For Love Alone

by Christina Stead

  “Mother!”

  Aunt Bea laughed. “She at once took Malfi under her wing and promised her half a trousseau. It does seem a pity when Malfi already has so much, but to her who hath shall be given, I suppose. Fortune has favourites, far be it from me to cultivate the green-eyed monster—it is just fate. Do you believe in fate, kismet, Teresa?”

  “‘There is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood leads on to fortune’, I suppose.”

  Aunt Bea laughed, lying on her back, looking up into the dark ceiling and swinging her thin corded legs. “My darling cherub is ashamed of her Mother’s irrepressible foolishness, bless its heart.”

  “I am not, Mother.”

  Aunt Bea laughed and asked them if they wanted the lamp. Anne said quickly: “No, let’s stay in the dark till the moon is up.”

  “Let’s sit in the dark till the moon comes up,” sang Aunt Bea. “Do you know, cherub, you have a perfect instinct for lyrics, you ought to try your ‘prentice hand. Anyway, to resume, well, Miss Smith-Wetherby—a ridiculous name, just with Wetherby tacked on, just to avoid being in the telephone book under the innumerable race of Smiths—Aunt or Miss Smith-Wetherby, a respectable maiden lady, invited yours truly to view the trousseau she had collected for Malfi. Well, poor Annette couldn’t get away—oh, I couldn’t get away to marry you today, my wife won’t let me—

  Harry Bedloe evidently didn’t feel that way, or Malfi would have been in the soup—”

  “Really, Mother,” said Anne, in a soft, crushed voice.

  “Yes, teeototums, Mother is sorry. I am shameless, kiss Mother darling, otherwise its Mother will repent. Thank you, cherub. To resume, a summary of the preceding chapters will be found on page seventeen of the current issue. What a push was there, oh, my countrymen. Canapés of every rank and degree, caviare actually, I never saw it before, cake-stands full of cake were to be seen in the drawing-room, dainty silver forks, handworked napkins, very choice, Malfi dear.”

  “You didn’t explain that yet,” said Anne.

  “So I didn’t! China tea, ginger beer and spirituous liquors. My dear, I’ve never seen it before in a lady’s drawing-room, she must be a gay old dear even if she is an old maid, not a fussy old maid, as the saying is.”

  “Mother,” said Anne, in a tone of reproach from the window niche.

  “Knock, knock,” said Aunt Bea.

  “Who’s there?” came an interested voice, Teresa’s. “Fornication.”

  They giggled. “Fornication who?”

  “Fornication like this you need champagne. I heard that in the bus. Well, to proceed. There you would have seen the ne plus ultra of the trousseau for the modern bride-to-be. Of course, Malfi has her own bottom-drawer treasures, some of which, poor child, she made when she was looking forward to marrying Alec, such a lovely boy, but it is better she should know her own mind before the fatal words were said. Part of the secret annals.”

  “Go on, Mother,” said Anne.

  “Yes, the trousseau,” said Aunt Bea. “Miss Smith-Wetherby kept it there till the end of last week on show, but sent it to Malfi of course in time to pack it, and Aunt Eliza had a constant stream of visitors, oh-ing and ah-ing, for there was everything contained therein that the heart of young woman could desire. She had six voile nightgowns for summer, and two ninon, well, ninon over none-on is ravishing I think and for a bride—well, it’s too, too—though I was surprised at an old maid thinking of it, they are generally too shy of the facts of life. So dainty, such marvellous work, you would say fairy-fingers had been at work, for Malfi is such a little thing, a Dresden china doll in physique and I suppose that that is what first attracted him. She has fallen in a bit lately, it was time she got married. It is a pity he is so small. Six dozen hand-drawn handkerchiefs, and half a dozen hand-made panties, three crepe de Chine and three lawn with Madeira work and hem-stitched borders. Of course, on the machine. The panties were blue, pink and white, the nighties were of all the hues of the rainbow, or I should say of Tintex—filmy grey, exquisite pale blue, baby-pink, coral-pink, eggshell and nile. Green for a young girl I never thought quite—but nowadays girls have no superstitions! It was nice of Miss Smith-Wetherby, though. And, my dear, she insisted upon the Smith-Wetherby. Of course, very right, I suppose when you consider the great Psmith Pfamily. Isn’t it a scream. Oh, Mother Ida, hear me ere I die! To proceed, six face-cloths, I can’t think what for, has she six faces—”

  “Oh, Mother, don’t,” said Anne. Aunt Bea gave a gratified laugh and went on, “—in checks and stripes. Six slips. Let me tell you about those slips. All hand-done. Two in crêpe de Chine, two in lawn, two for sports in flowered silk, very sweet, white sprigged pink, and each one, mark you, embroidered separately with an appropriate motif. Miss Smith-Wetherby had done the motifs herself, though the slips were shop-bought, machine-stitched and hand-finished, I noticed. One was with sprays of maybuds, in white, in satin stitch, another with bluebirds in satin stitch, blue of course, the sports ones just niftily embroidered with pink and white initials, very smart and tailored-looking and for the rest, one with fine silk net whipped in and with a silk thread run through and the other with an old-fashioned, that is so new-fashioned, val lace insertion and lace with a dainty bebe ribbon threaded through, blue for luck, of course, very 1860—is that the period?—and in a way the smartest of all. She had six dozen handkerchiefs, you know, three of each, very useful, really, three plain white with hemstitched border and initial in corner, three hand-embroidered in grey, six linen of different modish shades, grey, tangerine, ultra, peach, coco, six mixed tartan in mousseline, six handprints from blocks made by a Russian woman who lives near Miss Smith-Wetherby, very handsome—but I wonder if the ink comes off—in choice arty combinations, so to speak, of navy and leaf, lilac and rust, eau-de-Nile and salmon, chaminade and ibex, Mediterranean and coral, black and chromium, if I remember rightly, these last six on fine soft linen, of course—otherwise they wouldn’t take the designs, which were of a delicious, this-is-the-spray-the-bird-clung-to sort, sprays, birds, all that I mean, and six shadow prints, the very latest you know, they have at Farmer’s. I suppose she got them there. Six wide-bordered, hemstitched cottons in colours, sport type, one dozen all champagne with variegated designs in off-white, eau-de-Nile, plaque, and scarab, to go with her travelling costume, one dozen house hankies to stuff in the pocket of a tennis wrap-on, or summer cottons—the sort young housewives wear—in checks, black and white, rust and white, green, blue, red, nothing to speak of, just the usual sort, and one dozen assorted crêpe de Chine and tulle, outsize, darlings, for evening and head kerchiefs. I know Miss Smith-Wetherby had personally made the collection, it was rather a scream to think of the old dear fussing over it, but sweet, going from shop to shop picking it up. A sort of hobby. Such a nice thought, though. We must admit that Malfi, dear as she is to us, has done well by herself, picking out a family where she is so much loved, though I don’t doubt for a moment that the Bedloes are rather flattered to find themselves connected with the March branch of the Hawkins, for we’re queer, but we are above the average, not quite the common herd and the usual family-in-law. Well—”

  “But, Mother,” said Anne, “you didn’t explain.”

  “Oh, the cream of the joke was that Miss Smith-Wetherby’s married sister was there, fair, fat and forty, a regular Mrs Rustle-bottom—”

  Anne giggled. Aunt Bea went on with a rush, “She had not seen the trousseau and at each thing, all the exquisite little things like cobwebs in their tissue paper, she exclaimed: ‘Oh, very choice, Malfi darling’, and ‘How nice, Malfi darling’, and ‘Very choice, Malfi darling’.”

  “So now we always say it,” said Anne. “Very choice, Malfi darling.”

  “Annette is too shy to have a bottom drawer, but my pet shall have them—those delicate flimsies fine as a spider could spin, in lawn, silk and lace, pintucked, with gentle easings, I can visualize it as I lie here, those veritable treasures of a young creature starting out in life,
those dainty dreams of dessous, as the French would say—where was I? Oh, yes, I wish Anne would begin to put by a few things.”

  “What for?” said Anne in a practical voice.

  The moon was just coming over the hill; its beams still shone above them but were lowering. Aunt Bea spoke lazily of making tea, but did not get up. In a few minutes the moon was on the house and was moving down the wall towards them, soon it whitened the outline of Anne’s hair. “It’s lovely tonight,” said the young girl, “and the bay is so still, you don’t hear a sound, only the crickets and the cicadas.”

  “Lor lumme,” sighed Aunt Bea, “heigh-ho. It was a lover and his lass, with a hey and a ho and a hey nonny no. Oh, oh, what a yawn! I dreamed that I dwelt in marble halls with vassals and serfs at my side. Yo-ho! Yoo-ee! Lumpkin! Go and make the tea for Mummy.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  The two girls went out into the small kitchen smelling of oilcloth, old plumbing and tea leaves. A few things left from Mrs Percy’s meal were in the sink, unwashed. While Anne was frying eggs Teresa got down the plates and cups and in the middle of this they heard the back door clap to.

  “Mrs Percy?” called Anne, in her uncertain contralto. “Mrs Percy?”

  The door from the laundry opened and the dumpy, large-eyed woman stood on the threshold, looking at them. She said in a meek voice: “Yes, dear ?”

  Anne introduced them with the unction she had learned in the office. The middle-aged woman came into the room, begged Teresa to go into the parlour, showed her a chair and sat down to talk with her, all in a refined way which made the visitor ill at ease. Mrs Percy sat deep in her chair but leaned forward, holding to the arms, and as she spoke looked closely at Teresa with sage, luminous eyes; the girl had the feeling that an intelligence and a soul lived restlessly behind the eyes. Teresa began to talk rapidly and brilliantly, quite beside herself, in an apprehensive frolic; she talked about her Latin teacher, Mr Crow, about her ambitions, and for some reason, said that Mr Crow believed in free love and was discussing it in the suburbs. She felt that Mrs Percy was not easy. The older woman rose suddenly and begged the girl to excuse her, saying she was tired; the girl must pardon her, she had so many headaches that she had had to give up reading altogether, she who had been so fond of reading, just as fond as Teresa herself. This brought Teresa to a stop and she thought back over what she had said. She could scarcely remember it, but no doubt she must have said something which called up the “reading” remark.

  When the things were ready, the girls carried them into the front room where they ate, under a little pink-shaded lamp. When they were finished, and the dishes carried out, they turned the light out again and sat silent, fanning themselves, while mosquitoes strummed in the moonlight.

  “I knew there was something I wanted to say,” began Aunt Bea. “I heard you talking to Mrs Percy before. How did you two get along? I’ve always told her about my brilliant niece, the schoolteacher.”

  Teresa did not like this at all, for she was ashamed of being a schoolteacher and remained silent.

  “You two should get along,” remarked Aunt Bea. “She was quite a modern woman in her day, a bit eccentric, I gather, she went in for Darwinism, free-thinking, women’s movement. Her husband left her and she used to teach, I understand, to keep the child.”

  “She asked me what I did,” said Teresa, “and I told her about the children I teach.”

  “You did put your foot in it,” said Aunt Bea, in a low voice. “Didn’t you remember what I told you?”

  “Oh, heavens, I never thought of it!”

  Teresa had a special class in the public school. In this class had been dumped the truants, the deaf, the mad, and the imbecile, who had been undisciplined in all the other classes.

  The back door shut and this time they all heard it.

  “There she goes,” said Aunt Bea. “I do hope she isn’t offended.” “She doesn’t know I know.”

  They heard the steps down the cement passage. The side gate clicked and her footsteps passed down the street beyond the street lamp.

  The heat and the moonlight were now pouring in. They moved their chairs back, not to be dazzled. Aunt Bea turned on the pink lamp at a side table where she had her sewing.

  They heard the water running in the bathroom; it squeaked and went off. Anne came back. “I just soaked in,” said she. “I’ll go back in a minute.” A long discussion followed on the best way to wash, wring, and hang stockings, together with numerous accidents that had befallen the stockings of all their friends; dogs, faults, cars and long fingernails.

  “What a lovely glow the lamp casts on your face,” said Aunt Bea. “But Anne always did have a flowerlike complexion and that dear little tip-tilted nose—oh, you young things, you do not know what you have. These are the happiest days of your life. When you’re my age, you’ll catch up with an old woman on the street, it will be yourself.”

  “You’re not an old woman, Mother,” protested Anne, pouting.

  “No, I’m younger than Anne is in some things,” agreed Aunt Bea. “But not in looks. Oh dear. Such is life without a wife. What’s the matter with me? What’ve I got? Dandruff, I expect. A depression is approaching from Iceland.”

  “Mother!” said Anne tenderly.

  “Nothing to wear but clothes, nothing to eat but food, nowhere to sleep but bed, nothing to marry but men, nowhere to go but home,” mused Aunt Bea. “Nothing to do but live. My poor feet! Now I know where the shoe pinches.”

  “Why don’t you soak them?” asked Teresa.

  “Yes, I will. Go and get Mother some hot water, Annette.”

  She mused: “Very choice, Malfi dear. I’m waiting for the day when you and Anne—Oh, but you, dear—and besides, you’re so very reserved about your affairs, you never tell any of us. If you did have someone in the mind’s eye, you would never tell us till the fatal day, not even your little Nana Bea, I know,” she said in a disappointed tone. “Have you anybody, dear?” she continued, hesitating. “Not that I want to pry, if you don’t want to tell me, say so.”

  “I have a young man travelling in Europe at present,” said Teresa.

  They both looked sharply at her. “Really, dear?” Aunt Bea did not dare to disbelieve it.

  “Yes.” Teresa laughed suddenly. “Oh, no, I’m joking.”

  But now she could not get the idea out of their heads; whatever she said, the deeper she saw the suspicion root. At last she gave it up. Aunt Bea sighed, “Well, dear, as you like, it’s your own affair. My darling Anne, too, is reticent about her private affairs and thoughts, not like her foolish Mumsy, who broadcasts her ideas to all and sundry, selfishly, I dare say, though I only do it to cheer people up.” She stopped for a while, drawing her feet in and out of the water and hummed, “Me, me, me, me, me.” She burst into song, “I love me, I love me, I’m mad about myself!”

  “Oh, Mother,” laughed Anne at this very old joke of her mother’s.

  “Oh, Mother Ida,” said Aunt Bea, taking her feet out of the water. “The towel, dear, hearken ere I die!”

  Teresa said dreamily: “For now the noonday quiet holds the hill, the grasshopper is silent in the grass—”

  “What’s that, dear ?”

  “The lizard with his shadow on the stone,

  Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead.”

  Aunt Bea said: “What is that, dear ?”

  “Oh, Mother Ida, harken ere I die!”

  “Is that it? I’ve forgotten, long ago. Isn’t it funny where we get our tags? Anne never recites now. You remember her as a little thing? You remember when she was Red Riding Hood in the school panto? I thought she would go on the stage, such a sweet little pipe. But Anne’s such a modest thing. Now would you believe she is so modest—A violet by a mossy stone, half hidden from the eye—that she is afraid of young men? I don’t believe Anne’s ever been kissed. Eh, darling? Ha-ha,” she said softly. “For if she had she would tell her own precious Mother, wouldn’t she, my precious? Perhaps not.
I doubt it, said the Carpenter as he wiped away a tear. Sweet twenty-three and never been kissed. Eh, darling? Tell Mother!”

  “Stop it, Mother,” said Anne, troubled.

  “Have you been kissed, Teresa?”

  “Yes,” lied Teresa.

  “Oh, do tell,” cried Aunt Bea excitedly. “What was he like? Dark, fair? What’s your ideal, Terry? Like your father, I suppose. My brother Andrew is such a handsome man, always was. I rather think Anne’s ideal is different, she seems to have a liking for tall, dark, and handsome. Eh? Oh, but Malfi’s sachets! Oh, that was a scream! I believe Malfi inherited them from Miss Smith-Wetherby’s bottom drawer of long ago. She had put in sachets of pink and blue, with a marvellous old nightdress case—of course, that was the high point of the afternoon—in old rose point, imagine it if you like, lined with pink silk—pretty of course, darling, and the lace is valuable, but who uses them? They went out with whalebone and Malfi says: ‘Yes, but who uses them and what for, Aunt Lena? I always wear my nightdress under my pillow, especially when it’s as darn hot as this,’ Malfi said. Well, you can imagine the fluttering of the dovecotes—old Lady Droopy Drawers, her sister, turned a faint laburnum—” Aunt Bea waited for Anne’s response, but not hearing it, still cantered cheerfully on—“and from that went to blush-violet as she set her lips grimly and said, brisk and respectable: ‘But, Malfi dear, now you’ll be living with someone else.’ And Malfi nearly upset the apple-cart. ‘I always did,’ she muttered, but I assure you the respectable Dame of the British Empire did not hear that. Anne, my duck, you seem sad?”

  “No, no,” said Anne. “Mother, let’s put the light out, the room will be full of moonlight. It’s nearly full.” The light went out.

  “And there within the moonlight in his room, making it rich and like a lily bloom,” said Teresa. They were silent for a moment in the warm dark. Then Aunt Bea said: “Put out the light and then put out the light. I saw Oscar Asche do that. He was too fat. Like Ray’s husband. Oh, at the altar, he blotted it out. We simply howled afterwards.”