Patrick White - The Eye of the Storm

‘Quelle salope! Que les gens deviennent de plus en plus malhonnêtes !’ Dorothy de Lascabanes could hardly breathe for having justified herself: in exposing the immoral unbalance of her mother’s crazy economy. If Mother hadn’t spent a lifetime hacking into the defenceless, yourself included, you might have been moved by a different horror on discovering that her parasites, the artistic housekeeper, pampered cleaner, and frivolous or over indulgent nurses, were sucking her dry without her knowing. As things were, the princess stood a moment by the bin to taste the flavour of an ironic outrage which was also her own triumph, while the wrist of the hand holding the parasol twitched to her thoughtfulness, and as it twitched, the beef fillet revolved limply, a silent klaxon attached to the ferrule.

If she allowed the meat at last to subside, it was because it had such a horrid smell, and because, if you came to think, the solicitor was probably more than anyone to blame; though you couldn’t expect a man, however watchful and devoted, to conceive of the self-interest, the want of conscience, the cunning of such a gaggle of women. No, you would have to absolve poor Arnold Wyburd who, you had been made to realize, was such a dear, not to say a comfort.

The princess firmly scraped off the lump of putrid meat on the edge of the bin; the lid clattered back into place, too loudly perhaps: Dorothy was afraid Sister Badgery might suspect an intruder; when she still had to carry out an even more daring detail of her plan.

So she went barging out, again too loudly, clumsily, and up by what used to be referred to as ‘the servants’ stairs’, an expression probably discarded along with the luxury of professional servants. The bare, though scrubbed boards, sounded alarmingly frail as she climbed; the air was as dense as felt in this claustrophobic, matchwood and plaster tunnel. She regretted her foolishness now, but had to continue as she had begun.

And arrived on the landing, at the passage leading to the cells of the released prisoners. The doors she tried opened on rooms which must have been unoccupied for years, except by their wire stretchers, deal chests, and the corpses of moths; till in the last, the most imposing cell, intended for some more important, semi-responsible inmate, she found signs of life; for the housekeeper’s spirit lingered in it, together with the scent of her facepowder (understandably cheap) and a few visible possessions such as ground-down, yellow-bristled hairbrushes, a hare’s-foot stained brown, the framed snapshot of a woman and a young man enlaced against an empty bandstand, in front of an expanse of white sea.

For a moment the Princesse de Lascabanes suspected herself of having committed an indecency, and her expression in the dressing-table glass looked pained — then worse: it was that of a flogged and panting horse, nostrils pinched, veins in relief on the saturated skin. Till the past excused her: she had always been fascinated by the maids’ bedrooms, by their mysterious otherness, above all by a suspicion of what was talked about as Love. Dorothy had lowered her fringe over Nora’s birthday book, and was honoured to write her name in it.

Now there was time for little more than to fling open the ricketty wardrobe, to discover the balding silk hat, the tails with their accretions of mildew, greasepaint — oh God, whatever else. And leaning in one corner, the imitation malacca cane: its tinny, dented knob.

Forgetting why she had come there, unless to add to the housekeeper’s moral reprehensibility, Dorothy Hunter slammed the wardrobe shut, then the room (she hoped) and ran, the whole passage shaking and creaking; till she reached the world of carpets and her shoes began to glide again, decently and prudently, towards her mother’s door. Emotions which a moment before had exploded in her in a burst of anarchic madness were stilled by the silence of old, sumptuous, superfluous furniture: impeccable intentions can always warp, given the wrong climate at the right moment. Recovered from her sentimental aberration in the housekeeper’s room, Dorothy de Lascabanes was persuaded she had a more lucid understanding of her mission.

The fact that the awful nurse was hurrying downstairs (you could hear the bits of broken crockery slithering and chattering on her tray) to find out what you were up to, confirmed a sense of rightness strengthened. And the telephone, dubious on the least suspicious occasions, had begun to ring. And ring.

Downstairs, Sister Badgery had put down her tray to pick up the receiver. ‘Who? … Oh, yes! … Yes, yes, YES … Isn’t it? … Oh, she will … Yes … I’ll tell … Yes …’

Maddening! The figure on the landing flung itself at the extension, to lift what might have been a butterfly, in bakelite; then it was fluttering against her ear: not one butterfly, but two, and having a love affair it seemed.

‘I know she’ll be disappointed, but has taught herself to bear disappointment: she’s such a strong character. And of course others will be disappointed too. I, for one, was looking forward to getting to know you. I have to confess I’m avid for people— though there are some in particular — you can always tell in advance — who are somehow on the same wave

Thus flirting her wings, the white butterfly made them appear excessively fragile and sensitive. As her insect body writhed and squirmed, the male butterfly was vibrating round her, warmer in tone (copper to red) veined in black, with heavy black knobs or horns.

‘… My own disappointment is enormous — needless to repeat — and it’s only because this business meeting is so utterly important, that I’m postponing the visit I’d planned this morning. Tell her she’s an old darling, and that I love her, won’t you? As for what you say — it’s flattery of course — flattering to know one can mean something in advance to strangers — but nobody was ever any the worse for, only strengthened by, encouragement.’

Dorothy thought she could see a spotted foulard butterfly bow fluttering, but with masculine conviction, as the adam’s apple bobbed in time.

As for the white butterfly, if he wasn’t careful her frail wings might remain stuck together in their ecstasy. ‘Oh oh Sir Basil I do yes I do agree Sir Bas …’

‘I’d like to send her something when I can think send all you nurses but what? stockings? perfume? chocolates? we must talk it over every opportunity now that I’m here now that I’ve reestablished a relationship making fresh ones too …’

‘Oh oh Sir Basurl …’ The white butterfly’s antennae were bridling, buckling.

‘… some little trifle to show I do appreciate the attentions you’re paying my mother …’

At some moments the white wings quivered greenish at their more transparent tips. ‘There’s one thing I’d like to ask you, Sir Basil — a personal favour …’

‘What?’ The male butterfly could have had enough of love dalliance.

’ … a young girl — I can’t tell you how she admires — we all do from reading about you in the papers and magazines — I would like to ask you for your autograph. The girl would kill me if she knew…’

The male was stroked back, if only for a flutter or two. ‘… delighted to write in her book if you send it.’

‘Oh, a signature would be sufficient — to make it more of a surprise — to stick in, Sir Basil — in the book.’

‘Send her a photograph when I get back. What’s your friend’s name?’

The white butterfly must have swooned; then she returned, though fainter, through their abstract firmament. ‘“Lurline” is the young girl’s name.’

‘“Lurl …”’ the male was repeating gravely, to let it be understood, between audible munches and sups at an invisible breakfast, that he was engraving the word on his heart, if not writing it in his diary. ‘To do the job thoroughly, what’s the girl’s second name?’