Sylvia Tietjens rose
from her end of the lunch-table and swayed along it, carrying her plate. She still wore her hair in bandeaux and her
skirts as long as she possibly could; she didn’t, she said, with her height,
intend to be taken for a girl guide. She
hadn’t, in complexion, in figure or in the languor of her gestures, aged by a
minute. You couldn’t discover in the
skin of her face any deadness; in her eyes the shade more of fatigue than she
intended to express, but she had purposely increased her air of scornful insolence. That was because she felt that her hold on
men increased to the measure of her coldness.
Someone, she knew, had once said of a dangerous woman, that when she
entered the room every woman kept her husband on the leash. It was Sylvia’s pleasure to think that,
before she went out of the room, all the women in it realised with
mortification—that they needn’t! For if
coolly and distinctly she had said on entering: ‘Nothing doing!’ as barmaids
will to the enterprising, she couldn’t more plainly conveyed to the other women
that she had no use for their treasured rubbish.
Once, on the edge of a
cliff in Yorkshire, where the moors come above the sea, during one of the
tiresome shoots that are there the fashion, a man had bidden her observe the
demeanor of the herring gulls below. They
were dashing from rock to rock on the cliff face, screaming, with none of the
dignity of gulls. Some of them even let
fall the herrings that they had caught and she saw the pieces of silver
dropping into the blue motion. The man
told her to look up; high, circling and continuing for a long time to circle;
illuminated by the sunlight below, like a pale flame against the sky was a
bird. The man told her that that was
some sort of fish-eagle or hawk. Its
normal habit was to chase the gulls which, in their terror, would drop their
booty of herrings, whereupon the eagle would catch the fish before it struck
the water. At the moment the eagle was
not on duty, but the gulls were just as terrified as if it had been.
Sylvia stayed for a
long time watching the convolutions of the eagle. It pleased her to see that, though nothing
threatened the gulls, they yet screamed and dropped their herrings…The whole
affair reminded her of herself in her relationship to the ordinary women of the
barnyard….Not that there was the breath of scandal against herself; that she
very well knew, and it was her preoccupation just as turning down nice men—the
‘really nice men’ of commerce—was her hobby.
She practiced every
kind of ‘turning down’ on these creatures: the really nice ones, with the
Kitchener moustaches, the seal’s brown eyes, the honest, thrilling voices, the
clipped words, the straight backs and the admirable records—as long as you
didn’t enquire too closely. Once, in the early days of the Great
Struggle, a young man—she had smiled
at him in mistake for someone more trustable—had followed in a taxi, hard on
the motor and flushed with wine, glory and the firm conviction that all women
in that lurid carnival had become common property, had burst into her door from
the public stairs…She had overtopped by the forehead and before a few minutes
were up she seemed to him to have become ten foot high with a gift of words
that scorched his backbone and the voice of a frozen marble statue: a chaud-froid effect. He had come in like a stallion, red-eyed, and
all his legs off the ground: he went down the stairs like a half-drowned rat,
with dim eyes and really looking wet, for some reason or other.
Yet she hadn’t really
told him more than the way one should behave to the wives of one’s brother
officers then actually in the line, a point of view that, with her intimates,
she daily agreed was pure bosh. But it
must have seemed to him like the voice of his mother—when his mother had been
much younger, of course—speaking from paradise, and his conscience had
contrived the rest of his general wetness.
This, however, had been melodrama and war stuff at that: it hadn’t,
therefore, interested her. She preferred
to inflict deeper and more quiet pains.
What
a way to connect her with a hawk. That
is her subconscious identity brought to the fore.
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