by Muriel Spark
‘If you weren’t an old friend of mine that I know so well I’d think you were sinister,’ states the Princess agreeably, as she takes out her powder compact and looks closely at her face as if to verify to herself that she has uttered no lie. She looks back at Elsa again and says, ‘utterly unscrupulous.’ She then pats her nose and jowls with creamy powder, while the central-heating quivers in the air and, outside the window, snowflakes begin to fold into clouds descending as they have done, off and on, for so many weeks.
Neat, orderly Delia, who has been the Hazletts’ daily maid for more than six years comes in, looking as usual, to collect the tea-tray and get the washing-up done before going home. She rarely speaks except to say good-afternoon and goodbye-now. She came originally from Puerto Rico with her sister, married a Puerto Rican night-porter, and now lives in the Bronx, returning to Puerto Rico every two years at Christmas-time with her husband, their suitcase and their twin daughters. This being a Thursday, Delia has had her shiny hair done before coming to work, because Thursday is her husband’s night off.
‘Your hair looks very good, Delia,’ Princess Xavier says as the young woman bends over the tray and picks it up. Delia then stands up straight, holding the tray at a little distance from her waist in a manner unusual to her. She waits in this position for a little moment, then spreading her fingers she lets the tray drop from her hands.
‘Oh!’ says the Princess.
Elsa and the maid say nothing. The three women stare at the wreckage on the carpet, at the silver teapot on its side oozing leafy tea, the cream crawling its way among the jagged fragments of Elsa’s turn-of-the-century Coalport china, the petit-fours and scones from Schraffts, Fifth Avenue, and the pineapple preserves from Charles’s, Madison Avenue; they stare at the sugar cubes scattered over the carpet like children’s discarded playing-blocks seen from a far height. Then Delia says, ‘You people are lousy. Katerina and Mr Hazlett is lousy, your son Pierre is lousy, my husband is lousy and the kids is just so lousy as well, this rat in my home is lousy and his lice is lousy.’
‘She has never said such a thing before,’ Elsa says.
Delia then runs to the window and wrenches at the latch-handle, scratching with her little fingers and freshly painted nails to get it open; it is stiff, for it has not been opened for the past eight weeks.
‘She’s going to throw herself out!’ says the Princess, rolling like a ship to rise to her feet.
‘Don’t open the window, Delia,’ says Elsa, ‘because it upsets the central heating. One should never open the windows when the central heating or the air-conditioners are turned on, as it creates an atmospheric imbalance. If the room is too hot, Della, you can turn down the heating by means of that tap by the side of the radiator, you turn it to the right. If that fails to reduce the heat—’
‘Elsa,’ says the Princess, ‘come and hold her!’
Delia is trying all the windows in turn and now she is fighting off Princess Xavier while attempting to reach the East window behind Elsa which looks out on the dark daylight full of snow, a swirling grey spotted-muslin veil, beyond which, only by faith and experience can you know, stands the sky over the East River.
In the end they get the girl to sit down, then to lie down on the sofa, then to sip water, while Elsa telephones to Garven. Delia says nothing but just lies and looks sourly about the room with the corners of her mouth turned down exceedingly, distorting her usual prettiness, in an expression of entire disgust. The Princess sits by her side making remarks intended to soothe, such as ‘We all feel that way sometimes,’ and ‘It will all have blown over by tomorrow.’ So she must have sat many hours at her desk of Princess Xavier’s Agency in Bayswater, dispensing into the nerve-racked ears of Europe’s refugees sentiments which were all the more hypnotic in effect for having been unintelligible.
Elsa goes and brings a brush and pan, and starts sweeping up the mess on the carpet, her shadow weaving as she kneels. ‘When Garven arrives,’ she says, as she sweeps and gathers up, ‘he will say to Delia “What’s your problem ?“ Those will be his words, I would place a bet on it. So she will have to think of a problem whether she has one or not.’
Delia does not respond, even with a lowering of her frown or a lifting of it. The Princess says, ‘I dare say the poor girl does have a private problem.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Elsa says. ‘It doesn’t follow, really, at all, that she has a problem.’
The key in the lock away in the distance of the front door lets in Paul. The Princess gazes down at Delia, settling herself so as to present a tableau for Paul’s appearance in the room. Elsa stands up, brush and pan in hand; she looks out of the window at the obscure snow-sky, giggles, and again kneels to her sweeping-up. Paul enters and stops in the doorway: ‘What have you been doing, Elsa?’
‘1 knifed the girl,’ Elsa says.
‘Nothing of the kind,’ says the Princess. ‘Keep quiet, Paul. Delia has had a nervous crisis.
‘Lousy people,’ Delia says, breathing heavily.
‘Just lie quiet, my dear,’ the Princess says. ‘Mrs Hazlett’s own doctor is on his way to see you.’
‘I feel bad,’ Delia shouts. ‘Lousy, like my head falls off.’
‘Let her go home,’ says Paul. He moves closer and is staring at his wife who, kneeling with her back to him, is now attempting to remove the effects of cream from the carpet.
‘Give her some water,’ Paul says, still staring down towards his wife’s behind.
‘I don’t want no more lousy water,’ Delia screams. The Princess grips Delia’s wrists in her expert way. ‘Paul, don’t just stand there,’ she says, ‘staring like that. It isn’t Elsa’s fault. Get some brandy for the poor girl. She’s going to have another brainstorm.’
Delia, however, for a while subsides. Paul says, ‘Elsa, there’s something on the soles of your shoes.’
Elsa goes on doing what she is doing.
‘Did you know,’ says Paul, ‘that there’s writing on the soles of your shoes?’
Elsa giggles.
‘Take them off. Give them to me.’
The doorbell rings. ‘That’s Garven,’ says Elsa. ‘Go and let him in.’
But Paul has got down on the floor beside her. He grasps an ankle which overturns her. Then he starts to pull off her shoes. They are fixed by straps and will not wrench off. Elsa kicks mightily, the shadows of her legs waving in his face, whereas by right they should be waving in her own.
‘Lousy devils!’ Delia shouts, as she has never done on any other day in all her six years with them. ‘Answer that door! I got to talk to a doctor.’ The bell pierces long.
The Princess heaves to her feet and hugging her folds paddles off to admit Garven with whom she returns, whispering heavily to him.
Paul has got one of Elsa’s shoes off and is trying to unstrap the other while Elsa, lying back among the broken china, tugs his black and grey hair. Delia, supine on the sofa, growls through her lower teeth.
Garven surveys the scene with satisfied disapproval.
‘What’s your problem?’ he says.
Elsa looks over to the east window and starts to laugh. Paul gets the other shoe off.
‘Take it easy,’ says Garven, helping Elsa to her feet. He goes over to Paul who is examining the soles of the shoes under the light of a lamp. Garven murmurs, ‘Was she kicking? Did she have a fit?’
Paul does not look up. ‘The maid fainted or something. Go and do something for her.’
‘I have to know,’ Garven says, ‘what exactly
Elsa has done. We may have reached a crisis.
Elsa brushes past them, in her stocking feet, carrying away the tea-tray of wreckage in a businesslike manner.
Garven goes over to the maid whose eyes are now shut, her hand held by the Princess.
‘Now what’s the trouble?’ says Garven with a policeman’s authority.
‘The girl’s had a fit of nerves. She dropped the tray. Elsa was sitting over there quite calmly.’
> ‘It’s too hot in here,’ Garven says. ‘Stiffing. Can’t you turn down your heating?’ He feels the girl’s head, but his eyes are on Paul. ‘Elsa called me,’ he says.
‘I know,’ says the Princess. ‘Paul arrived later, didn’t you Paul?’
‘This is in code,’ says Paul, coming over to the Princess with the under-soles of Elsa’s shoes held out to her. ‘It’s a means of communication for secret work. You mark a pair of new shoes in a certain way, practically invisible until they are worn in the street. When the soles get dirty the markings show up and you can read the message. There’s writing on the soles of these shoes — can you read it?’
Three rows of faint white scratchings can be seen on each of the under-soles.
The Princess says, ‘My spectacles are in my bag, Paul. Let Mr Garven deal with this poor girl.’
Garven is over by the north window where the main radiator is. He is trying to turn off the control knob which is already turned off as far as it will go. He lays his hands on the very hot radiator. ‘These old apartment houses,’ he says.
‘Mr Garven,’ says the Princess, rolling big eyes to indicate Delia and the fact that his duty lies there.
‘Always too hot,’ Garven says, frantically, now pulling at the knot of his tie, and anxiously looking around the room for guidance. Paul stands peering at the soles of the shoes.
‘My name,’ Garven informs the Princess, ‘is Bey, spelt B - E - Y. My surname.’
‘Oh, I thought you were a Mr Garven. Garven is your Christian name, is it?’
‘My pre-name. These goddam old apartments —’
‘Lousy language, your doctor,’ shouts Delia, who now starts up from the sofa. ‘All lousy, here. What you done for Mrs Hazlett all the lousy money she spent on you? What you ever done for her?’
After which Delia runs out of the room, and her footsteps can be heard along the corridor to the kitchen. From there her voice can still be heard, but not her words.
‘New York is changing,’ says Princess Xavier. ‘What did you want to bring me here for?’ Garven says. ‘This is a madhouse. Why me?’
‘Have you got your reading spectacles, Poppy?’ says Paul impatiently, indicating her bag with one of the shoes. ‘This is important,’ he says. ‘I want you to see.’
The front doorbell rings. Garven looks at his watch, takes out his handkerchief and pats his forehead. The front door can be heard being opened. ‘A madhouse,’ Garven says and looks again at his watch.
The Princess fetches her glasses out of her bag and takes her time to put them on properly. ‘Let us see,’ she says soothingly. ‘Sit down, Mr Garven, there’s no hurry.’
‘I’m a busy man,’ Garven says.
The Princess is peering closely at one of the shoes. Then she holds it at arm’s length, to study it. She says to Garven, ‘Now I must concentrate on this. Sit down. Elsa has your Institute of Guidance at heart. Be patient.’
Whereupon Garven sits down.
‘I see,’ says the Princess, ‘the words, “Melinda’s, New York, Chicago.” which is only the name of the store.’ She looks towards the door of the room. ‘Isn’t that Katerina I hear?’ she says. ‘Katerina must have stopped by. How nice.’
‘And underneath?’ Paul says. ‘Below that, what do you see?’
‘I can’t make it out. Impossible,’ says the Princess. ‘Elsa will have to wear them some more, then one will be able to see more clearly. If I were you, Paul, I shouldn’t worry.’ She turns to Garven with an approving smile, apparently because he has been good and sat down when told. And as if to humour him further she loosens the clasp of her shawls. ‘Yes, it really is very hot in here,’ she says, exposing a large expanse of flesh under her low-cut beady afternoon dress.
Katerina comes in with her mother. Delia, growling and dressed for the street, follows.
Garven screams. His eyes are on the Princess’s bosom. He screams. Under the protective folds of her breasts the Princess, this very morning, has concealed for warmth and fear of the frost a precious new consignment of mulberry leaves bearing numerous eggs of silk-worms. These have hatched in the heat. The worms themselves now celebrate life by wriggling upon Princess Xavier’s breast and causing Garven to scream.
‘Lousy doctor,’ shouts Delia. ‘I go home now thank you very much.’ She leaves with a long, loud run and a crash of the front door.
‘Katerina, my dear,’ says the Princess, ‘fetch me a paper bag. My worms!’
‘Don’t panic,’ says Garven to Paul. ‘Don’t panic,’ he says to Elsa.
Katerina takes a small packet of face-tissues from her bag and tosses them on to the Princess’s lap. ‘Wipe them off with these,’ she says. ‘Whatever’s wrong? — Did you catch some complaint?’
‘My little worms,’ says the Princess, carefully extricating the mulberry leaves from under her lapping breasts, and delicately picking the worms from her skin. She wraps them carefully in the leaves and face tissues and then, after a little hesitation, places them inside her gloves which she arranges tenderly in her handbag.
Elsa goes to her chair by the east window. ‘It’s stopped snowing.’ she says.
‘Elsa,’ Paul says. ‘Elsa — I’m your husband and I’m asking you. What’s written on those shoes?’
‘Don’t panic,’ says Garven.
‘Little things, prematurely born,’ says the Princess.
‘What do you know?’ Katerina says, ‘what do you know — The Pope is going to abolish the colour red for Cardinals.’
Her father says, ‘Katerina, there are messages in code from Kiel on these shoes. Will you be serious for once? Will you think of me for one minute. What kind of daughter are you?’
‘I found out something about Kiel for you,’ she says. ‘My God, I did! I dated him twice. He’s got clap. I know, because he’s given it to me. Now I need treatment quick and I need some money for it. Don’t panic.’
‘Mr Garven,’ says the Princess. ‘Take Miss Hazlett immediately to the hospital. She must not drink from cups that anyone else is going to use.’
‘It isn’t my field,’ Garven says, ‘but I’d be happy to recommend —’
‘I don’t believe her,’ says Paul. ‘I don’t believe a word she says.’
‘Elsa!’ says Garven. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Get a doctor for Katerina if she needs one,’ says Elsa, waving her arms in large dismissal.
Garven gives another sort of cry, not a scream, but a deep and chesty sound as if he were groaning from a thousand miles away. He stands up and walks backwards. ‘There’s something wrong with your shadow,’ he says. ‘It’s falling in the wrong direction.’ She moves her arm again, waving merrily. He stops walking backwards and looks at the dancing shadow. ‘Things had to come to a head as I told you, Elsa. This is a major event in your case-history. You’ve externalised.’
‘Nonsense,’ says the Princess as she wraps herself up again. ‘There’s nothing new about Elsa’s symptom. A discerning healer would have noticed long before this. She’s had it for years.’
Katerina says, ‘It even shows in photographs.’
‘Quiet, quiet,’ breathes Paul to his daughter. ‘Don’t bandy these factors about. Have you no respect for your family? You never told me before that you even noticed your mother’s disability. Now you come here and open your mouth in front of everyone. Can’t you keep a thing to yourself?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I didn’t breathe a word about Ma’s shadow to Kiel.’
‘You saw Kiel? — You did see Kiel?’ he says.
‘He calls himself Mueller,’ says Katerina.
‘Shadows,’ says Garven, looking round the room. ‘Hysteria. Worms. You’ve externalised, Elsa.’
‘Externalised what?’ she says.
‘Your problem.’ Her Guidance Director looks at her with the anticipation of a fortune to be cultivated and reaped. ‘A rare if not unique occurrence — a case of externalisation. Probably total.’
‘She could go i
n a circus,’ Katerina says.
‘I have to get a new maid,’ Elsa says. ‘How do I start?’
IV
‘It gives me the creeps,’ says Paul, ‘to have that psychoanalyst waiting on me at table and brushing my suit in the morning. I don’t know how you can stand it.’
‘Delia was so marvellous,’ Elsa says. ‘A pity she broke down like that.’
‘Well, get another girl. Get another girl. This is unwholesome.’
‘I can’t find a girl. Garven is very willing. He’ll do anything for us so long as he gets material for his book about my case.’
‘Then we’ll all be exposed in public. He’ll make a fortune and we’ll be ruined. Haven’t you any foresight?’
Elsa laughs. ‘He hasn’t got his material yet. He’s looking for the cause, and all I’m giving him are effects. It’s lovely.’ She goes over to the window and looks out, smiling.
There is the sound of a key in the door, distinctly, along the passage.
‘There he is,’ Paul says, ‘Here he comes. You can’t open your mouth in front of him.’
‘One can always speak French in front of the servants.’
‘Do you think he doesn’t know French?’ Paul says.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ says Elsa. ‘I was only thinking of some way of putting him in his place. What does it matter if he understands what we say, since we never say anything that matters?’
Garven puts his head round the door of the drawing-room and looks at them both in a worried sort of way. ‘1 had a dental appointment,’ he says. ‘Did you want anything?’
‘Ice,’ Paul says.
Elsa says, ‘Would you feel very offended, Garven, if my husband and I conversed in French when you are present in the room?’
‘Why?’ says Garven.
‘In many societies,’ Elsa says, ‘It’s still usual to speak French in front of servants and young children.’
‘Elsa!’ says Paul.
