Leslie Hartley - The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

At nine o’clock the next morning the maid knocked at Mr. Blandfoot’s bedroom door—knocked several times, though with an air of misgiving. At last she heard a growl: ‘Come in!’ The room was so dark she could see nothing and she paused on the threshold.

‘How often have I told you,’ said a voice, ‘not to come until I ring.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the maid, timidly.

‘Well, come in, if you’re coming,’ said the voice, still implacable.

There was a vast heaving movement on the bed.

‘Now the curtains, now the blinds, now the hot water, now the bath,’ the voice chanted rapidly and irritably, ‘and you haven’t told me why you came at all yet.’

‘Please, sir,’ said the maid, stumbling towards the window, ‘there’s a letter marked “urgent”, so I thought——’

‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ snapped the voice. ‘Well, hand it over.’

But in her flurry the maid had dropped the letter. She groped for it on the floor, obscurely feeling that she must not pull up the blind until she had given her master the letter. She did not know whereabouts in the room she was; she thought she must be near the bed, but she was afraid to touch it and every moment her movements grew more rigid.

‘I had it only just now,’ she murmured, almost crying.

‘Clumsy, clumsy,’ admonished the voice, in gender accents. ‘Here, I’ve got it.’

‘Oh, that’s all right then, sir,’ said the maid, almost gasping with relief.

‘No,’ said the voice, drawing nearer.

‘I want you to give it to me.’

Bewildered, the maid held out her hand in the darkness.

‘No, just a little more this way,’ persuaded the voice, still advancing to meet her.

Again she stumbled forward in the gloom, her hand stretched stiff like a fencer’s. Mr. Blandfoot seemed to have reared himself up in the bed: she could see a vague outline towering above her.

‘A shade to the left now,’ said the voice.

The maid obeyed.

‘And now straight into the letter-box.’

She made a half-hearted prodding movement. Something caught her finger: a sharp pain ran down her arm. She called out, and the whole room was suddenly flooded with light. Afterwards she realized it must have been electric light; but at the time she was aware only of the pain, of the sight of her finger wedged between Mr. Blandfoot’s large irregular teeth, and of his face looking down at her with a smile that had no kindness in it. The blankets were tumbled together in the middle of the bed; the floor, as much of it as she could see, was lumpy with sorry-looking underclothes: the biscuit-coloured walls refracted the unsympathetic light, as did also Mr. Blandfoot’s parchment-coloured face. The spiritless, yellow hues around her were infinitely uncomforting; she felt the world beginning to dissolve.

‘There’s the letter,’ remarked Mr. Blandfoot, ‘on the floor behind you.’

Her finger dropped from his mouth: obsequiously she picked up the letter and handed it to him. Her face was half averted; but she noticed that he pulled the jacket of his pyjamas more firmly across his chest, and this gesture, which seemed to recognize her right to be treated as a human being, restored her a little.

Mr. Blandfoot lay in the bath, the letter in his hand. Dabs of shaving soap had fallen on it, and steam had made the lines run. It was a pitiful object, fallen on evil days since it left Mrs. Marling’s writing-table. We will read the letter over his shoulder. He has cleaned his razor on the envelope, but one has no difficulty in recognizing Mrs. Marling’s elegant Italian hand.

Dear Mr. Blandfoot,

I hope you will forgive me for taking the liberty of writing to you without an introduction. I have long wanted to make your acquaintance but your friends are so jealous of you, they wouldn’t let us meet: so I am defying convention and writing to you myself. I think I would not have dared had not my friend Arthur Hesketh given me courage—perhaps you know him, a most charming person, whatever one may feel about his later books. I want to discuss them with you. He leads me to hope that you will forgive my boldness on the score of my age, and spend next Thursday evening at my house—I have a few friends coming. He even whispered to me something about that picture we are all so longing to see—but this is mere naked presumption, and I feel I have tried your patience already too far. Let me have the pleasure of seeing you on Thursday evening at ten o’clock and I shall feel I am forgiven for my indiscretion. At your age (if I may say so) one can afford to postpone a pleasure. At mine, one can’t; so you see I must indulge my impatience.

Hoping to see you.

Yours sincerely,

With astonishing dexterity Mr. Blandfoot converted the letter into a paper boat, and propelled it with his breath to the far end of the bath. Then he took aim with his sponge and an accurate shot sent the boat to the bottom. It did not reappear. Rising from the bath, Mr. Blandfoot arranged the towel round his waist like an apron. He walked slowly towards a pier glass. Except for a bright narrow margin round the edge, the mirror was misted over with steam; but so tall was Mr. Blandfoot that he could see his eyes reflected in the unclouded area at the top. Our observer, stationed discreetly by the door, could also see them and see the smile which, with ever-growing intensity, they gave back to Mr. Blandfoot’s approaching figure.

‘Do you think he’s come yet?’ asked Mrs. Pepperthwaite of Mrs. Stornway, glancing at the clock in the hall of Mrs. Marling’s house. It showed a minute to ten.

‘He told me at tea,’ Mrs. Stornway whispered, ‘that he might be a little late as he wanted to wash the picture. I said “Is that quite wise?” and he said “Yes, it makes the colours fresher.” ’

‘You are the only person in Settlemarsh who is in his confidence!’ exclaimed Mrs. Pepperthwaite simply.

‘Oh no! But I do think that this time he really means to bring the picture. He practically told me so.’

They were led away. People who came to Mrs. Marling’s house were taken into as many ante-chambers as possible before they were admitted to her presence. The turning of several corners confused them as to their physical and mental whereabouts, so that when they encountered their hostess such self-confidence as they possessed was considerably shaken. Like people who have been blindfolded in a children’s game and whisked rapidly round, they were conscious of cutting an awkward figure.

‘How good of you to come so soon,’ said Mrs. Marling as she greeted them. ‘I am always grateful when my oldest friends arrive early. This is Mr. Hesketh, Mrs. Stornway. An old friend of Settlemarsh. It was very different when you lived here, wasn’t it, Arthur? You must tell him about the new building developments in your neighbourhood, Eva: he’s fond of architecture: I wish he could have seen your new house before he went away: it would have interested him so much.’

The room began to fill. To Mrs. Pepperthwaite a party of any kind was like heaven. Her timidity, that distressed her in the company of two or three people, she felt to be an asset in the presence of forty or fifty: she knew instinctively that it pleased them to find someone less at ease than they were: she went the round of her acquaintance, making to each a small offering of her self-esteem, a sacrifice which, in the prevailing communal amiability, was always graciously accepted. Whereas most of her friends preferred to hide their ignorance, she was delighted to inquire who so-and-so was, whose photograph she had so often seen in the Settlemarsh Clarion , but whose name she could not remember. Never had she had so many opportunities of indulging her craving for humility as to-night: all the chief personages of the neighbourhood were gathered together in Mrs. Marling’s drawing-room. Some of the citizens of Settlemarsh, headed by Mrs. Peets, were inclined to cling together defensively, eyeing with hostility and apprehension these visitants from a larger world. Mrs. Pepperthwaite was unconscious of their ignoble herd-feeling; she rejoiced in strange contacts and she was justified in her confidence: everyone was nice to her. She wandered into the bridge-room and stood behind the chairs of the players. When one of them took a trick she smiled as if she had taken it herself. Once she leaned over the shoulder of a forbidding-looking man whose name she scarcely knew and indicating a card said, ‘I should play that.’ ‘Now would you?’ he said, selecting a card from another part of his hand, from a different suit indeed; but he smiled at her so charmingly it was quite as if he had followed her suggestion. In a corner she found a couple playing chess, their heads bent over the board.