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Authors: Elizabeth Bowen
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made friends, did you, down in the salon? You must resemble your grandmother, it seems to me. Is Leopold not suspicious the whole time?'
'Mother, no; you are quite wrong!'
'I see him suspicious, but still full of himself.'
Henrietta said: 'Well, yes, he is, rather.'
'He likes to talk?'
'Very much.'
'I have already heard him up and down on the stairs.'
'He shall come up later, Mother. After — '
'Yes, always "after" no doubt — he has a step like his father's.'
'Oh,' Henrietta said, 'did you know his father too?'
'Quite well,' said Mme Fisher. 'He broke Naomi's heart.'
She mentioned this impatiently, as though it had been some annoying domestic mishap. Henrietta, glancing across the bed, saw Miss Fisher's eyelids glued down with pain. Then, with the air of having known all along this would come, the helpless daughter rolled up her knitting quickly, as though to terminate something, perhaps the pretence of safety, jabbing her needles through it with violent calm. Set for flight by moving up in her chair, she seemed uncertain whether to fly or not, whether or not to show this was unbearable. Her face took a watchful look, as though somebody else might come in at any moment. Her prominent mouth, not unlike Charles the monkey's, formed an unwilling smile; her eyes fixed with an unmeaning expression the white quilt rolled back at her mother's feet. Sudden tragic importance made her look doubtful, as though a great dark plumed hat had been clapped aslant on her head.
Mme Fisher's detachment, Henrietta could see, had its iron side: she no longer felt, so why should anyone else? Grown-up enough to shy away from emotion, Henrietta felt she had seen Miss Fisher undressed. Half of her blindly wished to be somewhere else, while the other half of her stood eagerly by. She knew one should not hear these things when one was only eleven. All the same, she felt important in this atmosphere of importance: she liked being in on whatever was going on. Mrs Arbuthnot did not deal in broken hearts; she said only housemaids had them — but the Fishers were French. Henrietta knew of the heart as an organ; she privately saw it covered in red plush and believed that it could not break, though it might tear. But, Miss Fisher's heart had been brittle, it had broken. No wonder she'd looked so odd at the Gare du Nord.
'However, we cannot judge him,' said Mme Fisher, turning to look arrestingly at her daughter as though she had not seen this so plainly before. You were determined to suffer, you gave him no alternative. Max was fatal first of all to himself.'
'Leopold's father is dead now,' said Miss Fisher, looking at Henrietta across the bed.
'Happily,' said her mother.
Henrietta began in confusion: 'Leopold didn't say —'
'Naturally,' said Mme Fisher. 'He has never heard of him.'
Having said this with some impatience, she shut her eyes. Henrietta, getting up cautiously, smoothed out the pleats of her dress. The incense cone had burnt out, its fumes were gone: the red wall opposite the window brightened; the winter sun was trying to come through. Henrietta's mind worked round to the Trocadéro: she wondered if she could ask for tea in a shop. She really dreaded another séance with Leopold. Shifting from foot to foot she stared at the bracket. 'It must be quite late,' she said.
'Yes. Look, Henrietta: my mother must really sleep now.'
'I must not, but I will.'
Henrietta did not know whether to hold her hand out. 'Well, good-bye, Madame Fisher, thank you so very much.'
'Come again to see me before you go to your train.' Her voice took for the last time its parody note. 'Who knows where I may be when you pass through Paris next time?'
Henrietta laughed politely, half-way to the door.
'Yes, that was one more of my jokes — Oh, Henrietta!'
'Yes?'
Your grandmother sent you to us. You must never distress your grandmother.'
Going with Henrietta as far as the door, Miss Fisher shut it behind her gently. She must have stayed silent by
'Mother, no; you are quite wrong!'
'I see him suspicious, but still full of himself.'
Henrietta said: 'Well, yes, he is, rather.'
'He likes to talk?'
'Very much.'
'I have already heard him up and down on the stairs.'
'He shall come up later, Mother. After — '
'Yes, always "after" no doubt — he has a step like his father's.'
'Oh,' Henrietta said, 'did you know his father too?'
'Quite well,' said Mme Fisher. 'He broke Naomi's heart.'
She mentioned this impatiently, as though it had been some annoying domestic mishap. Henrietta, glancing across the bed, saw Miss Fisher's eyelids glued down with pain. Then, with the air of having known all along this would come, the helpless daughter rolled up her knitting quickly, as though to terminate something, perhaps the pretence of safety, jabbing her needles through it with violent calm. Set for flight by moving up in her chair, she seemed uncertain whether to fly or not, whether or not to show this was unbearable. Her face took a watchful look, as though somebody else might come in at any moment. Her prominent mouth, not unlike Charles the monkey's, formed an unwilling smile; her eyes fixed with an unmeaning expression the white quilt rolled back at her mother's feet. Sudden tragic importance made her look doubtful, as though a great dark plumed hat had been clapped aslant on her head.
Mme Fisher's detachment, Henrietta could see, had its iron side: she no longer felt, so why should anyone else? Grown-up enough to shy away from emotion, Henrietta felt she had seen Miss Fisher undressed. Half of her blindly wished to be somewhere else, while the other half of her stood eagerly by. She knew one should not hear these things when one was only eleven. All the same, she felt important in this atmosphere of importance: she liked being in on whatever was going on. Mrs Arbuthnot did not deal in broken hearts; she said only housemaids had them — but the Fishers were French. Henrietta knew of the heart as an organ; she privately saw it covered in red plush and believed that it could not break, though it might tear. But, Miss Fisher's heart had been brittle, it had broken. No wonder she'd looked so odd at the Gare du Nord.
'However, we cannot judge him,' said Mme Fisher, turning to look arrestingly at her daughter as though she had not seen this so plainly before. You were determined to suffer, you gave him no alternative. Max was fatal first of all to himself.'
'Leopold's father is dead now,' said Miss Fisher, looking at Henrietta across the bed.
'Happily,' said her mother.
Henrietta began in confusion: 'Leopold didn't say —'
'Naturally,' said Mme Fisher. 'He has never heard of him.'
Having said this with some impatience, she shut her eyes. Henrietta, getting up cautiously, smoothed out the pleats of her dress. The incense cone had burnt out, its fumes were gone: the red wall opposite the window brightened; the winter sun was trying to come through. Henrietta's mind worked round to the Trocadéro: she wondered if she could ask for tea in a shop. She really dreaded another séance with Leopold. Shifting from foot to foot she stared at the bracket. 'It must be quite late,' she said.
'Yes. Look, Henrietta: my mother must really sleep now.'
'I must not, but I will.'
Henrietta did not know whether to hold her hand out. 'Well, good-bye, Madame Fisher, thank you so very much.'
'Come again to see me before you go to your train.' Her voice took for the last time its parody note. 'Who knows where I may be when you pass through Paris next time?'
Henrietta laughed politely, half-way to the door.
'Yes, that was one more of my jokes — Oh, Henrietta!'
'Yes?'
Your grandmother sent you to us. You must never distress your grandmother.'
Going with Henrietta as far as the door, Miss Fisher shut it behind her gently. She must have stayed silent by
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