year now, and Laura felt sure, would be chafing inwardly at her intrusion. For days, she stole mousily in and out, avoiding the hours when Evelyn was there, getting up earlier in the morning, hurrying into bed at night, and feeling very sore indeed, at the sufferance, on which she supposed herself to be.
But once, Evelyn caught her and said: ‘Don’t, for gracious’ sake, knock each time you want to come in, child. This is your room now as well as mine.’
Laura reddened, and blurted out something about knowing how she must hate to have her stuck in there.
Evelyn wrinkled up her forehead and laughed. ‘What rot! Do you think I’d have asked to have you, if I hated it so much?’
‘You asked to have me?’ gasped Laura.
‘Of course—didn’t you know? Old Gurley said I’d need to have someone; so I chose you.’
Laura was too dumbfounded, and too diffident, to ask the grounds of such a choice. But the knowledge that it was so worked an instant change in her.
In all the three years she had been at school, she had not got beyond a surface friendliness with any of her fellows. Even those who had been her ‘chums’, had wandered like shades through the groves of her affection: rough, teasing Bertha; pretty, lazy Inez; perky Tilly, slangily frank Maria and Kate, Mary and her moral influence, clever, instructive Cupid: to none of them had she been drawn by any sense of affinity. And though Laura had come to believe, in the course of the last, more peaceful year, that she had grown used to being what you would call an unpopular girl—one, that is, with whom no other ever shared a confidence—yet seldom was there a child who longed so ardently to be liked, or suffered more acutely under dislike. Apart, however, from the brusque manner she had contracted, in her search after truth, it must be admitted that Laura had but a small talent for friendship; she did not grasp the constant give-and-take intimacy implies; the liking of others had to be brought to her, unsought, she, on the other hand, being free to stand back and consider whether or no the feeling was worth returning. And friends are not made in this fashion.
Evelyn, however, had stoutly, and without waiting for permission, crossed the barrier; and each new incident in her approach was pleasanter than the last. Laura was pleased, and flattered, and round the place where her heart was she felt a warm and comfortable glow.
She began to return the liking, and with interest, after the manner of a lonely, bottled-up child. And everything about Evelyn made it easy to grow fond of her. To begin with, Laura loved pretty things and pretty people; and her new friend was out and away the prettiest girl in the school. Then, too, she was clever, and that counted; you did not make a friend of a fool. But her chief characteristics were a certain sound common sense, and an inexhaustible fund of good nature—a careless, happy, laughing sunniness, that was as grateful to those who came into touch with it as a rare ointment is grateful to the skin. This kindliness arose, it might be, in the first place from indolen
ce: it was less trouble to be merry and amiable than to put oneself out to be selfish, which also meant standing a fire of disagreeable words and looks; and then, too, it was really difficult for one who had never had a whim crossed, to be out of humour. But, whatever its origin, the good nature was there, everlastingly; and Laura soon learnt that she could cuddle in under it, and be screened by it, as a lamb is screened by its mother’s woolly coat.
Evelyn was the only person who did not either hector her, or feel it a duty to clip and prune at her: she accepted Laura frankly for what she was—herself. Indeed, she even seemed to lay weight on Laura’s bits of opinions, which the girl had grown so chary of offering; and under the sunshine of this treatment, Laura shot up and flowered, like a spring bulb. She began to speak out her thoughts again; she unbosomed herself of dark little secrets; and, finally, did what she would never have believed possible: sitting one night in her nightgown, on the edge of Evelyn’s bed, she made full confession of the pickle she had got herself into, over her visit to the Shepherds.
To her astonishment, Evelyn, who was already in bed, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. At Laura’s solemn-faced incredulity, she said: ‘I say, Kiddy, but that was rich! To think a chicken of your size sold them like that! It’s the best joke I’ve heard for an age. Tell us again—from the beginning.’
Nothing loath, Laura started in afresh, and in this, the second telling, embroidered the edge of her tale with a few fancy stitches, in a way she had not ventured on, for months past; so that Evelyn was more tickled than before.
The Getting of Wisdom Page 20
