Трейси Шевалье - Falling Angel

To be fair to Maude, that trapped feeling had emerged well before her birth. I first felt it one morning when Richard and I were just back from our honeymoon and newly installed in our London house. He kissed me good-bye in my new morning room-which I had chosen to be at the front of the house, overlooking the street rather than the garden, so that I could keep an eye on the world outside-and left to catch his train to work. I watched from the window as he walked away, and felt the same jealousy I had suffered when seeing my brother go off to school. When he had gone around the corner, I turned and looked at the still, quiet room, just on the edge of the city that is the center of the world, and I began to cry. I was twenty years old, and my life had settled into a long, slow course over which I had no control.

I recovered, of course. I knew very well that I was lucky in many things: to have had an education and a liberal father, to have a husband who is handsome and well enough off that we can afford a cook as well as a live-in maid, and who does not discourage me from bettering myself, even if he is unable to give me the larger world I long for. I dried my tears that morning, grateful that at least my mother-in-law had not been there to see me cry. Small mercies-I thank my God for them.

My marriage is no longer what it once was. Now I dread Richard’s announcement about New Year’s. I do not know that he really takes pleasure from the experience itself. Rather he is doing it to punish me. But I do not think I am capable of being what he wants me to be, of becoming once more the lively wife who thinks the world a reasonable place and he a reasonable man.

If I could do that, or even pretend to, we could spend our New Year’s at home. But I can’t do it.

I tried tonight to quell my black feelings and at least not neglect Maude. As we were leaving the bonfire I went up to her, took her hand, and slipped it into the crook of my elbow. Maude jumped as if I had bitten her, then looked guilty for having such a response. She held on to me rather awkwardly, but we managed to remain like that for several minutes before she made an excuse and ran to catch up with her friend. To my shame, I was relieved.

I know I shouldn’t say this, but Grandmother always manages to ruin our day when she visits, even before she arrives. Until her letter came yesterday we were having such a lovely time, sitting around the table on the patio and reading out bits from the papers to each other. That is my favorite time with Mummy and Daddy. It was a warm spring day, the flowers in Mummy’s garden were just beginning to bloom, and Mummy for once seemed happy.

Daddy was reading little snippets out from the Mail, and Mummy from the local paper all the crimes committed that week-fraud, wife beating, and petty theft the most common. She loves the crimes page.

“Listen to this,” she said. “ James Smithson has appeared before the court charged with stealing his neighbor’s cat. In his defense Mr. Smithson said the puss had made off with the Sunday joint and he was only reclaiming his property, now inside the cat.‘”

We all three laughed, but when Jenny arrived with the letter, Mummy stopped smiling.

“What on earth am I going to do with her for the day?” she said when she had finished the letter.

Daddy didn’t answer, but frowned and kept reading his paper.

That was when I suggested visiting the columbarium. I was not entirely certain what a columbarium is, but one has opened at the cemetery, and it sounds grand enough for Grandmother.

“Good idea, Maude,” Mummy said. “If she’ll agree.”

Daddy looked up from the Mail. “I would be very surprised if she agreed to see such an unsavory thing.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mummy said. “I think it’s rather a clever idea. I’m surprised you don‘t, given how much you like urns.”

When I heard the word urn, I knew they would argue, so I ran down to the bottom of the garden to tell Lavinia that we might go to the cemetery the next day. Daddy and Mr. Waterhouse have put up ladders so that we can climb the fence more easily, after I sprained my wrist once from falling.

I am rather frightened of Grandmother. She looks as if she has swallowed a fish bone and can’t get it out, and she says things that I would be punished for saying. Today when she arrived she looked at me and said, “Lord, child, you are plain. No one would guess you were Kitty’s daughter. Or my granddaughter, for that matter.” She always likes to remind everyone that she was a beauty when she was younger.

We went up to the morning room, and Grandmother said once again that she did not approve of the colors Mummy had done the room in. I rather like them. They remind me of the workman’s café Jenny sometimes takes me to as a treat, where there is a pot of mustard and a bottle of brown sauce on each table. Perhaps Mummy saw them there and decided to use them in her morning room-though it is hard to imagine Mummy in a workman’s café, with all the smoke and grease and the men who have not shaved. Mummy has always said she prefers a man with smooth skin like Daddy’s.

Mummy ignored Grandmother’s remarks. “Coffee, please, Jenny,” she ordered.

“Not for me,” Grandmother said. “Just a cup of hot water and a slice of lemon.”

I stood behind them by the window so that I could look out through the venetian blinds. It was dusty outside, what with all the activity in the street-horses pulling carts loaded with milk, coal, ice, the baker’s boy going door to door with his basket of bread, boys bringing letters, maids running errands. Jenny always says she is at war with dust and is losing the battle.

I liked looking out. When I turned back to the room, where dust floated in a shaft of sunlight, it seemed very still.

“Why are you lurking back there?” Grandmother said. “Come out so we can see you. Play us something on the piano.”

I looked at Mummy, horrified. She knew I hated playing.

She was no help. “Go on, Maude,” she said. “Play us something from your last lesson.”

I sat down at the piano and wiped my hands on my pinafore. I knew Grandmother would prefer a hymn to Mozart, so I began to play “Abide With Me,” which I know Mummy hates. After a few bars Grandmother said, “Gracious, child, that’s terrible. Can’t you play better than that?”

I stopped and stared down at the keys; my hands were trembling. I hated Grandmother’s visits.

“Come, now, Mother Coleman, she’s nine years old,” Mummy at last defended me. “She hasn’t been taking lessons for long.”

“A girl needs to learn these things. How’s her sewing?”

“Not good,” Mummy answered frankly. “She’s inherited that from me. But she reads very well. She’s reading Sense and Sensibility, aren’t you, Maude?”

I nodded. “And Through the Looking-Glass again. Daddy and I have been re-creating the chess game from it.”

“Reading,” Grandmother said, her fish-bone look even stronger. “That won’t get a girl anywhere. It’ll just put ideas in her head. Especially rubbish like those Alice books.”

Mummy sat up a little straighter. She read all the time. “What’s the matter with a girl having ideas, Mother Coleman?”

“She won’t be satisfied with her life if she has ideas,” Grandmother said. “Like you. I always said to my son that you wouldn’t be happy. ‘Marry her if you must,’ I said, ‘but she’ll never be satisfied.’ I was right. You always want something more, but all your ideas don’t tell you what.”

Mummy didn’t say anything, but sat with her hands clasped so tightly in her lap I could see the whites of her knuckles.