style="font-size:15px;"> ‘So that’s what you wanted Gerda for? How dare you?’
‘I wondered if you’d see…’
‘See it? Of course I see it. It’s here.’ He placed a finger on the broad heavy neck muscles.
Henrietta nodded.
‘Yes, it’s the neck and shoulders I wanted—and that heavy forward slant—the submission—that bowed look. It’s wonderful!’
‘Wonderful? Look here, Henrietta, I won’t have it. You’re to leave Gerda alone.’
‘Gerda won’t know. Nobody will know. You know Gerda would never recognize herself here—nobody else would either. And it isn’t Gerda. It isn’t anybody.’
‘I recognized it, didn’t I?’
‘You’re different, John. You—see things.’
‘It’s the damned cheek of it! I won’t have it, Henrietta! I won’t have it. Can’t you see that it was an indefensible thing to do?’
‘Was it?’
‘Don’t you know it was? Can’t you feel it was? Where’s your usual sensitiveness?’
Henrietta said slowly:
‘You don’t understand, John. I don’t think I could ever make you understand… You don’t know what it is to want something—to look at it day after day—that line of the neck—those muscles—the angle where the head goes forward—that heaviness round the jaw. I’ve been looking at them, wanting them—every time I saw Gerda… In the end I just had to have them!’
‘Unscrupulous!’
‘Yes, I suppose just that. But when you want things, in that way, you just have to take them.’
‘You mean you don’t care a damn about anybody else. You don’t care about Gerda—’
‘Don’t be stupid, John. That’s why I made that statuette thing. To please Gerda and make her happy. I’m not inhuman!’
‘Inhuman is exactly what you are.’
‘Do you think—honestly—that Gerda would ever recognize herself in this?’
John looked at it unwillingly. For the first time his anger and resentment became subordinated to his interest. A strange submissive figure, a figure offering up worship to an unseen deity—the face raised—blind, dumb, devoted—terribly strong, terribly fanatical… He said:
‘That’s rather a terrifying thing that you have made, Henrietta!’
Henrietta shivered slightly.
She said, ‘Yes—I thought that…’
John said sharply:
‘What’s she looking at—who is it? There in front of her?’
Henrietta hesitated. She said, and her voice had a queer note in it:
‘I don’t know. But I think—she might be looking at you, John.’
In the dining-room the child Terry made another scientific statement.
‘Lead salts are more soluble in cold water than hot. If you add potassium iodide you get a yellow precipitate of lead iodide.’
He looked expectantly at his mother but without any real hope. Parents, in the opinion of young Terence, were sadly disappointing.
‘Did you know that, Mother?’
‘I don’t know anything about chemistry, dear.’
‘You could read about it in a book,’ said Terence.
It was a simple statement of fact, but there was a certain wistfulness behind it.
Gerda did not hear the wistfulness. She was caught in the trap of her anxious misery. Round and round and round. She had been miserable ever since she woke up this morning and realized that at last this long-dreaded weekend with the Angkatells was upon her. Staying at The Hollow was always a nightmare to her. She always felt bewildered and forlorn. Lucy Angkatell with her sentences that were never finished, her swift inconsequences, and her obvious attempts at kindliness, was the figure she dreaded most. But the others were nearly as bad. For Gerda it was two days of sheer martyrdom—to be endured for John’s sake.
For John that morning as he stretched himself had remarked in tones of unmitigated pleasure:
‘Splendid to think we’ll be getting into the country this weekend. It will do you good, Gerda, just what you need.’
She had smiled mechanically and had said with unselfish fortitude: ‘It will be delightful.’
Her unhappy eyes had wandered round the bedroom. The wallpaper, cream striped with a black mark just by the wardrobe, the mahogany dressing-table with the glass that swung too far forward, the cheerful bright blue carpet, the watercolours of the Lake District. All dear familiar things and she would not see them again until Monday.
Instead, tomorrow a housemaid who rustled would come into the strange bedroom and put down a little dainty tray of early tea by the bed and pull up the blinds, and would then rearrange and fold Gerda’s clothes—a thing which made Gerda feel hot and uncomfortable all over. She would lie miserably, enduring these things, trying to comfort herself by thinking, ‘Only one morning more.’ Like being at school and counting the days.
Gerda had not been happy at school. At school there had been even less reassurance than elsewhere. Home had been better. But even home had not been very good. For they had all, of course, been quicker and cleverer than she was. Their comments, quick, impatient, not quite unkind, had whistled about her ears like a hailstorm. ‘Oh, do be quick, Gerda.’ ‘Butter-fingers, give it to me!’ ‘Oh don’t let Gerda do it, she’ll be ages.’ ‘Gerda never takes in anything…’
Hadn’t they seen, all of them, that that was the way to make her slower and stupider still? She’d got worse and worse, more clumsy with her fingers, more slow-witted, more inclined to stare vacantly at what was said to her.
Until, suddenly, she had reached the point where she had found a way out. Almost accidentally, really, she found her weapon of defence.
She had grown slower still, her puzzled stare had become even blanker. But now, when they said impatiently: ‘Oh, Gerda, how stupid you are, don’t you understand that?’ she had been able, behind her blank expression, to hug herself a little in her secret knowledge… For she wasn’t as stupid as they thought. Often, when she pretended not to understand, she did understand. And often, deliberately, she slowed down in her task of whatever it was, smiling to herself when someone’s impatient fingers snatched it away from her.
For, warm and delightful,
