Read Online Good Morning, Midnight by Jean Rhys - Free Book Online
Authors: Jean Rhys
Tags: General Fiction
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hat shop in the Rue Vavin. It doesn't exist any longer. I wander aimlessly along a lot of back streets where there aren't any hat shops at all. And then a street that is alive with them - Virginie, Josette, Claudine....I look at the window of the first shop. There is a customer inside. Her hair, half-dyed, half-grey, is very dishevelled. As I watch she puts on a hat, makes a face at herself in the glass, and takes it of very quickly. She ties another - then another. Her expression is terrible - hungry, despairing, hopeful, quite crazy. At any moment you expect her to start laughing the laugh of the mad.
I stand outside, watching. I can't move. Hat after hat she puts on, makes that face at herself in the glass and throws it of again. Watching her, am I watching myself as I shall become? In five years' time, in six years' time, shall I be like that?
But she is better than the other one, the smug, white, fat, black-haired one who is offering the hats with a calm, mocking expression. You can almost see her tongue rolling round and round inside her cheek. It's like watching the devil with a damned soul. If I must end like one or the other, may I end like the hag.
I realize that I can't stay gaping in on them any longer and move of, very much shaken. Then I remember the Russian saying: 'I didn't ask to be born; I didn't make the world as it is; I didn't make myself as I am; I am not one of the guilty ones. And so I have a right to....' Etcetera.
There are at least ten milliners' shops in this street. I decide to go into the last but one on the left-hand side and hope to strike lucky.
The girl in the shop says: 'The hats now are very difficult, very difficult. All my clients say that the hats now are very difficult to wear.'
This is a much larger shop than the other one. There is a cruel, crude light over the two mirrors and behind a long room stretching into dimness.
She disappears into the dimness and comes back with hat after hat, hat after hat, murmuring: 'All my clients are complaining that the hats now are very difficult to wear, but I think -I am sure -I shall manage to suit you.'
In the glass it seems to me that I have the same demented expression as the woman up the street.
'My God, not that one.'
I stare suspiciously at her in the glass. Is she laughing at me? No, I think not. I think she has the expression of someone whose pride is engaged. She is determined that before I go out of the shop I shall admit that she can make hats. As soon as I see this expression in her eyes I decide to trust her. I too become quite calm.
'You know, I'm bewildered. Please tell me which one I ought to have.'
'The first one I showed you,' she says at once.
'Oh, my God, not that one.'
'Or perhaps the third one.'
When I put on the third one she says: 'I don't want to insist, but yes - that is your hat.'
I look at it doubtfully and she watches me - not mockingly, but anxiously.
She says: 'Walk up and down the room in it. See whether you feel happy in it. See whether you'll get accustomed to it.'
There is no one else in the shop. It is quite dark outside. We are alone, celebrating this extraordinary ritual.
She says: 'I very seldom insist, but I am sure that when you have got accustomed to that hat you won't regret it. You will realize that it's your hat.'
I have made up my mind to trust this girl, and I must trust her.
'I don't like it much, but it seems to be the only one,' I say in a surly voice.
I have been nearly two hours in the shop, but her eyes are still quite friendly.
I pay for the hat. I put it on. I have a great desire to ask her to come and dine with me, but I daren't do it. All my spontaneity has gone. (Did I ever have any? Yes, I think sometimes I had - in lashes. Anyway, it's gone now. If I asked her to dine with me, it would only be a failure.)
She adjusts the hat very carefully. 'Remember, it must be worn forward and very much on one side. Comme ca.'
She sees me out, still smiling. A strange client,
I stand outside, watching. I can't move. Hat after hat she puts on, makes that face at herself in the glass and throws it of again. Watching her, am I watching myself as I shall become? In five years' time, in six years' time, shall I be like that?
But she is better than the other one, the smug, white, fat, black-haired one who is offering the hats with a calm, mocking expression. You can almost see her tongue rolling round and round inside her cheek. It's like watching the devil with a damned soul. If I must end like one or the other, may I end like the hag.
I realize that I can't stay gaping in on them any longer and move of, very much shaken. Then I remember the Russian saying: 'I didn't ask to be born; I didn't make the world as it is; I didn't make myself as I am; I am not one of the guilty ones. And so I have a right to....' Etcetera.
There are at least ten milliners' shops in this street. I decide to go into the last but one on the left-hand side and hope to strike lucky.
The girl in the shop says: 'The hats now are very difficult, very difficult. All my clients say that the hats now are very difficult to wear.'
This is a much larger shop than the other one. There is a cruel, crude light over the two mirrors and behind a long room stretching into dimness.
She disappears into the dimness and comes back with hat after hat, hat after hat, murmuring: 'All my clients are complaining that the hats now are very difficult to wear, but I think -I am sure -I shall manage to suit you.'
In the glass it seems to me that I have the same demented expression as the woman up the street.
'My God, not that one.'
I stare suspiciously at her in the glass. Is she laughing at me? No, I think not. I think she has the expression of someone whose pride is engaged. She is determined that before I go out of the shop I shall admit that she can make hats. As soon as I see this expression in her eyes I decide to trust her. I too become quite calm.
'You know, I'm bewildered. Please tell me which one I ought to have.'
'The first one I showed you,' she says at once.
'Oh, my God, not that one.'
'Or perhaps the third one.'
When I put on the third one she says: 'I don't want to insist, but yes - that is your hat.'
I look at it doubtfully and she watches me - not mockingly, but anxiously.
She says: 'Walk up and down the room in it. See whether you feel happy in it. See whether you'll get accustomed to it.'
There is no one else in the shop. It is quite dark outside. We are alone, celebrating this extraordinary ritual.
She says: 'I very seldom insist, but I am sure that when you have got accustomed to that hat you won't regret it. You will realize that it's your hat.'
I have made up my mind to trust this girl, and I must trust her.
'I don't like it much, but it seems to be the only one,' I say in a surly voice.
I have been nearly two hours in the shop, but her eyes are still quite friendly.
I pay for the hat. I put it on. I have a great desire to ask her to come and dine with me, but I daren't do it. All my spontaneity has gone. (Did I ever have any? Yes, I think sometimes I had - in lashes. Anyway, it's gone now. If I asked her to dine with me, it would only be a failure.)
She adjusts the hat very carefully. 'Remember, it must be worn forward and very much on one side. Comme ca.'
She sees me out, still smiling. A strange client,
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