Mr Reginald Peacock's Day

Introduction

What can you do if you are thirty and, suddenly, turning the corner of your own street, you feel perfectly happy, as if you had swallowed a piece of the late autumn sun?

Berthas feelings show her love of the moment and her satisfaction with her home, her family and her interesting circle of friends. Yet pain is not far away. Before the day is over, Bertha's safe, happy world has been destroyed and she faces an uglier, crueller reality.

In the other stories in this book, we are shown other uncomfortable comparisons: the way a music teacher behaves towards his pupils and towards his own family; the friendliness which richer children show towards each other and the cruelty with which they treat poor ones; the way in which one neighbouring family gives an expensive party and the other is affected by a sudden death.

Katherine Mansfield is now recognized as one of the greatest short story writers in the English language but she had a difficult life and was often unhappy. She was born in Wellington, New Zealand, in 1888 but went to London when she was fourteen and lived the rest of her life in Europe. She married John Middleton Murry, an important journalist and critic. Through him she met other famous writers, such as D. H. Lawrence and Virginia Woolf. Her best-known collections of short stories are Bliss and Other Stories (1920) and The Garden Party and Other Stones (1922). However, she had serious health problems. She died of tuberculosis in France in 1923, at the early age of thirty-five.

Bliss

Although Bertha Young was thirty, she still sometimes wanted to run instead of walk. She wanted to dance in the street. She wanted to throw something up in the air and catch it again, or to stand still and laugh at - nothing — at nothing, simply.

What can you do if you are thirty and, suddenly, turning the corner of your own street, you feel perfectly happy, as if you had swallowed a piece of the late afternoon sun?

She ran up the steps of her house and felt in her bag for her key, but she had forgotten it, as usual. The servant opened the door.

'Thank you, Mary,' she said as she went in. 'Is Nurse back?'

'Yes, Ma'am.'

'And has the fruit come?'

'Yes, Ma'am. Everything's come.'

'Bring the fruit into the dining-room, will you? I'll arrange it before I go upstairs.'

It was quite dark and cold in the dining-room. But Bertha still threw off her coat, and the cold air fell on her arms.

But she still had that feeling of perfect happiness, as if she had swallowed a piece of sunshine. She did not want to breathe. The feeling might get stronger; but still she breathed, deeply, deeply. She did not want to look in the cold mirror, but still she did look, and saw a woman with smiling lips and big, dark eyes. She looked as if she was waiting for somebody, as if she was waiting for something to happen. Something must happen.

Mary brought the fruit and with it a glass bowl and a lovely blue dish.

'Shall I turn on the light, Ma'am?'

'No, thank you. I can see quite well.'

There were small oranges and pink apples. There were some smooth yellow pears and some silvery white grapes, and a big bunch of purple grapes. She had bought the purple ones because they matched the colour of the dining-room carpet. Yes, that was silly, but that was why she had bought them. She had thought in the shop: 'I must have some purple ones because of the carpet.'

When she had finished arranging the bright fruit, she stood away from the table to look at them. The glass dish and the blue bowl seemed to hang in the air above the dark table. This was so beautiful that she started to laugh.

'No. No. I mustn't.' And she ran upstairs to her child's room.

Nurse sat at a low table giving little B her supper after her bath. The baby looked up when she saw her mother and began to jump.

'Now, my love, eat it up like a good girl,' said Nurse.

Bertha knew that Nurse did not like her to come in at the wrong time.

'Has she been good, Nurse?'

'She's been a little sweet all afternoon,' whispered Nurse. 'We went to the park and a big dog came along. She pulled its ear. Oh, you should have seen her.'

Bertha wanted to say that it was dangerous to pull a strange dog's ear, but she was rather afraid of Nurse. She stood watching them, her hands by her side, like the poor little girl in front of the rich little girl.

The baby looked up at her again, and then smiled so charmingly that Bertha cried: 'Oh, Nurse, please let me finish giving her supper while you put the bath things away.'

'Well, Ma'am, we oughtn't to change her over while she's eating,' said Nurse.

How silly it was. Why have a baby if it always has to be in another woman's arms? ,'Oh I must!' she said.

Nurse was not pleased, but she gave her the baby.

'Now don't excite her after supper.'

Nurse went out of the room with the bath towels.

'Now I've got you to myself, my little jewel,' said Bertha.

When the soup was finished, Bertha turned round to the fire.

'You're nice — you're very nice!' she said, kissing her warm baby. Again, she felt perfectly happy.

'You're wanted on the telephone,' said Nurse, as she took the baby from Bertha. Nurse looked pleased.

She ran downstairs and picked up the telephone. It was Harry.

'Oh, is that you, Ber? Look here. I'll be late. I'll take a taxi and come along as quickly as I can, but can we have dinner ten minutes later? All right?'

'Yes, perfectly all right. Oh, Harry!'

'Yes?'

What did she want to say? She had nothing to say. She only wanted to tell him what she was feeling. It would be silly to say: 'Hasn't it been a wonderful day?'

'What is it?' asked the voice on the telephone.

'Nothing,' said Bertha.

There were people coming to dinner. Mr and Mrs Norman Knight were an interesting couple. He was going to start a theatre, and she was interested in furniture. There was a young man, Eddie Warren, who had just written a little book of poems. Everybody was asking Eddie Warren to dinner. And there was a 'find' of Bertha's, a young woman called Pearl Fulton. Bertha did not know what Miss Fulton did. They had met at the club and Bertha liked her immediately. She always liked beautiful women who had something strange about them.

Bertha and Miss Fulton had met a number of times, and they had talked together a lot, but Bertha still could not understand her friend. Miss Fulton told Bertha everything about some parts of her life, but beyond that she told her nothing.

Was there anything beyond it? Harry said 'No'. He thought Miss Fulton was boring, and 'cold, like all fair-haired women, and perhaps not very intelligent'. But Bertha did not agree with him.

'No, the way she has of sitting with her head a little on one side, and smiling, has something behind it, Harry, and I must find out what it is.'

'Most likely it's a good stomach,' answered Harry.

She went into the sitting-room and lighted the fire and rearranged the furniture a little. The room came alive at once.

The windows of the sitting-room opened onto the garden. At the far end of the garden, against the wall, there was a tall pear tree in full flower. It stood perfect against the light green sky. A grey cat moved slowly across the grass, and a black cat followed it like a shadow. Bertha had a strange, cold feeling when she saw them.

'How strange cats are!' she said, and she turned away from the window and began walking up and down ...

The smell of flowers filled the warm room. She sat down and pressed her hands to her eyes.

'I'm too happy — too happy!' she said to herself. Really — really - she had everything. She was young. Harry and she were as much in love as ever, and they were really good friends. She had a lovely baby. They didn't have to worry about money. They had a wonderful house and garden. And friends — modern, exciting friends, writers and painters and people who wrote poems —just the kind of friends they wanted.

She sat up. She felt weak with happiness. It must be the spring.

She wore a white dress, a string of green stones around her neck, green shoes and stockings. She looked like the pear tree, but this was accidental. She had decided what to wear before she looked through the sitting-room window.

She kissed Mrs Norman Knight,* who was wearing an unusual orange coat with a row of black monkeys around the edge.

'Everybody on the train looked at my monkeys!' said Mrs Norman Knight. 'They didn't even laugh. Just looked.'

'And then,' said her husband, 'she turned to the woman beside her and said: "Haven't you ever seen a monkey before?" '

'Oh, yes!' Mrs Norman Knight joined in the laughter. 'Wasn't that just too funny!'

And a funnier thing still was, that now with her coat off, Mrs Norman Knight looked just like an intelligent monkey. Her yellow dress looked like banana skins.

The bell rang. It was Eddie Warren, white-faced and thin. As usual, he looked terribly worried.

'It is the right house, isn't it? he asked.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

* Married women used to sometimes be called by their husband's first name in English. This does not often happen now.

'Oh, I think so — I hope so,' said Bertha brightly.

'I have had such a terrible time with a taxi driver; he was most strange. I couldn't get him to stop. The more I tried, the faster he went.'

He took off his coat. Bertha noticed that his socks were white, too — most charming and unusual.

'But how terrible!' she cried.

'Yes, it really was,' said Eddie, following her into the sitting-room. He knew the Norman Knights. In fact, he was going to write something for Norman Knight when the theatre opened.

'Well, Warren, how's the writing?' said Norman Knight.

And Mrs Norman Knight said: 'Oh, Mr Warren, what happy socks!'

'I am so glad you like them,' he said, looking down at his feet. 'They seem to look so much whiter when there is a moon.' And he turned his thin sad face to Bertha. There is a moon, you know.'

He really was a most attractive person. And so were the Norman Knights.

The front door opened and shut. Harry shouted: 'Hello, you people. Down in five minutes.' They heard him hurry up the stairs. Bertha smiled, she knew how Harry liked to be always busy.

She liked his enthusiasm and his love of fighting. To other people he sometimes seemed strange, but they did not know him well. She understood him. She talked and laughed until Harry came down. She had forgotten that Pearl Fulton had not arrived.

'I wonder if Miss Fulton has forgotten?'

'Probably,' said Harry. 'Is she on the phone?'

'Ah! There's a taxi now.' And Bertha smiled when she thought about her new friend. 'She lives in taxis.'

'She'll get fat if she does,' said Harry coolly, ringing the bell for dinner.

'Harry - don't,' warned Bertha, laughing at him.

They waited, and then Miss Fulton came in. She was all in silver, and she smiled with her head a little on one side.

'Am I late?'

'No, not at all,' said Bertha. 'Come along.' And she took Miss Fulton's arm and they moved into the dining-room. The touch of that cool arm gave Bertha that same perfectly happy feeling again.

Miss Fulton did not look at her, but then she rarely looked straight at people. Her heavy eyelids lay upon her eyes and the strange half-smile came and went on her lips. She seemed to live by listening more than by seeing. But Bertha felt as if they were very close, as if they understood each other very well.

She and Miss Fulton were closer, Bertha felt, than the other guests, as they all ate dinner and talked together. They were all dears, and she loved having them there at her table. She loved giving them wonderful food and wine. In fact, she wanted to tell them how delightful they were, how nice they looked.

Harry was enjoying his dinner. He enjoyed talking about food. Bertha was pleased when he turned to her and said: 'Bertha, this is wonderful!'

She felt as if she loved the whole world. Everything was good — was right.

And still, in the back of her mind, there was the pear tree. It would be silver now, in the light of poor dear Eddie's moon, as silver as Miss Fulton.

It was wonderful how Bertha seemed to understand immediately how Miss Fulton was feeling. She was sure that she understood her new friend perfectly.

'I believe that this does happen sometimes. It happens very, very rarely between women. Never between men,' thought Bertha. 'Perhaps while I am making the coffee in the sitting-room, she will give a sign to show me that she understands, too.'

While she thought like this she continued talking and laughing. She could not stop laughing.

At last, the meal was over.

'Come and see my new coffee machine,' said Bertha.

Mrs Norman Knight sat beside the fire. She was always cold.

At that moment, Miss Fulton 'gave the sign'.

'Do you have a garden?' said the cool, sleepy voice.

Bertha crossed the room, pulled the curtains back, and opened those long windows.

'There!' she breathed.

And the two women stood side by side, looking at the flowering tree. It seemed to grow taller and taller in the bright air. It seemed almost to touch the edge of the round, silver moon.

How long did they stand there? They understood each other perfectly. They were in a circle of light; they were like people from another world.

Then the coffee was ready and Harry said: 'My dear Mrs Knight, don't ask me about my baby. I never see her.'

They talked about Norman Knight's theatre. Mrs Knight talked about the furniture that she was choosing for some people. They talked about a terrible poem about a girl in a wood ...

Miss Fulton sat in the lowest, deepest chair and Harry offered cigarettes.

From the way he offered Miss Fulton the cigarette box, Bertha could see that Miss Fulton not only bored Harry; he really disliked her. And she decided that Miss Fulton felt this too, and was hurt.

'Oh, Harry, don't dislike her,' Bertha said to herself. 'You are quite wrong about her. She's wonderful. And besides, how can you feel so differently about someone who means so much to me? I shall try to tell you all about it when we are in bed tonight.'

At those last words, Bertha suddenly thought: 'Soon these people will go. The house will be quiet. The lights will be out. And you and he will be alone together.'

She jumped up from her chair and ran over to the piano.

'What a pity someone does not play!' she cried.

For the first time in her life, Bertha Young wanted her husband.

Oh; she had been in love with him, of course. But her feelings were different from his.They talked together about it — they were such good friends.

But now she felt different. She really wanted him. Was this the meaning of that feeling of perfect happiness?

'My dear,' said Mrs Norman Knight to Bertha, 'we mustn't miss our train. It's been so nice.'

'I'll come with you to the door,' said Bertha. 'I loved having you.'

'Good-night, goodbye,' she cried from the top step.

When she got back into the sitting-room the others were getting ready to leave.

'.. .Then you can come part of the way in my taxi.'

'I shall be so thankful not to have to take another taxi alone after the terrible time I had before.'

'You can get a taxi at the end of the street. It isn't far to walk.'

'That's good. I'll go and put on my coat.'

Miss Fulton moved towards the door and Bertha was following when Harry almost pushed past.

'Let me help you.'

Bertha knew that Harry was feeling sorry for his rudeness to Miss Fulton, so she let him go. He was like a little boy in some ways, so simple.

Eddie and she stood by the fire.

'Have you seen Bilks' new poem about soup? said Eddie softly. 'It's so wonderful. Have you got a copy of his new book? I'd so like to show it to you. The first line is wonderful: "Why must it always be tomato soup?" '

'Yes,' said Bertha. And she moved silently to a table opposite the sitting-room door and Eddie went silently after her. She picked up the little book and gave it to him; they had not made a sound.

While he looked for the poem in the book she turned her head towards the hall. And she saw ... Harry with Miss Fulton's coat in his arms and Miss Fulton with her back turned to him and her head bent. Harry threw the coat down, put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to him. His lips said: 'I love you,' and Miss Fulton laid her white fingers on her cheeks and smiled her sleepy smile. Harry smiled too, and he whispered: 'Tomorrow,' and with her eyelids Miss Fulton said: 'Yes.'

'Here it is,' said Eddie.' "Why must it always be tomato soup?" It's so deeply true, don't you feel? It always is tomato soup.'

'If you prefer,' said Harry's voice, very loud, from outside,'I can phone for a taxi.'

'Oh, no. It's not necessary,' said Miss Fulton, and she came up to Bertha and gave her the thin white fingers to hold.

'Goodbye. Thank you so much.'

'Goodbye,' said Bertha.

Miss Fulton held her hand a moment longer.

'Your lovely pear tree!' she said in a low voice.

And then she was gone, with Eddie following, like the black cat following the grey cat.

'I'll lock the doors,' said-Harry, very calmly.

'Your lovely pear tree — pear tree — pear tree!'

Bertha ran to the long windows.

'Oh, what is going to happen now?' she cried.

But the pear tree was as lovely as ever and as full of flowers and as still.

Mr Reginald Peacock's Day

He hated the way his wife woke him up in the morning. She did it on purpose, of course. It showed that she was angry with him. But he was not going to show her that he was angry. But it was really dangerous to wake up an artist like that! It made him feel bad for hours — simply hours.

She came into the room in her working clothes, with a handkerchief over her head, just to show him that she had been awake and working for hours. She called in a low warning voice: 'Reginald!'

'Eh! What! What's that? What's the matter?'

'It's time to get up. It's half-past eight.' And then she left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. He supposed that she felt very pleased with herself.

He turned over in the big bed. His heart felt heavy. She seemed to enjoy making life more difficult for him; more difficult than it was already. She made an artist's life impossible. She wanted to pull him down, to make him like herself.

What was the matter with her? What did she want? Didn't he have three times as many pupils now as he did when they were first married? Didn't he earn three times as much money? Hadn't he paid for everything they owned? He now had begun to pay for Adrian's school, too. She didn't have any money, but he never said that to her. Never!

When you married a woman she wanted everything. Nothing was worse for an artist than marriage. Artists should wait until they are over forty before they get married. Why had he married her? He asked himself this question about three times a day, but he never could answer it. She had caught him at a weak moment.

Looking back, he saw himself as a poor young thing, half-child, half-wild bird. He was totally unable to manage bills and things like that. Well, she had tried hard to change him, and she was changing him with her early morning trick. An artist ought to wake slowly, he thought, moving down in the warm bed. He began to imagine delightful pictures, one after the other. The pictures ended with his latest, most charming pupil putting her arms around him and covering him with her long hair. 'Awake my love!...'

As usual, while the bath water ran, Reginald Peacock tried his voice.

' When her mother sees her before the laughing mirror, Tying up her shoes and tying up her hair!

He sang softly at first, listening to the quality of his voice, until he came to the third line:

'Often she thinks, were this wild thing married ...' and when he got to the last word his voice became a shout, and a glass on the bathroom shelf shook ...

Well, there was nothing wrong with his voice, he thought, as he jumped into the bath and covered his soft pink body with soap. He could fill a very large theatre with that voice! He sang again as he took the towel and dried himself quickly.

He returned to his bedroom and began to do his exercises -deep breathing, bending forward and back. He was terribly afraid of getting fat. Men in his job often did get fat. However, there was no sign of fatness at present. He was, he decided, just right. In fact, he felt deeply satisfied when he looked at himself in the mirror dressed in a black coat, dark grey trousers, grey socks and a black and silver tie. He was not vain, of course — he hated vain men - no, the feeling he had when he looked at himself was purely artistic.

People often asked him if he was really English. They could never believe that he didn't have some Southern blood.

His singing had an emotional quality that was not English ...

The door began to open and Adrian's head appeared.

'Please, Father, Mother says breakfast is ready, please.'

'Very well,' said Reginald. Then just as Adrian disappeared: 'Adrian!'

'Yes, father.'

'You haven't said "Good morning".'

A few months ago, Reginald had spent a weekend with a very important family, where the father received his little sons in the morning and shook hands with them. Reginald thought that this was charming. He immediately started to do the same in his own home, but Adrian felt silly when he had to shake hands with his own father every morning. And why did his father always sound like he was singing to him instead of talking?

Reginald walked into the dining-room and sat down. There was a pile of letters, a copy of the newspaper and a little covered dish in front of him. He looked quickly at the letters and then at his breakfast. There were two thin pieces of bacon and one egg.

'Don't you want any bacon?' he asked.

'No, I prefer an apple. I don't need bacon every morning.'

Now, what did she mean? Did she mean that she didn't want to cook bacon for him every morning?

'If you don't want to cook the breakfast,' he said, 'why don't you have a servant? We have enough money, and you know how I hate to see my wife doing the work. I know that all the servants we had in the past were mistakes. They stopped my practising and I couldn't have any pupils in the house. But now, you have stopped trying to find the right kind of servant. You could teach a servant, couldn't you?'

'But I prefer to do the work myself; it makes life so much more peaceful ... Run along, Adrian dear, and get ready for school.'

'Oh, no, that's not it!' Reginald pretended to smile. 'You do the work yourself, because, I don't know why, you want me to feel bad. You may not realize this, but it's true.' He felt pleased with himself and opened an envelope ...

Dear Mr Peacock,

I feel that I cannot go to sleep until I have thanked you for the wonderful pleasure your singing gave me this evening. It was quite unforgettable. It made me wonder if the ordinary world is everything there is. Some of us can perhaps understand that there is more in the world, more beauty and richness to enjoy. The house is so quiet. I wish you were here now. Then I could thank you again face to face. You are doing a great thing. You are teaching the world to escape from life!

Yours, most sincerely,

Aenone Fel

PS I am in every afternoon this week ...

He felt proud. 'Oh well, don't let us argue about it,' he said, and actually held out his hand to his wife.

But she was not generous enough to answer him.

'I must hurry and take Adrian to school,' she said. 'Your room is ready for you.'

Very well — very well — it was war between them! Well, he would not be the first to make it up again!

He walked up and down his room. He was not calm again until he heard the front door close as Adrian and his wife left. Of course, if this went on, he would have to make some other arrangement. That was obvious.

How could he help the world to escape from life? He opened the piano and checked the list of pupils for the morning. Miss Betty Brittle, the Countess Wilkowska and Miss Marian Morrow. They were charming, all three.

At half-past ten exactly, the doorbell rang. He went to the door. Miss Betty Brittle was there, dressed in white with her music in a blue case.

'I'm afraid I'm early,' she said shyly, and she opened her big blue eyes very wide. 'Am I?'

'Not at all, dear lady. I am only too charmed,' said Reginald, 'Won't you come in?'

'It's such a beautiful morning,' said Miss Brittle, 'I walked across the park. The flowers were wonderful.'

'Well, think about the flowers while you sing your exercises,' said Reginald, sitting down at the piano. 'It will give your voice colour and warmth.'

'Oh, what a charming idea! How clever Mr Peacock is!' Miss Brittle thought. She opened her pretty lips and began to sing like a flower.

'Very good, very good!' said Reginald, as he played the piano.

'Make the notes round. Don't be afraid. Breathe the music.'

How pretty she looked, standing there in her white dress, her little fair head raised, showing her milky neck.

'Do you ever practise in front of a mirror?' asked Reginald. 'You ought to, you know. Come over here.'

They went across the room to the mirror and stood side by side.

'Now sing — moo-e-koo-e-oo-e-a!'

But she could not sing, and her face became pinker than ever.

'Oh,' she cried, 'I can't. It makes me feel so silly. It makes me want to laugh. I look so silly!'

'No, you don't. Don't be afraid,' said Reginald, but he laughed, too, very kindly. 'Now, try again!'

The lesson went past very quickly, and Betty Brittle stopped feeling shy.

'When can I come again?' she asked, tying the music up in the blue case. 'I want to take as many lessons as I can just now. Oh, Mr Peacock, I do enjoy them so much. May I come the day after tomorrow?'

'Dear lady, I shall be only too charmed,' said Reginald, as he showed her out.

Wonderful girl! And when they had stood in front of the mirror, her white sleeve had just touched his black one. He could feel — yes, he could actually feel a warm place on his sleeve, and he touched it. She loved her lessons.

His wife came in.

'Reginald, can you let me have some money? I must pay for the milk. And will you be in for dinner tonight?'

'Yes, you know I'm singing at Lord Timbuck's at half-past nine. Can you give me some clear soup, with an egg in it?'

'Yes. And the money, Reginald.' She told him how much she needed.

'That's a lot of money — isn't it?'

'No — that's what it should be. And Adrian must have milk.'

There she was again. Now she was talking about Adrian.

'I certainly don't want to stop my child having enough milk,' he said. 'Here's the money.'

The doorbell rang. He went to the door.

'Oh,' said the Countess Wilkowska, 'the stairs. I'm out of breath.' And she put her hand over her heart as she followed him into the music room. She was all in black, with a little black hat and a bunch of fresh flowers on her dress.

'Do not make me sing exercises, today,' she said, throwing out her hands in her delightful foreign way. 'No, today, I want only to sing songs ... And may I take off my flowers? They die so soon.'

'They die so soon — they die so soon,' played Reginald on the piano.

'May I put them there?' asked the Countess, putting the flowers in front of one of the photographs of Reginald.

'Dear lady, I shall be only too charmed!' said Reginald.

She began to sing, and all went well until she came to the words:'You love me.Yes, I know you love me!' His hands dropped down from the piano, and he turned round, facing her.

'No, no, that's not good enough.You can do better than that!' Reginald cried. 'You must sing as if you were in love. Listen: let me try and show you.'And he sang.

'Oh, yes, yes. I see what you mean,' said the little Countess. 'May I try again?'

'Certainly. Do not be afraid. Let yourself go!' he called above the music. And he sang.

'Yes, better that time. But still I feel that you could do better. Try it with me.' And they sang together.

Ah! Now she was sure she understood. 'May I try once again?'

'You love me. Yes, I know you love me.'

The lesson was over before those words were quite perfect. Her little foreign hands shook as they put the music together.

'And you are forgetting your flowers,' said Reginald softly.

'Yes, I think I will forget them,' said the Countess, biting her lip.

'And you will come to my house on Sunday and make music?' she asked.

'Dear lady, I shall be only too charmed!' said Reginald.

Miss Marian Morrow arrived ... She began to sing a sad little song, and her eyes filled with tears.

'Don't sing just now,' said Reginald. 'Let me play it for you.' He played so softly.

'Is there anything the matter?' asked Reginald. 'You're not quite happy this morning.'

No, she wasn't, she was awfully sad.

'Would you tell me what it is?'

It really wasn't anything. Sometimes, she felt that life was very hard.

'Ah, I know,' he said,'if I could only help!'

'But you do help, you do! Oh, these lessons are so important to me.'

'Sit down in the armchair and smell these flowers and let me sing to you. It will do you as much good as a lesson.'

Why weren't all men like Mr Peacock?

'I wrote a poem after I heard you sing last night — just about what I felt. Of course, it wasn't personal. May I send it to you?'

'Dear lady, I would be only too charmed!'

By the end of the afternoon, he was quite tired, and lay down on a sofa to rest his voice before dressing. The door of his room was open. He could hear Adrian and his wife talking in the dining-room.

'Do you know what the teapot reminds me of, Mummy? It reminds me of a little sitting-down cat.'

'Does it, Mr Imagination?'

Reginald slept. The telephone bell woke him.

'Aenone Fell speaking. Mr Peacock, I have just heard that you are singing at Lord Timbuck's tonight. Will you have dinner with me? We can go on together afterwards.'

And the words of his reply dropped like flowers down the telephone.

'Dear lady, I shall be only too charmed.'

What an evening! The little dinner with Aenone Fell, the drive to Lord Timbuck's in her white car, when again she thanked him for the unforgettable pleasure of his singing. And Lord Timbuck's wine!

'Have some more wine, Peacock,' said Lord Timbuck. Lord Timbuck did not call him Mr Peacock, he called him Peacock, as I if he were a friend. And wasn't he a friend? He was an artist. Wasn't he teaching them all to escape from life? How he sang! And how they all listened to him!

'Have another glass of wine, Peacock.'

'They all love me. I could have anyone I liked by lifting a finger,' thought Peacock as he walked home with uncertain steps.

But as he let himself into the dark flat the wonderful feeling of
happiness began to disappear. He turned on the light in his |bedroom. His wife was asleep on her side of the bed. He remembered suddenly the conversation they had had earlier.

'I'm going out to dinner,' he had said.

'But why didn't you tell me before?'

'Must you always talk to me like that? Must you always be so rude?' he had told her. He could not believe that she wasn't interested in all his wonderful artistic successes. So many other women would have been so happy .. .Yes, he knew it .. .Why not say it? And there she was, an enemy, even when she was sleeping.

Must it always be the same? he thought, the wine still working. Can't we be friends? If we were friends I could tell her so much now! About this evening: even about the way Lord Timbuck talked to me, and all that they said to me and so on and so on. If only I felt that she were here to come back to — that I could tell her everything — and so on and so on.

He felt so emotional that he pulled off his evening boot and threw it in the corner of the room. The noise woke his wife. She sat up suddenly, pushing back her hair. And he suddenly decided to try one more time to talk to her like a friend, to tell her everything, to win her. He sat down on the side of the bed and took one of her hands. But he could not say any of the wonderful things he wanted to say. To his surprise, the only words he could say were: 'Dear lady, I should be so charmed — so charmed!'

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 1111