Jacob’s Room

Still wearing the conical white hat of a pierrot, Florinda was sick.

The bedroom seemed fi t for these catastrophes – cheap, mustard-coloured, half attic, half studio, curiously ornamented with silver paper stars, Welshwomen’s hats, and rosaries pen­dent from the gas brackets. As for Florinda’s story, her name had been bestowed upon her by a painter who had wished it to signify that the fl ower of her maidenhood was still unplucked. Be that as it may, she was without a surname, and for parents had only the photograph of a tombstone beneath which, she said, her father lay buried. Sometimes she would dwell upon the size of it, and rumour had it that Florinda’s father had died from the growth of his bones which nothing could stop; just as her mother enjoyed the confi dence of a Royal master, and now and again Florinda herself was a Princess, but chiefl y when drunk. Thus deserted, pretty into the bargain, with tragic eyes and the lips of a child, she talked more about virginity than women mostly do; and had lost it only the night before, or cherished it beyond the heart in her breast, according to the man she talked to. But did she always talk to men? No, she had her confi dante: Mother Stuart. Stuart, as the lady would point out, is the name of a Royal house; but what that signi­fi ed, and what her business way, no one knew; only that Mrs. Stuart got postal orders every Monday morning, kept a parrot, believed in the transmigration of souls, and could read the fu­ture in tea leaves. Dirty lodging-house wallpaper she was be­hind the chastity of Florinda.

92

True, she was horribly bored. What on earth was it ABOUT? She had to wager with herself that she would turn the page before she ate another. In fact she slept. But then her day had been a long one, Mother Stuart had thrown the tea-co­sy; – there are formidable sights in the streets, and though Flo­rinda was ignorant as an owl, and would never learn to read even her love letters correctly, still she had her feelings, liked some men better than others, and was entirely at the beck and call of life. Whether or not she was a virgin seems a matter of no importance whatever. Unless, indeed, it is the only thing of any importance at all.

What with Shakespeare and Adonais, Mozart and Bishop Berkeley – choose whom you like – the fact is concealed and the evenings for most of us pass reputably, or with only the sort of tremor that a snake makes sliding through the grass. But then concealment by itself distracts the mind from the print and the sound. If Florinda had had a mind, she might have read with clearer eyes than we can. She and her sort have solved the question by turning it to a trifl e of wash-

“You know that big black box the Australian left in my room ever so long ago? . . . I do think furs make a woman look

old. . . . That’s Bechstein come in now. . . . I was wondering what

“Jacob. You’re like one of those statues. . . . I think there are

lovely things in the British Museum, don’t you? Lots of lovely things . . . ” she spoke dreamily. The room was fi lling; the heat increasing. Talk in a restaurant is dazed sleep-walkers’ talk, so many things to look at – so much noise – other people talk­ing. Can one overhear? Oh, but they mustn’t overhear US.

94

“She’s dropped her glove,” said Florinda.

Jacob, pressing forward, gave it her.

After all, it was none of her fault. But the thought saddened him. It’s not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it’s the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.

About this time a fi rm of merchants having dealings with the East put on the market little paper fl owers which opened on touching water. As it was the custom also to use fi n­ger-bowls at the end of dinner, the new discovery was found of excellent service. In these sheltered lakes the little coloured fl owers swam and slid; surmounted smooth slippery waves, and sometimes foundered and lay like pebbles on the glass fl oor. Their fortunes were watched by eyes intent and lovely. It is surely a great discovery that leads to the union of hearts and foundation of homes. The paper fl owers did no less.

The fl amingo hours fl uttered softly through the sky. But regularly they dipped their wings in pitch black; Notting Hill, for instance, or the purlieus of Clerkenwell. No wonder that Italian remained a hidden art, and the piano always played the same sonata. In order to buy one pair of elastic stockings for Mrs. Page, widow, aged sixty-three, in receipt of fi ve shillings out-door relief, and help from her only son employed in Messrs.

100