Mary Olivier: A Life by May Sinclair

M >> May Sinclair >> Mary Olivier: A Life

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27

Produced by Suzanne Shell, Beth Trapaga and PG Distributed Proofreaders

MARY OLIVIER:

A LIFE

BY

MAY SINCLAIR

1919

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE INFANCY (1865-1869)

BOOK TWO CHILDHOOD (1869-1875)

BOOK THREE ADOLESCENCE (1876-1879)

BOOK FOUR MATURITY (1879-1900)

BOOK FIVE MIDDLE AGE (1900-1910)

BOOK ONE
INFANCY (1865-1869)

I

I.

The curtain of the big bed hung down beside the cot.

When old Jenny shook it the wooden rings rattled on the pole and grey
men with pointed heads and squat, bulging bodies came out of the folds
on to the flat green ground. If you looked at them they turned into
squab faces smeared with green.

Every night, when Jenny had gone away with the doll and the donkey,
you hunched up the blanket and the stiff white counterpane to hide the
curtain and you played with the knob in the green painted iron railing
of the cot. It stuck out close to your face, winking and grinning at
you in a friendly way. You poked it till it left off and turned grey
and went back into the railing. Then you had to feel for it with your
finger. It fitted the hollow of your hand, cool and hard, with a blunt
nose that pushed agreeably into the palm.

In the dark you could go tip-finger along the slender, lashing
flourishes of the ironwork. By stretching your arm out tight you could
reach the curlykew at the end. The short, steep flourish took you to
the top of the railing and on behind your head.

Tip-fingering backwards that way you got into the grey lane where the
prickly stones were and the hedge of little biting trees. When the
door in the hedge opened you saw the man in the night-shirt. He had
only half a face. From his nose and his cheek-bones downwards his
beard hung straight like a dark cloth. You opened your mouth, but
before you could scream you were back in the cot; the room was light;
the green knob winked and grinned at you from the railing, and behind
the curtain Papa and Mamma were lying in the big bed.

One night she came back out of the lane as the door in the hedge was
opening. The man stood in the room by the washstand, scratching his long
thigh. He was turned slantwise from the nightlight on the washstand so
that it showed his yellowish skin under the lifted shirt. The white
half-face hung by itself on the darkness. When he left off scratching
and moved towards the cot she screamed.

Mamma took her into the big bed. She curled up there under the shelter
of the raised hip and shoulder. Mamma's face was dry and warm and
smelt sweet like Jenny's powder-puff. Mamma's mouth moved over her wet
cheeks, nipping her tears.

Her cry changed to a whimper and a soft, ebbing sob.

Mamma's breast: a smooth, cool, round thing that hung to your hands
and slipped from them when they tried to hold it. You could feel the
little ridges of the stiff nipple as your finger pushed it back into
the breast.

Her sobs shook in her throat and ceased suddenly.

II.

The big white globes hung in a ring above the dinner table. At first,
when she came into the room, carried high in Jenny's arms, she could
see nothing but the hanging, shining globes. Each had a light inside
it that made it shine.

Mamma was sitting at the far end of the table. Her face and neck shone
white above the pile of oranges on the dark blue dish. She was dipping
her fingers in a dark blue glass bowl.

When Mary saw her she strained towards her, leaning dangerously out of
Jenny's arms. Old Jenny said "Tchit-tchit!" and made her arms tight
and hard and put her on Papa's knee.

Papa sat up, broad and tall above the table, all by himself. He was
dressed in black. One long brown beard hung down in front of him and
one short beard covered his mouth. You knew he was smiling because his
cheeks swelled high up his face so that his eyes were squeezed into
narrow, shining slits. When they came out again you saw scarlet specks
and smears in their corners.

Papa's big white hand was on the table, holding a glass filled with
some red stuff that was both dark and shining and had a queer, sharp
smell.

"Porty-worty winey-piney," said Papa.

The same queer, sharp smell came from between his two beards when he
spoke.

Mark was sitting up beside Mamma a long way off. She could see them
looking at each other. Roddy and Dank were with them.

They were making flowers out of orange peel and floating them in the
finger bowls. Mamma's fingers were blue and sharp-pointed in the water
behind the dark blue glass of her bowl. The floating orange-peel
flowers were blue. She could see Mamma smiling as she stirred them
about with the tips of her blue fingers.

Her underlip pouted and shook. She didn't want to sit by herself on
Papa's knee. She wanted to sit in Mamma's lap beside Mark. She wanted
Mark to make orange-peel flowers for her. She wanted Mamma to look
down at her and smile.

Papa was spreading butter on biscuit and powdered sugar on the butter.

"Sugary--Buttery--Bippery," said Papa.

She shook her head. "I want to go to Mamma. I want to go to Mark."

She pushed away the biscuit. "No. No. Mamma give Mary. Mark give
Mary."

"Drinky--winky," said Papa.

He put his glass to her shaking mouth. She turned her head away, and
he took it between his thumb and finger and turned it back again. Her
neck moved stiffly. Her head felt small and brittle under the weight
and pinch of the big hand. The smell and the sour, burning taste of
the wine made her cry.

"Don't tease Baby, Emilius," said Mamma.

"I never tease anybody."

He lifted her up. She could feel her body swell and tighten under the
bands and drawstrings of her clothes, as she struggled and choked,
straining against the immense clamp of his arms. When his wet red lips
pushed out between his beards to kiss her she kicked. Her toes drummed
against something stiff and thin that gave way and sprang out again
with a cracking and popping sound.

He put her on the floor. She stood there all by herself, crying, till
Mark came and took her by the hand.

"Naughty Baby. Naughty Mary," said Mamma. "Don't kiss her, Mark."

"No, Mamma."

He knelt on the floor beside her and smiled into her face and wiped it
with his pocket-handkerchief. She put out her mouth and kissed him and
stopped crying.

"Jenny must come," Mamma said, "and take Mary away."

"No. Mark take Mary."

"Let the little beast take her," said Papa. "If he does he shan't come
back again. Do you hear that, sir?"

Mark said, "Yes, Papa."

They went out of the room hand in hand. He carried her upstairs
pickaback. As they went she rested her chin on the nape of his neck
where his brown hair thinned off into shiny, golden down.

III.

Old Jenny sat in the rocking-chair by the fireguard in the nursery.
She wore a black net cap with purple rosettes above her ears. You
could look through the black net and see the top of her head laid out
in stripes of grey hair and pinky skin.

She had a grey face, flattened and wide-open like her eyes. She held
it tilted slightly backwards out of your way, and seemed to be always
staring at something just above your head. Jenny's face had tiny
creases and crinkles all over it. When you kissed it you could feel
the loose flesh crumpling and sliding softly over the bone. There was
always about her a faint smell of sour milk.

No use trying to talk to Jenny. She was too tired to listen. You
climbed on to her lap and stroked her face, and said "Poor Jenny. Dear
Jenny. Poor Jenny-Wee so tired," and her face shut up and went to
sleep. Her broad flat nose drooped; her eyelids drooped; her long,
grey bands of hair drooped; she was like the white donkey that lived
in the back lane and slept standing on three legs with his ears lying
down.

Mary loved old Jenny next to Mamma and Mark; and she loved the white
donkey. She wondered why Jenny was always cross when you stroked her
grey face and called her "Donkey-Jenny." It was not as if she minded
being stroked; because when Mark or Dank did it her face woke up
suddenly and smoothed out its creases. And when Roddy climbed up with
his long legs into her lap she hugged him tight and rocked him,
singing Mamma's song, and called him her baby.

He wasn't. _She_ was the baby; and while you were the baby you could
sit in people's laps. But old Jenny didn't want her to be the baby.

The nursery had shiny, slippery yellow walls and a brown floor, and a
black hearthrug with a centre of brown and yellow flowers. The greyish
chintz curtains were spotted with small brown leaves and crimson
berries. There were dark-brown cupboards and chests of drawers, and
chairs that were brown frames for the yellow network of the cane. Soft
bits of you squeezed through the holes and came out on the other side.
That hurt and made a red pattern on you where you sat down.

The tall green fireguard was a cage. When Jenny poked the fire you
peeped through and saw it fluttering inside. If you sat still you
could sometimes hear it say "teck-teck," and sometimes the fire would
fly out suddenly with a soft hiss.

High above your head you could just see the gleaming edge of the brass
rail.

"Jenny--where's yesterday and where's to-morrow?"

IV.

When you had run a thousand hundred times round the table you came to
the blue house. It stood behind Jenny's rocking-chair, where Jenny
couldn't see it, in a blue garden. The walls and ceilings were blue;
the doors and staircases were blue; everything in all the rooms was
blue.

Mary ran round and round. She loved the padding of her feet on the
floor and the sound of her sing-song:

"The pussies are blue, the beds are blue, the matches are blue and the
mousetraps and all the litty mouses!"

Mamma was always there dressed in a blue gown; and Jenny was there,
all in blue, with a blue cap; and Mark and Dank and Roddy were there,
all in blue. But Papa was not allowed in the blue house.

Mamma came in and looked at her as she ran. She stood in the doorway
with her finger on her mouth, and she was smiling. Her brown hair was
parted in two sleek bands, looped and puffed out softly round her
ears, and plaited in one plait that stood up on its edge above her
forehead. She wore a wide brown silk gown with falling sleeves.

"Pretty Mamma," said Mary. "In a blue dress."

V.

Every morning Mark and Dank and Roddy knocked at Mamma's door, and if
Papa was there he called out, "Go away, you little beasts!" If he was
not there she said, "Come in, darlings!" and they climbed up the big
bed into Papa's place and said "Good morning, Mamma!"

When Papa was away the lifted curtain spread like a tent over Mary's
cot, shutting her in with Mamma. When he was there the drawn curtain
hung straight down from the head of the bed.

II

I.

White patterns on the window, sharp spikes, feathers, sprigs with
furled edges, stuck flat on to the glass; white webs, crinkled like
the skin of boiled milk, stretched across the corner of the pane;
crisp, sticky stuff that bit your fingers.

Out of doors, black twigs thickened with a white fur; white powder
sprinkled over the garden walk. The white, ruffled grass stood out
stiffly and gave under your feet with a pleasant crunching. The air
smelt good; you opened your mouth and drank it in gulps. It went down
like cold, tingling water.

Frost.

You saw the sun for the first time, a red ball that hung by itself on
the yellowish white sky. Mamma said, "Yes, of course it would fall if
God wasn't there to hold it up in his hands."

Supposing God dropped the sun--

II.

The yellowish white sky had come close up to the house, a dirty
blanket let down outside the window. The tree made a black pattern on
it. Clear glass beads hung in a row from the black branch, each black
twig was tipped with a glass bead. When Jenny opened the window there
was a queer cold smell like the smell of the black water in the butt.

Thin white powder fluttered out of the blanket and fell. A thick
powder. A white fluff that piled itself in a ridge on the window-sill
and curved softly in the corner of the sash. It was cold, and melted
on your tongue with a taste of window-pane.

In the garden Mark and Dank and Roddy were making the snow man.

Mamma stood at the nursery window with her back to the room. She
called to Mary to come and look at the snow man.

Mary was tired of the snow man. She was making a tower with Roddy's
bricks while Roddy wasn't there. She had to build it quick before he
could come back and take his bricks away, and the quicker you built it
the sooner it fell down. Mamma was not to look until it was finished.

"Look--look, Mamma! M-m-mary's m-m-made a tar. And it's _not_ falled
down!"

The tower reached above Jenny's knee.

"Come and look, Mamma--" But Mamma wouldn't even turn her head.

"I'm looking at the snow man," she said.

Something swelled up, hot and tight, in Mary's body and in her face.
She had a big bursting face and a big bursting body. She struck the
tower, and it fell down. Her violence made her feel light and small
again and happy.

"Where's the tower, Mary?" said Mamma.

"There isn't any tar. I've knocked it down. It was a nashty tar."

III.

Aunt Charlotte--

Aunt Charlotte had sent the Isle of Skye terrier to Dank.

There was a picture of Aunt Charlotte in Mamma's Album. She stood on a
strip of carpet, supported by the hoops of her crinoline; her black
lace shawl made a pattern on the light gown. She wore a little hat
with a white sweeping feather, and under the hat two long black curls
hung down straight on each shoulder.

The other people in the Album were sulky, and wouldn't look at you.
The gentlemen made cross faces at somebody who wasn't there; the
ladies hung their heads and looked down at their crinolines. Aunt
Charlotte hung her head too, but her eyes, tilted up straight under
her forehead, pointed at you. And between her stiff black curls she
was smiling--smiling. When Mamma came to Aunt Charlotte's picture she
tried to turn over the page of the Album quick.

Aunt Charlotte sent things. She sent the fat valentine with the lace
paper border and black letters printed on sweet-smelling white satin
that Papa threw into the fire, and the white china doll with black
hair and blue eyes and no clothes on that Jenny hid in the nursery
cupboard.

The Skye terrier brought a message tied under his chin: "Tib. For my
dear little nephew Dan with Aunt Charlotte's fond love." He had
high-peaked, tufted ears and a blackish grey coat that trailed on the
floor like a shawl that was too big for him. When you tried to stroke
him the shawl swept and trailed away under the table. You saw nothing
but shawl and ears until Papa began to tease Tib. Papa snapped his
finger and thumb at him, and Tib showed little angry eyes and white
teeth set in a black snarl.

Mamma said, "Please don't do that again, Emilius."

And Papa did it again.

IV.

"What are you looking at, Master Daniel?" said Jenny.

"Nothing."

"Then what are you looking like that for? You didn't ought to."

Papa had sent Mark and Dank to the nursery in disgrace. Mark leaned
over the back of Jenny's chair and rocked her. His face was red but
tight; and as he rocked he smiled because of his punishment.

Dank lay on the floor on his stomach, his shoulders hunched, raised on
his elbows, his chin supported by his clenched fists. He was a dark
and white boy with dusty eyelashes and rough, doggy hair. He had
puckered up his mouth and made it small; under the scowl of his
twisted eyebrows he was looking at nothing.

"It's no worse for you than it is for Master Mark," said Jenny.

"_Isn't_ it? Tib was my dog. If he hadn't been my dog Papa wouldn't have
teased him, and Mamma wouldn't have sent him back to Aunt Charlotte, and
Aunt Charlotte wouldn't have let him be run over."

"Yes. But what did you say to your Papa?"

"I said I wish Tib _had_ bitten him. So I do. And Mark said it would
have served him jolly well right."

"So it would," said Mark.

Roddy had turned his back on them. Nobody was taking any notice of
him; so he sang aloud to himself the song he was forbidden to sing:

"John Brown's body lies a-rotting in his grave,
John Brown's body lies a-rotting in his grave--"

The song seemed to burst out of Roddy's beautiful white face; his pink
lips twirled and tilted; his golden curls bobbed and nodded to the tune.

"John Brown's body lies a-rotting in his grave,
As we go marching on!"

"When I grow up," said Dank, "I'll kill Papa for killing Tibby. I'll
bore holes in his face with Mark's gimlet. I'll cut pieces out of him.
I'll get the matches and set fire to his beard. I'll--I'll _hurt_ him."

"I don't think _I_ shall," said Mark. "But if I do I shan't kick up a
silly row about it first."

"It's all very well for you. You'd kick up a row if Tibby was your dog."

Mary had forgotten Tibby. Now she remembered.

"Where's Tibby? I want him."

"Tibby's dead," said Jenny.

"What's 'dead'?"

"Never you mind."

Roddy was singing:

"'And _from_ his nose and _to_ his chin
The worms crawled out and the worms crawled in'--

"_That's_ dead," said Roddy.

V.

You never knew when Aunt Charlotte mightn't send something. She forgot
your birthday and sometimes Christmas; but, to make up for that, she
remembered in between. Every time she was going to be married she
remembered.

Sarah the cat came too long after Mark's twelfth birthday to be his
birthday present. There was no message with her except that Aunt
Charlotte was going to be married and didn't want her any more.
Whenever Aunt Charlotte was going to be married she sent you something
she didn't want.

Sarah was a white cat with a pink nose and pink lips and pink pads
under her paws. Her tabby hood came down in a peak between her green
eyes. Her tabby cape went on along the back of her tail, tapering to
the tip. Sarah crouched against the fireguard, her haunches raised, her
head sunk back on her shoulders, and her paws tucked in under her
white, pouting breast.

Mark stooped over her; his mouth smiled its small, firm smile; his eyes
shone as he stroked her. Sarah raised her haunches under the caressing
hand.

Mary's body was still. Something stirred and tightened in it when she
looked at Sarah.

"I want Sarah," she said.

"You can't have her," said Jenny. "She's Master Mark's cat."

She wanted her more than Roddy's bricks and Dank's animal book or
Mark's soldiers. She trembled when she held her in her arms and kissed
her and smelt the warm, sweet, sleepy smell that came from the top of
her head.

"Little girls can't have everything they want," said Jenny.

"I wanted her before you did," said Dank. "You're too little to have a
cat at all."

He sat on the table swinging his legs. His dark, mournful eyes watched
Mark under their doggy scowl. He looked like Tibby, the terrier that
Mamma sent away because Papa teased him.

"Sarah isn't your cat either, Master Daniel. Your Aunt Charlotte gave
her to your Mamma, and your Mamma gave her to Master Mark."

"She ought to have given her to me. She took my dog away."

"_I_ gave her to you," said Mark.

"And I gave her to you back again."

"Well then, she's half our cat."

"I want her," said Mary. She said it again and again.

Mamma came and took her into the room with the big bed.

The gas blazed in the white globes. Lovely white lights washed like
water over the polished yellow furniture: the bed, the great high
wardrobe, the chests of drawers, the twisted poles of the
looking-glass. There were soft rounds and edges of blond light on the
white marble chimney-piece and the white marble washstand. The drawn
curtains were covered with shining silver patterns on a sleek green
ground that shone. All these things showed again in the long, flashing
mirrors.

Mary looked round the room and wondered why the squat grey men had gone
out of the curtains.

"Don't look about you," said Mamma. "Look at me. Why do you want
Sarah?"

She had forgotten Sarah.

"Because," she said, "Sarah is so sweet."

"Mamma gave Sarah to Mark. Mary mustn't want what isn't given her. Mark
doesn't say, 'I want Mary's dollies.' Papa doesn't say, 'I want Mamma's
workbox.'"

"But _I_ want Sarah."

"And that's selfish and self-willed."

Mamma sat down on the low chair at the foot of the bed.

"God," she said, "hates selfishness and self-will. God is grieved every
time Mary is self-willed and selfish. He wants her to give up her
will."

When Mamma talked about God she took you on her lap and you played with
the gold tassel on her watch chain. Her face was solemn and tender. She
spoke softly. She was afraid that God might hear her talking about him
and wouldn't like it.

Mary knelt in Mamma's lap and said "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild," and
"Our Father," and played with the gold tassel. Every day began and
ended with "Our Father" and "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild."

"What's hallowed?"

"Holy," said Mamma. "What God is. Sacred and holy."

Mary twisted the gold tassel and made it dance and run through the loop
of the chain. Mamma took it out of her hands and pressed them together
and stooped her head to them and kissed them. She could feel the kiss
tingling through her body from her finger-tips, and she was suddenly
docile and appeased.

When she lay in her cot behind the curtain she prayed: "Please God keep
me from wanting Sarah."

In the morning she remembered. When she looked at Sarah she thought:
"Sarah is Mark's cat and Dank's cat."

She touched her with the tips of her fingers. Sarah's eyes were
reproachful and unhappy. She ran away and crept under the chest of
drawers.

"Mamma gave Sarah to Mark."

Mamma was sacred and holy. Mark was sacred and holy. Sarah was sacred
and holy, crouching under the chest of drawers with her eyes gleaming
in the darkness.

VI.

It was a good and happy day.

She lay on the big bed. Her head rested on Mamma's arm. Mamma's face
was close to her. Water trickled into her eyes out of the wet pad of
pocket-handkerchief. Under the cold pad a hot, grinding pain came from
the hole in her forehead. Jenny stood beside the bed. Her face had
waked up and she was busy squeezing something out of a red sponge into
a basin of pink water.

When Mamma pressed the pocket-handkerchief tight the pain ground
harder, when she loosened it blood ran out of the hole and the
pocket-handkerchief was warm again. Then Jenny put on the sponge.

She could hear Jenny say, "It was the Master's fault. She didn't ought
to have been left in the room with him."

She remembered. The dining-room and the sharp spike on the fender and
Papa's legs stretched out. He had told her not to run so fast and she
had run faster and faster. It wasn't Papa's fault.

She remembered tripping over Papa's legs. Then falling on the spike.
Then nothing.

Then waking in Mamma's room.

She wasn't crying. The pain made her feel good and happy; and Mamma was
calling her her darling and her little lamb. Mamma loved her. Jenny
loved her.

Mark and Dank and Roddy came in. Mark carried Sarah in his arms. They
stood by the bed and looked at her; their faces pressed close. Roddy
had been crying; but Mark and Dank were excited. They climbed on to the
bed and kissed her. They made Sarah crouch down close beside her and
held her there. They spoke very fast, one after the other.

"We've brought you Sarah."

"We've given you Sarah."

"She's your cat."

"To keep for ever."

She was glad that she had tripped over Papa's legs. It was a good and
happy day.

VII.

The sun shone. The polished green blades of the grass glittered. The
gravel walk and the nasturtium bed together made a broad orange blaze.
Specks like glass sparkled in the hot grey earth. On the grey flagstone
the red poppy you picked yesterday was a black thread, a purple stain.

She was happy sitting on the grass, drawing the fine, sharp blades
between her fingers, sniffing the smell of the mignonette that tingled
like sweet pepper, opening and shutting the yellow mouths of the
snap-dragon.

The garden flowers stood still, straight up in the grey earth. They
were as tall as you were. You could look at them a long time without
being tired.

The garden flowers were not like the animals. The cat Sarah bumped her
sleek head under your chin; you could feel her purr throbbing under her
ribs and crackling in her throat. The white rabbit pushed out his nose
to you and drew it in again, quivering, and breathed his sweet breath
into your mouth.

The garden flowers wouldn't let you love them. They stood still in
their beauty, quiet, arrogant, reproachful. They put you in the wrong.
When you stroked them they shook and swayed from you; when you held
them tight their heads dropped, their backs broke, they shrivelled up
in your hands. All the flowers in the garden were Mamma's; they were
sacred and holy.

You loved best the flowers that you stooped down to look at and the
flowers that were not Mamma's: the small crumpled poppy by the edge of
the field, and the ears of the wild rye that ran up your sleeve and
tickled you, and the speedwell, striped like the blue eyes of Meta, the
wax doll.

When you smelt mignonette you thought of Mamma.

It was her birthday. Mark had given her a little sumach tree in a red
pot. They took it out of the pot and dug a hole by the front door steps
outside the pantry window and planted it there.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27