In the kitchen Constance said, “Isn’t he handsome! He’s like the men in books.”
Later her mother said, “Sophia, I want you to wait on table tonight.”
“I’ll wait on table,” said Lily. “It’s my turn.”
“But, Lily, he’s not the kind of person we want in the house.”
Lily looked at her mother coldly and repeated, “It’s my turn.”
At six o’clock Lily carried the soup tureen into the dining room. When she returned to the kitchen she said, “Mama, they’re waiting for you to serve the soup.”
“Dear, let Sophia finish serving at table.”
“Mama, he’s musical. That’s my field. I’m going to wait on table and after supper I’m going to sing.”
“Dear! Lily! It will only . . . ?”
“Mama, we never see anybody. You can’t keep us locked up forever. They’re waiting for you.”
Lily had never disobeyed her mother.
It was one of the Wednesday nights when Miss Doubkov’s call was expected. For the first time Mrs. Ashley had invited her to join them at supper. The girls took their meals in the kitchen; each in turn helped Mrs. Swenson in the dining room.
Mr. Malcolm was the soul of good manners. He gave his full attention to Mrs. Ashley’s discussion of the weather and to Mrs. Hopkinson’s account of her rheumatism. He did not raise his eyes when Lily removed the soup plates. His glance returned often to Miss Doubkov; her eyes rested thoughtfully on him. She had seen him surreptitiously remove a wedding ring from his finger and place it in his vest pocket.
“You’re a real musician, Mr. Malcolm,” said Mrs. Hopkinson. “Oh, yes, you are! You play the piano like a professional. But you’re not the only musician in this house. Mrs. Ashley, you must persuade Lily to sing for Mr. Malcolm after supper. She sings like an angel, Mr. Malcolm—that’s the only word for it.” In a lower voice she added, “Isn’t she a lovely girl? Lovely!”
Mr. Malcolm waited until Lily had returned to the room. He spoke modestly, “Well, I play and sing some. The fact is I mean to go on the professional stage. I’m just traveling to earn the money to arrange it.”
After supper the company moved into the sitting room. The two musicians performed alternately. Each commended the other’s performance. It was apparent to all that Mr. Malcolm was swept off his feet. As we have said, Lily had neither seen nor been seen by any young man, except Porky, for twenty months. She had no memory of any town larger than Fort Barry. Yet she behaved like some princess whom rude revolutionaries had temporarily driven from her throne. She happened to be in Coaltown, Illinois, and happened to be waiting on table in a boardinghouse. She happened to be passing the evening with an agreeable young man whom no princess in her senses could take seriously—unless, perhaps, he might be useful to her. She made light fun of the songs he sang; she made fun of the way he kept his right foot firmly on the pedal. And yet, at the same time, she gave the impression of quite liking him—that is to say, he could take his place among the twenty other agreeable young men who came in from time to time for a musical evening.
Mrs. Ashley sat tranquilly sewing until she was called upon to accompany her daughter. Mr. Malcolm’s songs were not of the same order as Lily’s, but there was nothing tentative about them. He had a pleasant baritone voice and he sang loud. Lily had hitherto sung with measured sweetness; on this night she discovered that she could sing loud, too. He sang about when the watermelon ripens on the vine and she sang about Marguerite discovering a box of jewels on her dressing table. He sang about how stout-hearted the boys in Company B were and she sang about Dinorah dancing with her shadow in the moonlight. The shells on the whatnot trembled; the dogs in the neighborhood began barking.
Miss Delphine Fleming, the mathematics teacher at the High School, asked, “Lily, will you sing that song from The Messiah?”
Mrs. Hopkinson clapped. “Yes, dear. Please do!”
Lily nodded in assent. She drew herself up straight and looked gravely into the distance, quieting her listeners, as Miss Doubkov had taught her. Finally she glanced at her accompanist. She sang “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth.”
A girl, a little over twenty, living in a dust-mantled town in southern Illinois, who had never heard a trained singer save through mechanical reproduction, sang Handel. Miss Doubkov’s hands trembled as she listened. This was indeed a house of signs. Lily had her mother’s beauty and her mother’s freedom from any trace of provincialism or vulgarity; but above that she had her father’s inner quiet, his at-homeness in existence. This was the voice of faith, selfless faith. John Ashley and his ancestors, Beata Kellerman and her ancestors, were contributing of their creativity, of their consciousness of freedom—hundreds of them from beyond the grave.
At nine-thirty Mrs. Ashley rose, saying it was late, very late. Miss Doubkov took her leave, kissing Lily in silence. She watched her thank Mr. Malcolm for his music and wish him good night. The Princess of Trebizond gave him her hand, a radiant smile, and tripped upstairs. He stared after her as though she had struck him.
Lily did not appear in the dining room the following evening. It was warm. Mrs. Hopkinson proposed that they adjourn to the summerhouse after supper. Lily joined the party there. The hour was not at first conducive to conversation. The group fell under a spell cast by the reflection of the starlight on the water, the lapping of the waves under the floor, the odors from the foliage, the murmurs from the circling ducks. For a moment Lily hummed a song that Mr. Malcolm had sung on the previous evening as though to offer an apology for having disparaged it. Mrs. Ashley questioned him about his childhood. His parents had arrived from Poland a year before he was born. As no one could pronounce or spell his name he had chosen that of Malcolm. He talked of his theatrical ambitions.
“How interesting! How interesting!” said Mrs. Hopkinson.
“I know you’re going to be successful,” said Miss Mallet.
For Mrs. Ashley his every word carried a stupefying boredom. The evening came to an end without music. He was to leave in the morning. Mrs. Ashley made it clear that his room had been promised to someone else. She would serve him at breakfast; he would not see the girls again. They went into the house. Mrs. Hopkinson, Miss Mallet, and Constance bade him an almost tearful goodbye; his eyes were on Lily. Mrs. Ashley was still shaken by her daughter’s disobedience on the previous evening. Lily had gone about her duties with her accustomed efficiency, but had not once glanced in her mother’s direction nor spoken an unnecessary word. She had not even wished her good night. Four times during the day her mother had sought the moment to tell Lily that she had seen a ring disappear into his pocket on the previous evening. She was now preparing to forestall a protracted leave-taking. Great was her astonishment when Lily gave Mr. Malcolm her hand, a pleasant “Good evening,” and again tripped unconcernedly up the stairs.
It was a week of spring cleaning; furniture was being moved from room to room. Sophia was sleeping with Lily. After the house was dark Constance knocked at the door and entered.
“Lily? Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“Do you feel terrible? I mean, because he’s going away tomorrow?”
“No.”
“But you do like him a lot, don’t you?”
“I’m tired, Connie.”
“Well, he loves you. Anybody can see that. —Why isn’t Mama nice to him?—Do you like him, Sophie?”
“Yes, but not ‘Ebenezer.’”
“It’s been fun. You sang wonderfully last night, Lily. As good as the gramophone. Why aren’t you sorry he’s going away?”
“I’m sleepy, Connie. Goodnight.”
“Well . . . ? I think if people really like people, they come back and see them.”
There was a knock at the door. Their mother entered the room.
“It’s late, girls. You should get your sleep.”
“Yes, Mama. I just came in to tell Lily that I was so sorry that Mr. Malcolm was going away tomorrow.”
“We’re used to guests coming and going, Constance. We can’t look on them as friends.”
“But, Mama, when can we have friends? We can’t live forever and ever without friends.”
“Since we’re all here together, I want to tell you some things I’ve been thinking over. Tomorrow I’m going shopping with Sophia.”
“Mama! . . . ? Downtown!?”
“Sophia and I are going to the bank. We’re going to start keeping our money in the bank. We’re going to think of that money as being saved up so that Lily can go to a very good teacher for her voice. I’ve been thinking of other things, too. Do you remember the supper parties that your father and I used to give? Well, you and I are going to give a supper like that once a month. We’ll begin by asking the doctor and his wife and Mrs. Guilfoyle and the Dalziels and then on other nights Miss Thoms and Miss Doubkov. And each of you can name a friend you want.”
“Mama!”
“And I think that maybe next fall Sophia and Constance can start going to school.”
Constance flung herself upon her mother: “Oh, Mama! You’re the best mama in the world!”
“Now, Constance, go to your room. There are some things I want to say to your sisters.”
Constance left the room. Lily said, with the suggestion of a yawn, “Mama, I’m tired. I don’t want to talk.”
Sophia divined the extent to which the words had wounded her mother. “Mama,” she said, “I think Lily’s coming down with a cold. I’m going down to make her some hot milk-and-honey. I think we ought to let her try and sleep now.”
All these brave projects were delayed. Three hours later Mrs. Ashley was awakened by hearing her name called in the corridor. She lit a lamp and opened her door. Mr. Malcolm, looking feverish and disheveled, asked if he could have a hot-water bottle and a mustard plaster. He refused Mrs. Ashley’s offer to send for Dr. Gillies. He knew what his complaint was; he had suffered from it before. It was a “cold on the liver.” He was in considerable pain, but he was manly about it.
In the morning Dr. Gillies saw the patient. Mrs. Ashley was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.
“What seems to be the trouble, Dr. Gillies?”
“Just a slight indigestion, I think.”
“Doctor, please get him out of the house as soon as possible.”
“Well—”
“I don’t believe he’s ill. He’s not ill at all, Dr. Gillies.”
“What?”
“Do help me! Send him to the hospital at Fort Barry, or get him into the infirmary at the mines or move him to the Tavern. Anyway, help me get him out of the house.”
“He has a fever. It’s a slight fever, but there’s no doubt about it.”
“He hung his head over the side of the bed. Any schoolchild can do that. —Dr. Gillies, I told him that he must give up his room, but he’s fallen in love with Lily.”
“I see. I see. Poor fellow! —Mrs. Ashley, we’ll starve him.”
“Oh, Dr. Gillies, you’re a saint!”
“A cup of tea and an apple for breakfast. Chicken broth and a piece of toast for lunch and supper.”
“Thank you! Thank you! Please write it down—and he’s not to leave his room. Write that down, too. Quarantine the creature.”
Sophia was the nurse. In the middle of the afternoon Lily called on the patient. He was sitting up in bed in a citified silk dressing gown. Lily left the door open. Her manner was as impersonal as that of royalty visiting her wounded soldiers. She read to him from the works of W. Shakespeare.
“‘There’s no news at the court, sir, but the old news. That is, the old Duke is banished.’ “
“Miss Ashley, I know the best teacher who could teach you dancing and everything. You could be a big star.”
“You must save your voice, Mr. Malcolm. If you’re not quiet I must go away. ‘. . . ? have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new Duke. . . . ?’”
“Lily! Lily! Come away with me. We’ll be the greatest team in the country. You’re not listening to me. Within two weeks we could get engagements at club meetings and banquets.”
“Do I have to leave the room, Mr. Malcolm?”
After she had left the room with a pleasant “Good afternoon,” Mr. Malcolm strode to and fro in torment. Suddenly his eyes fell upon an object on his dresser. Under some tissue paper lay a large piece of marble cake. She had carried what he thought was a bag of books. She had made a few gestures of setting the room to rights.
The next afternoon more reading, more impassioned pleas, more rebukes.
“Lily, if it’s serious music you want, I could get you an appointment with Maestro Lauri. He’s the best teacher in Chicago. He trains singers for grand opera. I bet you he’d teach you free.”
“If you get excited, Mr. Malcolm, I’ll have to leave.”
“Lily, you could be singing in churches and getting paid for it, right off. I’ve done it, but you’re a hundred times better than I am.”
“You must be calm!”
“I’m not calm. Lily, I love you. I love you.”
“Mr. Malcolm!”
He flung himself out of bed. His fingernails dug into the carpet. “Tell me what I can do. Say something human! You gave me that piece of cake. You must know I’m here. Come to Chicago with me. In Coaltown you’ll just wither.”
She looked at him a moment in silence and wonder. She did not yet know that she was a great actress—that the knowledge of how men and women behave in extremity was at the center of her lifework. Slowly she put her hand into her bag of books and brought out a slice of the best apple pie in southern Illinois. “Get well soon, Mr. Malcolm. Good afternoon.”
Ten minutes later Lily was again seen on the streets of Coaltown. She carried a pair of shoes in a paper bag. It was the busy hour. A faint smile on her face, she bowed right and left toward the gaping citizenry. She entered the post office and gazed meditatively at her father’s portrait. She continued down the street and entered Porky’s store. He showed no astonishment.
“Porky, I have no money, but I’ll pay you back in a few months. Will you fix these shoes so that they can stand wear? Fix them up as good as you can. Could you give them to me at the house about Friday?”
She then returned to the top of the street and climbed the stairs to Miss Doubkov’s apartment. Miss Doubkov was on her knees before a dressmaker’s dummy, altering the hem of a dress.
“Well, Lily!”
“Miss Doubkov, I’m running away to Chicago with that Mr. Malcolm.”
Miss Doubkov rose slowly—and with no awkwardness—from the floor. “It’s time for a cup of tea,” she said. “Sit down.”
Lily waited. Finally, when they had taken their first sips, she received the signal to speak.
“He says that he can find work for me, singing at clubs and in churches. He knows the teachers there. He says he can take me to see a very good teacher who teaches grand opera.”
“Go on!”
“Nothing you can say will stop me, Miss Doubkov. I’ve come to you to ask you one favor. Can I tell him that he can write letters to me through you?”
“Drink your tea.”
Pause.
“I can’t stay in Coaltown one more month. I’ve got to sing and I’ve got to learn how to sing. Soon I’ll be too old to get started right. I’ve got to know about life too. You can’t learn much about life in Coaltown. I want to learn how to play the piano, too. Nobody could practice the piano in a boardinghouse—even if I had time. I work from morning till night, Miss Doubkov.”
She spread out her hands and turned them over.
“Do you love this man?”
Lily laughed, blushing slightly. “No, of course not. He’s just an ignorant boy! But he can help me. That’s all I need. He’s not a bad man—you can see that for yourself. I’ll go to Chicago and marry him.”
“Did he ask you to marry him?”
“He . . . ? got down on the floor and he cried and told m
e he loved me.”
“He didn’t ask you to marry him.—Lily, he’s married already.”
“How do you know?”
She told her.—“Besides, I think he’s a Pole and a Roman Catholic.”
Lily waited a moment and said, level as her glance, “Anyway, there aren’t many men who’d marry an Ashley.”
“You!” said Olga Sergeievna, rising. “Drink your tea and be quiet for a moment.”
She went into her bedroom and kitchen. Money was hidden about there, like a squirrel’s provisions. After a few minutes she returned with a frayed silk purse.
“Here’s fifty dollars. Go to Chicago. Let that man introduce you to these teachers, but don’t have anything else to do with him.”
“I’ll borrow thirty dollars of you. I’ll send it back as soon as I can.”
Olga Sergeievna extracted twenty dollars and put the purse in the pocket of Lily’s coat. Lily rose. “Can Mr. Malcolm send letters to you?”
“Yes.—Sit down and be quiet a moment.” Deliberately, speculatively, her lower lip pressed upon her upper, she opened and examined cupboard after cupboard. “Take off your dress.”
Being fitted is favorable to meditation.
“Lift up your arms. . . . ? Face the window!”
“Sophie should go away, too. And Connie. It’s not the work that’s killing us at the house. It’s that Mama never goes into town and that she never mentions Papa. I’d have died long ago if it hadn’t been for your visits, Miss Doubkov, and your liking my singing.”
“Face the icons.”
“And the reading aloud in the evening: The Shakespeare and Jane Eyre and The Mill on the Floss and Eugénie Grandet. . . . ? It’s not like Mama to stay shut up in the house. At first I thought it was because she was afraid to face people; or that she just hated them. But Mama’s never been afraid of anything. She doesn’t care what other people think. Mama doesn’t hate people; she’s indifferent to everybody. To her all the boarders that come in and out of the house are just paper dolls. The first boarder she’s really hated is Mr. Malcolm. She loathes him. Because he’s so fiery.”
The Eighth Day Page 10
