The Constant Nymph. Margaret Kennedy Kennedy
was a little forced; she found herself wishing, absurdly, that Lewis had been kind to the poor fat person on the box. As if Lewis was ever kind to anybody!
With a sudden spasm of alarm she stole a look at him, and saw that he was smiling sleepily to himself. Paulina, tranquilly sucking a peppermint lozenge, was curled up on his knee. Thus often, in thoughtless security, had Teresa sat, when she was a little girl; when, with a child’s hardness, she found his cruelty funny and saw nothing sinister in his perversities.
Now she was afraid of him, apprehending dimly all that he might have it in his power to make her feel. And yet she loved him very completely – better than anyone else in the whole world. An odd state of things! She was inclined to regard these uneasy qualms as peculiar to her age, like the frequent growing pains in her legs which made her quite lame sometimes.
They drove out of the pine woods into an open meadow which formed the end of the valley. It was an almost circular space of short grass enamelled all over with little brilliant flowers. Many cows strayed across it, and the clear, sunny spaces were full of the music of their bells. An amphitheatre of mountains rose upon every side, shutting out the world behind stony walls. At the further end of the meadow a low ridge with a faint bridle track zigzagging across it marked the pass.
The Karindehütte was just visible about half-way up; a long, low chalet built upon a flat shelf which caught more sun than fell to the share of the valley meadow.
They drew up at the foot of the pass beside a little group of herdmen’s huts. Lewis and the girls jumped out at once and began to climb the mountain track, leaving Trigorin to pay for the carriage and arrange with a cowherd for the transport of his suitcases and the pig. He then followed pantingly, finding the sun very hot, his clothes very heavy and his boots very tight. As he toiled round each bend of the zigzag path he saw the others well in front of him, the little girls skipping over the rough stones on their hard, bare feet, and Lewis swinging steadily forward with his knapsack hitched up on his shoulders. They got past the good shade of the trees into a region of scorching, blue air where the wind blew warm upon them, smelling of myrtle and Alpine rose.
At length the party in front, rounding the last corner, reached the ledge of meadow where the Karindehütte was built. They paused for a moment to look over the valley and saw empty air in front of them, and, far below, the tops of trees and little cows and their carriage crawling back along the valley road. Cow bells rose very faintly like single drops of music distilled into this upper silence,
‘I suppose,’ ventured Teresa, ‘that we ought to wait.’
‘He’s getting very blown,’ said Lewis, going to the edge to look over at Trigorin on the path below.
Teresa halloed kindly to the labouring figure and told him that he was very nearly at the top. Her brother Sebastian, who had joined them from the house, added encouraging shouts and besought the stranger to take it easily.
‘Is he this person Sanger said was coming?’ he asked his sisters.
Teresa nodded.
‘His name’s Trigorin,’ she said.
Sebastian was the youngest of Evelyn Sanger’s four children, and possessed the largest measure of good breeding. Though entirely graceless, he was often very gentlemanly in his manners. He was ten years old, but looked younger, being very small and fair, like his sister Teresa, with grave, green eyes and a great mop of hair. He now thought it his duty to go down the hill a little way and welcome his father’s guest.
‘How do you do,’ he said politely. ‘We are all so pleased that you have been able to come.’
Trigorin stopped and wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He perceived that this courteous urchin must be another of Sanger’s children. It looked more propitious than the other two.
‘This hill,’ he gasped, ‘is terrible!’
‘It’s a bit steep when you aren’t used to it,’ agreed Sebastian. ‘But we’ve got a nice view at the top. I’m afraid my sisters came up too fast for you. Women, you know,’ he added confidentially, ‘are inclined to run up hills. I’ve noticed it.’
When they reached the level sward where the others waited for them he handed the guest over to his sisters with a great air, explaining:
‘I’m afraid I can’t come in just now. I have an engagement with this fellow.’
And he pointed to a small peasant boy, rather younger than himself, who had been lurking in the shadow of the house. It appeared that they were going to look at some badger holes and the girls immediately demanded to be taken too. All the children set off hastily down the hill again, leaving Lewis and Trigorin alone on the Karinde Alp. Lewis said sulkily:
‘Well, I suppose we’d better go in, as there seems to be no one about.’
They went round to the front of the house, which had a long veranda looking over the valley. Here they came upon a massive but very beautiful woman fast asleep in a hammock.
‘Madame,’ murmured Lewis, and they stood looking at her, uncertain what to do.
Linda Cowlard, for she had no real right to Sanger’s name, was an exceptionally lovely creature, a vast dazzling blonde. Her origins were obscure, but it was believed that she had once been the daughter of a tobacconist at Ipswich. She had a magnificent constitution, no nerves and very few ideas; was, indeed, splendidly stupid. Sanger could not have found a more suitable companion. She had lived with him for eight years and showed, as yet, no signs of exhaustion. Her placid animal poise was, if anything, nourished by his insane jealousy and the violent quarrels which occasionally broke out between them. She was incapable of sustaining any severe shock, having the rudimentary nervous organisation which relieves itself in distress by loud, immediate outcries. Her indolence was terrific; she lay dozing all day and seldom finished her toilet before the afternoon. The management of the house she left to Sanger’s daughters.
One child of her own she had, a little girl of seven years, whom Sanger had insisted upon calling Susan. Linda had modified this to Suzanne as being less common. The rest of the family derisively nicknamed their sister ‘Soo-zanne’ in order to show their contempt for her. It was a wholesome, plebeian-looking brat, pink and formless as a wax doll, garnished about the head with tight clusters of yellow curls. Linda was very fond of it, dressed it in white with pink ribbons, and defended it sourly against the animosity of Sanger, who declared that Susan was a posturing little monkey and should have been trained for a tight-rope dancer. The child did, in fact, look something of a stranger among the others; her healthy inferiority especially distinguished her beside the brood of the ill-starred Evelyn, with their intermittent manifestations of intelligence and race.
The two young men looked at Linda and listened to a series of repeated hoots, going on inside the house, which Lewis identified as Kate practising her head notes. A full morning sun blazed upon the woman in the hammock but could hardly outshine her beauty. She wore a white dressing-gown, flung carelessly about her, and beneath it some flimsy under-garment all lace and ribbons. Trigorin, always susceptible, gaped at her, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. Her superb bulk was entirely to his taste, but he had not expected somehow to find anything like her at the Karindehütte. Part of his nature resented her intrusion there; he suspected that she might disturb him when he wanted to talk about music to Sanger. Still he could not but feel that she was the most desirable woman he had ever set eyes on.
Lewis also stared down at her, with a wry smile, as if he had swallowed vinegar. Then he looked away, looked at the blue static mountains across the valley, and looked back again at Sanger’s mistress, and finally, catching sight of the perspiring Trigorin, burst into loud laughter.
Linda opened her eyes, which were the colour of the gentians in the grass. She yawned, stretched her supple limbs like a large cat, and sat up.
‘If it isn’t Lewis,’ she exclaimed. ‘Well, you are a stranger. Albert never said you were coming. Have you brought a friend?’
The blue eyes slid round to Trigorin.
‘Mr Trigorin, Mrs