love, what you sacrifice for royalty.’
(What indeed.)
‘If only they —at the Palace, I mean—realised …’
(If only they did.)
‘—it would be far, far more than Dame .’
(So Hetty had divined what would ensue? At least, Antonia’s thoughts appended, I think my Dame will become me. It goes quite—trochee, dactyl—hexametrically with Antonia. As for the pantomimic associations of the word, few so well equipped as I to live them down—or,rather, put them clean out of court, stifled before born … Whereas, if they were to give one to Hetty …)
‘My love shall not be troubled. She shan’t indeed. Now climb into bed, and let Hetty tuck——’
‘No.’
‘Antonia.’
What could one, utterly at the end of one’s strength, reply?
‘ My Antonia …’ (but tentatively, testing out the proprietorship, as though fearful for it …)
‘Forgive me, my dear. I am the prey of a certain—nervosité.’
‘Perhaps it’s the——’ Hetty stopped, remembering what Antonia had said the last time she mentioned the Mistral. ‘Be brave, my darling. It will pass.’
‘Tout passe …’ (The sadness in the voice!)
‘My darling! Perhaps—a little nightcap?’
‘Even that, somehow, tonight …’
‘I could warm you a little milk.’
‘No, no.’
‘I hate to leave you like this——’
(Yet you must: one’s nervosité can really endure no more.)
‘I am so worried——’
‘Let me not keep you up, too, Hetty. It will,as you say, pass. A merely momentary, a really negligible, a really too petite crise. I am better to suffer it alone.’
‘But how can I bear——’
‘My dear, I am only’ (ah, devouring tiger at the heart) ‘a little under the—’ (no; even in torment let one not be betrayed into that vulgar, that characteristically meteorological English expression) ‘—à l’ombre, mettons.’
‘Ah, but of what ?’ cried Hetty.’ ‘If only my beloved would tell me precisely .’
‘—des jeunes filles en fleur, je suppose’‚ completed Antonia, but only as the door was closing … closing …
Closed. At last closed.
Now prowl, tiger. Now lash, gnash …
… but soundlessly. Not a moan, not a pacing, not a laceration come to the ears of the rose suite.
Unrelenting desire …
You are caged, tiger, au delà des grilles (desire unassuageable), prospective damehood the gaoler; as good as locked-in to your pretty, flowery, quilted boudoir (o quilted irony) …
Howl
… but silently.
And yet: and yet who am I, Antonia Mount, virtually Dame Antonia Mount, to submit to a key which has not factually turned?
Look, I can open my door (relent, tiger; youshall be assuaged). Look, I can open it as softly as dew visiting flowers, as softly as my lips will …
*
At least, thought Antonia, paused but a pace from Regina Outre-Mer’s threshold, if I am making (inelegant phrase!) a fool of myself, I am doing it in the most becoming conceivable nightdress. If royalty should choose at this moment to open her rose door and look out——
But no door opened.
The sound had been, perhaps, some child turning in her sleep. (Of what did Regina dream?)
Then step on, silently, stealthily …
And indeed was not one’s tread always of a pantherine stealth and elegance? Probably nothing—if one were to be observed—could be detected by way of departure from one’s usual demeanour: merely Miss Mount tirelessly going about her métier; her unrelaxing concern for her charges … Except, of course, to the eye of one of her charges who knew … But to the uncomprehending eye there was nothing toshew … Not a frill at one’s throat betrayed the pulse, the taut pulse, beneath; this tiger’s claws (were you, desire, remorseless?) had scratched not the surface of a ruffle at one’s breast …
A door opened.
Not Regina’s: Antonia—though her hand was on it—had not yet turned the knob.
Royalty’s then. No. A rose still shut, sleeping undisturbed through the night. ( She, surely,
(What indeed.)
‘If only they —at the Palace, I mean—realised …’
(If only they did.)
‘—it would be far, far more than Dame .’
(So Hetty had divined what would ensue? At least, Antonia’s thoughts appended, I think my Dame will become me. It goes quite—trochee, dactyl—hexametrically with Antonia. As for the pantomimic associations of the word, few so well equipped as I to live them down—or,rather, put them clean out of court, stifled before born … Whereas, if they were to give one to Hetty …)
‘My love shall not be troubled. She shan’t indeed. Now climb into bed, and let Hetty tuck——’
‘No.’
‘Antonia.’
What could one, utterly at the end of one’s strength, reply?
‘ My Antonia …’ (but tentatively, testing out the proprietorship, as though fearful for it …)
‘Forgive me, my dear. I am the prey of a certain—nervosité.’
‘Perhaps it’s the——’ Hetty stopped, remembering what Antonia had said the last time she mentioned the Mistral. ‘Be brave, my darling. It will pass.’
‘Tout passe …’ (The sadness in the voice!)
‘My darling! Perhaps—a little nightcap?’
‘Even that, somehow, tonight …’
‘I could warm you a little milk.’
‘No, no.’
‘I hate to leave you like this——’
(Yet you must: one’s nervosité can really endure no more.)
‘I am so worried——’
‘Let me not keep you up, too, Hetty. It will,as you say, pass. A merely momentary, a really negligible, a really too petite crise. I am better to suffer it alone.’
‘But how can I bear——’
‘My dear, I am only’ (ah, devouring tiger at the heart) ‘a little under the—’ (no; even in torment let one not be betrayed into that vulgar, that characteristically meteorological English expression) ‘—à l’ombre, mettons.’
‘Ah, but of what ?’ cried Hetty.’ ‘If only my beloved would tell me precisely .’
‘—des jeunes filles en fleur, je suppose’‚ completed Antonia, but only as the door was closing … closing …
Closed. At last closed.
Now prowl, tiger. Now lash, gnash …
… but soundlessly. Not a moan, not a pacing, not a laceration come to the ears of the rose suite.
Unrelenting desire …
You are caged, tiger, au delà des grilles (desire unassuageable), prospective damehood the gaoler; as good as locked-in to your pretty, flowery, quilted boudoir (o quilted irony) …
Howl
… but silently.
And yet: and yet who am I, Antonia Mount, virtually Dame Antonia Mount, to submit to a key which has not factually turned?
Look, I can open my door (relent, tiger; youshall be assuaged). Look, I can open it as softly as dew visiting flowers, as softly as my lips will …
*
At least, thought Antonia, paused but a pace from Regina Outre-Mer’s threshold, if I am making (inelegant phrase!) a fool of myself, I am doing it in the most becoming conceivable nightdress. If royalty should choose at this moment to open her rose door and look out——
But no door opened.
The sound had been, perhaps, some child turning in her sleep. (Of what did Regina dream?)
Then step on, silently, stealthily …
And indeed was not one’s tread always of a pantherine stealth and elegance? Probably nothing—if one were to be observed—could be detected by way of departure from one’s usual demeanour: merely Miss Mount tirelessly going about her métier; her unrelaxing concern for her charges … Except, of course, to the eye of one of her charges who knew … But to the uncomprehending eye there was nothing toshew … Not a frill at one’s throat betrayed the pulse, the taut pulse, beneath; this tiger’s claws (were you, desire, remorseless?) had scratched not the surface of a ruffle at one’s breast …
A door opened.
Not Regina’s: Antonia—though her hand was on it—had not yet turned the knob.
Royalty’s then. No. A rose still shut, sleeping undisturbed through the night. ( She, surely,
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