new sculpture at the Art Gallery this week. Shall we go together some time?”
Vivian hesitated. Her imagination played dimly on the sculpture, very vividly on the hard floor of the gallery under her aching feet.
“That is,” Mic said, “if you don’t get too tired on the wards for any more standing about.”
“No, I’d like to. I’m afraid it can only be short notice, though, because I’m not getting proper off-duty at present.”
“That’s all right. Any evening. Or Saturday.” With one of his unnoticeable movements he disappeared behind the folding doors.
As she went down the stairs she had a sudden terrifying conviction that she had been away from the ward for hours. It was cut off from her as if by some huge lapse of time. She pulled out the big watch from the pocket of her bodice; she had been gone, she found, about twelve minutes.
“Nurse Lingard, where have you been? I never heard of such a thing, when I want you to wait for the result I’ll let you know. The man is capable of walking down to the ward with it, I suppose. If the rest of my nurses were as unreliable as this, how do you suppose I could carry on? Go and collect the mouthwash bowls, everything’s behind.”
Sister trotted off, her face red, her body angular, every muscle contracted, taut as an uncoiled crane. Vivian noted her ugliness with satisfaction, and the satisfaction with disgust.
At bedtime that night Colonna brought in some China tea. When she sat down on the bed it became gracefully evident that her stiff dragon-encrusted dressing-gown was all she was wearing; and a wave of grey hopeless irritability made Vivian aware for the first time how much she had been looking forward to going to sleep. But the tea was delicious, a liquid fragrance. She drank it thankfully, feeling ashamed of herself because she was turning over, simultaneously, expedients for dislodging Colonna as quickly as possible. As it happened, none of them were needed.
“You look bloody tired,” Colonna said as she put the cup down. “Sister on duty, I suppose. Get straight into bed, I’ll tidy up.”
She helped Vivian undress like a mother, folded her things, tucked her in, handed her night-cream and cleansing tissues. Vivian submitted with gratitude. She had been taken unawares before by these sudden illuminations of kindness and perception; apart from their own pleasantness, they were part of the variegation which made Colonna interesting to her and, in spite of everything, worthwhile.
“I was wondering this evening,” she said as she brushed her hair, “whether one has the right to attach any value to oneself whatever apart from one’s function in the community. What do you think?”
“Aren’t you a Communist?” asked Colonna in faint surprise.
“No; at least, not philosophically. It doesn’t seem to me a—a sufficiently final thing to lose oneself in as they insist you should. I suppose in practice I could muck in with it; in a lot of ways it can’t be so very different from this.”
“I thought you would be one. Nearly all my friends are, and hate personality worse than cancer. Other people’s particularly. But sometimes we reach a gentleman’s agreement that I’m Wrong but Romantic. … I came here tonight with the worst intentions, did you know?”
“Of course. But I like you so much more like this. Do you mind terribly?”
“No, I think I’m glad if I could only make up my mind to it. It’s funny how I won’t let you alone, we’ve so much that would spoil. But—I don’t know—I’m not in love with anyone at the moment, and you’re rather beautiful in a clean hammered way that’s refreshing after all these plush peaches. And you take it all for granted so restfully, instead of popping your eyes and saying oo-er. Making love to you is pleasant and graceful—and innocent, it seems to me, though I suppose I wouldn’t know; because we’re happy and don’t struggle to possess one another.” She paused; the rare
Vivian hesitated. Her imagination played dimly on the sculpture, very vividly on the hard floor of the gallery under her aching feet.
“That is,” Mic said, “if you don’t get too tired on the wards for any more standing about.”
“No, I’d like to. I’m afraid it can only be short notice, though, because I’m not getting proper off-duty at present.”
“That’s all right. Any evening. Or Saturday.” With one of his unnoticeable movements he disappeared behind the folding doors.
As she went down the stairs she had a sudden terrifying conviction that she had been away from the ward for hours. It was cut off from her as if by some huge lapse of time. She pulled out the big watch from the pocket of her bodice; she had been gone, she found, about twelve minutes.
“Nurse Lingard, where have you been? I never heard of such a thing, when I want you to wait for the result I’ll let you know. The man is capable of walking down to the ward with it, I suppose. If the rest of my nurses were as unreliable as this, how do you suppose I could carry on? Go and collect the mouthwash bowls, everything’s behind.”
Sister trotted off, her face red, her body angular, every muscle contracted, taut as an uncoiled crane. Vivian noted her ugliness with satisfaction, and the satisfaction with disgust.
At bedtime that night Colonna brought in some China tea. When she sat down on the bed it became gracefully evident that her stiff dragon-encrusted dressing-gown was all she was wearing; and a wave of grey hopeless irritability made Vivian aware for the first time how much she had been looking forward to going to sleep. But the tea was delicious, a liquid fragrance. She drank it thankfully, feeling ashamed of herself because she was turning over, simultaneously, expedients for dislodging Colonna as quickly as possible. As it happened, none of them were needed.
“You look bloody tired,” Colonna said as she put the cup down. “Sister on duty, I suppose. Get straight into bed, I’ll tidy up.”
She helped Vivian undress like a mother, folded her things, tucked her in, handed her night-cream and cleansing tissues. Vivian submitted with gratitude. She had been taken unawares before by these sudden illuminations of kindness and perception; apart from their own pleasantness, they were part of the variegation which made Colonna interesting to her and, in spite of everything, worthwhile.
“I was wondering this evening,” she said as she brushed her hair, “whether one has the right to attach any value to oneself whatever apart from one’s function in the community. What do you think?”
“Aren’t you a Communist?” asked Colonna in faint surprise.
“No; at least, not philosophically. It doesn’t seem to me a—a sufficiently final thing to lose oneself in as they insist you should. I suppose in practice I could muck in with it; in a lot of ways it can’t be so very different from this.”
“I thought you would be one. Nearly all my friends are, and hate personality worse than cancer. Other people’s particularly. But sometimes we reach a gentleman’s agreement that I’m Wrong but Romantic. … I came here tonight with the worst intentions, did you know?”
“Of course. But I like you so much more like this. Do you mind terribly?”
“No, I think I’m glad if I could only make up my mind to it. It’s funny how I won’t let you alone, we’ve so much that would spoil. But—I don’t know—I’m not in love with anyone at the moment, and you’re rather beautiful in a clean hammered way that’s refreshing after all these plush peaches. And you take it all for granted so restfully, instead of popping your eyes and saying oo-er. Making love to you is pleasant and graceful—and innocent, it seems to me, though I suppose I wouldn’t know; because we’re happy and don’t struggle to possess one another.” She paused; the rare
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