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Authors: John Fowles
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maid whose duty it was unfailingly
each Tuesday to water the ferns in the second drawing room--Mrs.
Poulteney kept one for herself and one for company--had omitted to do
so. The ferns looked greenly forgiving; but Mrs. Poulteney was
whitely the contrary. The culprit was summoned. She confessed that
she had forgotten; Mrs. Poulteney might ponderously have overlooked
that, but the girl had a list of two or three recent similar
peccadilloes on her charge sheet. Her knell had rung; and Mrs.
Poulteney began, with the grim sense of duty of a bulldog about to
sink its teeth into a burglar's ankles, to ring it.
" I
will tolerate much, but I will not tolerate this."
" I'll
never do it again, mum."
" You
will most certainly never do it again in my house."
" Oh,
mum. Please, mum."
Mrs. Poulteney allowed
herself to savor for a few earnest, perceptive moments the girl's
tears.
" Mrs.
Fairley will give you your wages."
Miss Sarah was present
at this conversation, since Mrs. Poulteney had been dictating
letters, mostly to bishops
or at least in the tone of voice with which one addresses bishops, to
her. She now asked a question; and the effect was remarkable. It was,
to begin with, the first question she had asked in Mrs. Poulteney's
presence that was not directly connected with her duties. Secondly,
it tacitly contradicted the old lady's judgment. Thirdly, it was
spoken not to Mrs. Poulteney, but to the girl.
" Are
you quite well, Millie?"
Whether it was the
effect of a sympathetic voice in that room, or the girl's condition,
she startled Mrs. Poulteney by sinking to her knees, at the same time
shaking her head and covering her face. Miss Sarah was swiftly beside
her; and within the next minute had established that the girl was
indeed not well, had fainted twice within the last week, had been too
afraid to tell anyone ...
When, some time later,
Miss Sarah returned from the room in which the maids slept, and where
Millie had now been put to bed, it was Mrs. Poulteney's turn to ask
an astounding question.
" What
am I to do?"
Miss Sarah had looked
her in the eyes, and there was that in her look which made her
subsequent words no more than a concession to convention.
" As
you think best, ma'm."
So the rarest flower,
forgiveness, was given a precarious footing in Marlborough House; and
when the doctor came to look at the maid, and pronounced green
sickness, Mrs. Poulteney discovered the perverse pleasures of seeming
truly kind. There followed one or two other incidents, which, if not
so dramatic, took the same course; but only one or two, since Sarah
made it her business to do her own forestalling tours of inspection.
Sarah had twigged Mrs. Poulteney, and she was soon as adept at
handling her as a skilled cardinal, a weak pope; though for nobler
ends.
The second, more
expectable item on Mrs. Poulteney's hypothetical list would have
been: "Her voice." If the mistress was defective in more
mundane matters where her staff was concerned, she took exceedingly
good care of their spiritual welfare. There was the mandatory double
visit to church on Sundays; and there was also a daily morning
service--a hymn, a lesson, and prayers--over which the old lady
pompously presided. Now it had always vexed her that not even her
most terrible stares could reduce her servants to that state of utter
meekness and repentance which she considered their God (let alone
hers) must require. Their normal face was a mixture of fear at Mrs.
Poulteney and dumb incomprehension--like abashed sheep rather than
converted sinners. But Sarah changed all that. Hers was certainly a
very beautiful voice, controlled and clear, though always shaded with
sorrow and often intense in feeling; but above all, it was a sincere
voice. For the first time in her ungrateful little world Mrs.
Poulteney saw her servants with genuinely attentive and sometimes
positively religious faces. That was good; but there was a second
bout of worship to be got through. The servants were
each Tuesday to water the ferns in the second drawing room--Mrs.
Poulteney kept one for herself and one for company--had omitted to do
so. The ferns looked greenly forgiving; but Mrs. Poulteney was
whitely the contrary. The culprit was summoned. She confessed that
she had forgotten; Mrs. Poulteney might ponderously have overlooked
that, but the girl had a list of two or three recent similar
peccadilloes on her charge sheet. Her knell had rung; and Mrs.
Poulteney began, with the grim sense of duty of a bulldog about to
sink its teeth into a burglar's ankles, to ring it.
" I
will tolerate much, but I will not tolerate this."
" I'll
never do it again, mum."
" You
will most certainly never do it again in my house."
" Oh,
mum. Please, mum."
Mrs. Poulteney allowed
herself to savor for a few earnest, perceptive moments the girl's
tears.
" Mrs.
Fairley will give you your wages."
Miss Sarah was present
at this conversation, since Mrs. Poulteney had been dictating
letters, mostly to bishops
or at least in the tone of voice with which one addresses bishops, to
her. She now asked a question; and the effect was remarkable. It was,
to begin with, the first question she had asked in Mrs. Poulteney's
presence that was not directly connected with her duties. Secondly,
it tacitly contradicted the old lady's judgment. Thirdly, it was
spoken not to Mrs. Poulteney, but to the girl.
" Are
you quite well, Millie?"
Whether it was the
effect of a sympathetic voice in that room, or the girl's condition,
she startled Mrs. Poulteney by sinking to her knees, at the same time
shaking her head and covering her face. Miss Sarah was swiftly beside
her; and within the next minute had established that the girl was
indeed not well, had fainted twice within the last week, had been too
afraid to tell anyone ...
When, some time later,
Miss Sarah returned from the room in which the maids slept, and where
Millie had now been put to bed, it was Mrs. Poulteney's turn to ask
an astounding question.
" What
am I to do?"
Miss Sarah had looked
her in the eyes, and there was that in her look which made her
subsequent words no more than a concession to convention.
" As
you think best, ma'm."
So the rarest flower,
forgiveness, was given a precarious footing in Marlborough House; and
when the doctor came to look at the maid, and pronounced green
sickness, Mrs. Poulteney discovered the perverse pleasures of seeming
truly kind. There followed one or two other incidents, which, if not
so dramatic, took the same course; but only one or two, since Sarah
made it her business to do her own forestalling tours of inspection.
Sarah had twigged Mrs. Poulteney, and she was soon as adept at
handling her as a skilled cardinal, a weak pope; though for nobler
ends.
The second, more
expectable item on Mrs. Poulteney's hypothetical list would have
been: "Her voice." If the mistress was defective in more
mundane matters where her staff was concerned, she took exceedingly
good care of their spiritual welfare. There was the mandatory double
visit to church on Sundays; and there was also a daily morning
service--a hymn, a lesson, and prayers--over which the old lady
pompously presided. Now it had always vexed her that not even her
most terrible stares could reduce her servants to that state of utter
meekness and repentance which she considered their God (let alone
hers) must require. Their normal face was a mixture of fear at Mrs.
Poulteney and dumb incomprehension--like abashed sheep rather than
converted sinners. But Sarah changed all that. Hers was certainly a
very beautiful voice, controlled and clear, though always shaded with
sorrow and often intense in feeling; but above all, it was a sincere
voice. For the first time in her ungrateful little world Mrs.
Poulteney saw her servants with genuinely attentive and sometimes
positively religious faces. That was good; but there was a second
bout of worship to be got through. The servants were
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