The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

ALL, ALL WASTED

It was one of those lovely spring afternoons when she resented bitterly, in spite of her strict Presbyterian upbringing, the economic necessity which compelled her to coop herself up in this stuffy little schoolroom. She sighed, and looked out through the open windows at the sky, which had that melting softness of hue that comes only in April. Outside, in the eaves and on the roofs, and in the budding trees, she could hear the bubbling and squeaking of the absurd starlings—so human and so comical. Good heavens! If one were only as free as the starlings! If only one’s father weren’t a mere country parson, with no money, and no influential friends, and no society to provide for his daughters! Why must it be like this?… Of course, it would be better in the autumn, when she escaped from all this and got away to college at last—then she would have some freedom, would meet new and interesting people and have a life of her own. But even then, how could she manage on the tiny allowance which was all that her poor father could afford? Even with the scholarship that she was almost sure to get—?

The little bell in the school cupola began ringing, and the rows of little girls made a great bustle of putting away books and papers. Thank goodness—it was over. Over till tomorrow, anyway! She rose and pushed back her chair and gave the signal for the girls to stand and form in line. What was Violet Masters blushing for, looking so ridiculously self-conscious? Oh well, she couldn’t be bothered to try to find out. She gave another signal, and they filed past, becoming noisier as they drew near the door that led into the hall and street. The sound of their shouts and laughter came in through the windows, and the clattering of their shoes on the cobbles. They too were relieved—just as much as she was. It was absurd, this everlasting business of schooling, of preparing—and preparing for what? What good did Latin do them, or the binomial theorem? Would it help them to roast a joint or darn their husband’s corduroy breeches? Or to keep their brats from falling into the river or getting enlarged tonsils?

She frowned, pulling on her worn gloves, gathered up the bundle of Latin exercises that she would have to correct in the evening, and moved toward the door. It was only then that she permitted herself to think of that—to think of the delicious thing that all afternoon had underlain her every consciousness. Yes: the distinguished visitor—her father’s old friend, Mr. Waite, the novelist—would already have arrived at the house, where he was going to spend the night. He would be there now, sitting in the small library, while Mother was getting the tea. Or perhaps in the back yard, under the lilac tree. Or playing the piano. To think, after all these years during which there had been no visitors at all, of having anyone so famous come to see them! And wouldn’t he be surprised at finding her—Mary—so grown up, and so—well, why not admit it?—interesting? She blushed with pleasure at this thought. She could imagine clearly how astonished he would look, how his blue eyes would light up, and how he would smile as he held out his hand. He would be too polite to say anything about it, of course—he would contrive to say it merely in the way he took her hand. But none the less he would be impressed. He would at once see that this was someone to whom he could talk freely, to whom he could open his heart. She could see just how it would be. He would at first be perhaps a little shy with her—at finding, as it were, a new “person” in the family to be dealt with. And then, instead of simply spending all his time with Father, as he used to do years ago, he would manifest a disposition to loiter in the room with her. Perhaps he would ask her about her music. “Well, Mary, and how is the music?…” And she would play the “Sonata Appassionata” for him—first lighting the candles on the piano. And he, standing behind her, would turn the pages.…

Heavens, what a lovely day—what a lovely, lovely day. Those little white cirrus clouds swimming like fishes beside that frail wafer of a moon—and the warm light on the red roofs of the little town—and the air filled, simply saturated, with the voices of birds. Every chimney-pot had its happy starling, every starling was tilting up his beak and puffing out his throat and whistling; the gardens were filled to bursting with the rich loud songs of thrushes; and here and there, high up in the sky, were twos and threes of rooks, flapping lazily to some mysterious rendezvous in the Marsh. Heavens—heavens—heavens—heavens. How could one possibly contain all this magic and loveliness? How could one? It was really too much—one’s heart felt as if it would break, just for sheer happiness. If only one could burst into bloom, like a tree—like a young hawthorn blossoming for the first time! How delicious, to feel the flowers breaking out of one’s hands and arms, covering one’s breast, crowding and clouding before one’s eyes, so that one could no longer see, become blind and drunk with one’s own fragrance and beauty! Was there any joy in life that was comparable to that? Of course there was, or one wouldn’t imagine it. It would be exactly like that—exactly like that …

She was deliciously conscious of her grace as she ran up the four steps to the door and fitted the key into the lock. She would say “hello,” and then dash upstairs and change—but no, there was nobody in the library, nobody at all. Perhaps they were going to have tea in the garden. Yes, it must be that. She stood still in the hall for a moment, and listened: and sure enough, she could hear Milly’s loud infantile laughter coming from the direction of the garden, and then a bumble of men’s voices. Why would Milly laugh in that disagreeable and vulgar way? And they all encouraged her in it, too—it was disgraceful. She must be spoken to about it. It was really just a desire to show off—she did it to attract attention. And Father humored her far too much. In fact, she was being spoiled.… Well, she would change first—it was perhaps better, for her hands were rather grubby. And this old suit, too—it would be much better to have on her green silk, and the cream-colored stockings, and the morocco slippers. And of course the scarlet sash.… She flung the papers on her bed, and then her coat and skirt, and kicked off her slippers. The voices came with startling clearness from the garden—and also other voices from farther away, perhaps from the Leightons’ garden. And—yes—there was Mr. Waite’s nice deep murmur, and Father laughing in that funny half-silent way he had. Should she go to the window and take a peek? No—they might see her, and that would be dreadful. How lovely! What a luxury! To have such a charming and distinguished visitor, and already to hear him talking in the garden, and to eavesdrop in this delicious and secret way! To share in his presence in this manner, and yet remain hidden! It was like having some precious thing that no one knew about. She poured water from the jug into the basin, and dashed it against her cheeks and eyes: and it was as if, instantaneously, a grimy cobweb of sums and declensions and syntaxes had been washed away from her soul. Exquisite relief! To feel like a muddied daffodil washed clean by the rain! Could anything, anything, be nicer? Her face still dripping, she snatched the towel and gave her cheeks a hard rub, to bring up the color, and then dashed to the chest of drawers and took out her lovely cream-colored silk stockings. How refined and ladylike they felt, after these woolen things! How much lighter she was, and how much nimbler! And now the green silk frock, with its broad scarlet sash: she dropped it over her shoulders, shook her head free, and began smiling as she looped the four little braid frogs. To go into this, after that wretched old suit, was like coming out of a chrysalis.

She ran down the stairs, and then, as she approached the door that gave on to the garden, slowed her steps and became suddenly sedate. She must be dignified—to let him see at once that she had grown up—but not too dignified: one arm dropped at her side, and the other hand caught, idly, in the broad loop of her sash. Then perhaps she would raise one hand to shade her eyes.… Unfortunately, as she stepped out into the garden she saw that her carefully prepared entrance had not been perceived. Father and Mr. Waite had their backs turned, Mother was in the act of pouring a cup of tea, and Milly was leaning against Mr. Waite’s shoulder, apparently looking at something on his knee. A book. Well! No matter—she would just go up to them quietly. Quietly and gently, as suited her nature.

“Just in time,” said Mother. “Mary dear, would you mind getting some more hot water?… But first you can say how-do-you-do to Mr. Waite.”

How infuriating! As if she were a little girl in a pinafore! She felt herself flushing; and surprisingly enough, as Mr. Waite turned his head, and half made as if to rise, but didn’t succeed, she directed a part of her annoyance at him; and instead of shaking hands with him, as she had thought to do, gave him rather a stiff little nod. Well! If that was the way things were going to be! If they were going to be so casual and distant about it, she could be casual and distant herself. Certainly. Why not? She would let them see that she was no longer a baby like Milly. Good heavens! She took the hot-water jug from the wicker teatable; nonchalantly and disdainfully; tilted up the metal lid, as if to make quite sure that it was, as reported, empty; and sauntered back to the house, swinging it at her side. Damn. If only Milly hadn’t been snuggling against him like that, pretending to take an interest in that accursed book—and it was notorious that at ordinary times she never could be got to look at a book—or if the chairs had all been faced the other way—how damnable that destiny had such a way of hanging by trivial and disgusting trifles like that! It was really too monstrous.… She filled the jug from the kettle, and banged the kettle back on the gas ring, resentfully. She would take her time. Why should she put herself out for people who paid no attention to her? There was no reason at all: none whatever. She peered into the cracked mirror that balanced on the pipes over the kitchen sink, and then glanced out through the window. The book had been put aside; and Mr. Waite, uncrossing his brown tweed knees, was leaning forward to take a slice of bread-and-butter. Father, clasping his hands behind his head, was looking up at the sky and laughing. They had already forgotten about her completely. Just as if she had never been.…

“Of course Milly does!”

“Of course Milly does what?” answered Mary, depositing the jug on the table, and then sinking into a deck-chair.

Mr. Waite gave her rather an odd shamefaced look—as if a little surprised. Had her tone been too sharp?

“Expect a present.… Suppose you were to look in my pockets, Milly? Eh?”

He beamed at Milly with what was—yes, really!—a fatuously benign expression. The heavy uncle. Oh these damned patronizing adoptive uncles, with their portly benefactions! Milly laughed with quite unnecessary violence and darted a hand first into the right pocket and then into the left. After this second invasion she gave a shout of delight and drew out a small white box.

“Oh!” she cried. “Chocolates!” And then, tearing at the wrapper, “and they’re hard centers! Oh, how lovely!”

She danced absurdly, waving the box in the air.

“Very nice of Mr. Waite, I’m sure,” Mary murmured, dropping a lump of sugar in her tea. “Sweets to the sweet, and all that sort of thing.”

Again too sharp. But in the flurry that attended the passing of the chocolates, perhaps it hadn’t been too much noticed.

“And how’s my friend Meg?” cried Mr. Waite with exaggerated gaiety, holding up a chocolate almond.

“Who? Meg she was a gypsy?” said Mother. “But hadn’t you heard?”

“Heard? No—has anything happened to her?”

“It was dreadful,” cooed Mother, with a smile which seemed to luxuriate in the dreadfulness. “She was found dead in Covey’s barn, by some boys, just a fortnight ago. Covered with straw. She had apparently been dead for some time. And do you know—”

“Agnes!”

“Well, it is too horrible. But Milly’s heard it already—so why shouldn’t Mr. Waite?”

“Mother! Really!” said Mary.

But Mother, smiling mischievously, was not to be stopped.

“The rats had been at her!” said Mother, triumphantly. “Just think of it. The poor old thing—she had just gone in there and died alone.”

“Good gracious!” said Mr. Waite.

“Really, Mother, you’re a perfect savage.”

“Well, I am sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Waite.

“She was such a picturesque figure, too. And what will the local police worry about, with old Meg gone? They seemed to spend most of their time moving her on.… Do you remember the time we met her down by the pig-farm with her shoes in her hand? She was funny!”

Mother gave a sigh, her attention already wandering elsewhere; Father got up to return his cup to the tray; and the conversation dropped. Was this the best a novelist could do in the way of talk? And the best her family could do in the way of entertaining him? It was disgraceful—truly disgraceful. She rose with her teacup—Mr. Waite might have offered to take it from her—and moved lightly to the table.

“More, Mary?”

“No, thank you, Mother.…”

There was a long silence, during which a dozen starlings could be heard, practicing their boyish whistles, and Mrs. Leighton’s voice in the next garden, giving instructions to a gardener. “No, I think the lupins had better go here,” she was saying. “If the slugs will permit.” If the slugs will permit! How silly. Why can’t people be natural? Why must they always be showing off, trying to say facetious things, even to gardeners? If the slugs will permit!

“Well, Frank, I’ve got a letter to write, if you’ll excuse me.”

“And I must do my dishes. Will you stay in the garden?… If garden it can be called. Though I must say that lilac is really lovely. Last year it really almost broke under its weight of bloom!”

“It’s a charming spot,” said Mr. Waite. “I’ll stay here and gobble up Milly’s hard centers.”

He gave Milly a roguish look through his glasses—oh so consciously roguish—and began filling a filthy old briar pipe.

“I’ll let you have just three!” Milly leaned against his knee, in a scandalously abandoned way, with the open box in her outstretched hand. And what made it worse—oh, infinitely worse—was the fact that Mr. Waite seemed to enjoy it. He put his arm around her, hugged her benevolently, and then ran his fingers through her black frizzy hair.

“In exchange for that,” he smiled, “I’ll let you light my pipe. Do you know how to light a pipe for an old gentleman? Eh?”

“Of course I do! Where are your matches?”

Briskly, with the coquettish air of an all-conquering female, she put down her chocolates and began searching his waistcoat pockets for the box of matches; and finding them, struck a match, wrinkling her nose. He gave several rapid puffs, and the blue clouds of smoke rose in the still air. Her gray eyes admired him—she adored him. Then, laughing, she flung away the match as if it might have been a noxious beetle. It blazed for a moment in the tall grass and went out.

Phweeeeee—phweeeee—whistled a starling on the Leightons’ highest chimney-pot. The warm slant sunlight of evening touched him to brilliance; he was seraphically illuminated and idiotically happy. Up the scale went his self-conscious whistle, till it became a mere silvery mouse-tail-tip of sound, and then down it slid again, to end in a series of ecstatic chattering bubbles. The Leightons’ cat—a meager hollow-flanked tortoise-shell—paused in its prowl along the wall-top, and looked up at the feathery thing with a profound yearning.… So it was all going to end like this. There was to be nothing but this. All her preparations had been for just this. She was to be defrauded of her happiness by Milly. Could anything be more monstrous? Of course she could perhaps find some little excuse for sending Milly indoors—tell her it was time for her to do her “prep,” or some such thing—and thus manage to be left alone for a little with Mr. Waite. But, after all, was it worth the trouble? No. Not in the very least. If he could make so little effort to be agreeable, why should she? One had one’s pride. If one was ignored in this fashion, simply ignored—! And there was so much that they might have talked about! So many enchanting things! All of life, all of life.…

“I’m sorry—I’m afraid I’ll have to go and correct some papers,” she said, rising. “I’ve got some beastly Latin exercises to look through.”

She brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead, and gazed, as if absent-mindedly, at the cat, which was emitting a silent miaow in the direction of the starling.

“Oh,” said Mr. Waite. “How dreary. And on an afternoon like this!”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Mr. Waite.… Perhaps, if you like, Milly will take you for a little walk.…”

Heroic self-sacrifice!… A deep pang opened in her heart as she glided slowly toward the house. Wasted, all wasted. She ought to go and help Mother with the dishes—Mother would be expecting it—but she was hanged if she would. No.… She climbed the stairs to her room, and shut the door with an infinite gentleness. She had an impulse to rip off her sash savagely, and kick her slippers across the room, but instead she picked up the little pile of Latin exercises and sat down at her table. An oblong of rich tawny sunlight lay on the wall beside her, and she could hear Father moving a chair in the library. The starling whistled again, frightfully pleased with himself, and Milly laughed. Why were things like this? Why?… She opened Elspeth Homard’s paper, which was covered, simply covered, with ink-blots, and tried to focus her attention upon it.

Sunt rerum lacrima. Sunt rerum lacrima.… And suddenly a large tear fell on Elspeth Homard’s paper, right on the word “mensa.”