Sylvia & Michael: The later adventures of Sylvia Scarlett. Compton Mackenzie
and brave it is to be a soldier. Fancy, maman told me he has been invited to go back to France and that he has actually refused the invitation."
The doctor raised his eyebrows and flashed a glance at Sylvia from his bright brown eyes to express his pity for the child's innocence.
At this point Madame Benzer intervened.
"The only thing that worries me about this war is the food: it's bound to upset custom. People don't order so many tarts when they're thinking of something else. And the price of everything will go up. Luckily I've told my husband to lay in stores of flour and sugar. It's a comfort to be a neutral."
The Swedish masseuse echoed Madame Benzer's self-congratulation:
"Of course one doesn't want to seem an egoist," she said, "but I can't help knowing that I shall benefit. As a neutral I sha'n't be able to go and nurse at the front, but I shall be useful in Petersburg."
"Petrograd," the doctor corrected her, with marked irritation.
"I shall never get used to the change," said the masseuse. "When do you think I shall be strong enough to begin my work again?"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"November, perhaps."
"Why, the war will be over by then!" said the masseuse, indignantly.
"They're calling for volunteers in England," Miss Savage observed to Sylvia. "I'm sure my two brothers have gone. They've always been mad about soldiering. They're like you, Claudinette."
"If only I could be a vivandière!" cried the child. She was unable to contain her romantic exultation at the idea, and, snatching the doctor's stethoscope, she marched up and down the ward, pursing her lips to a shrill "Marseillaise."
"Children are children," said Madame Benzer, fatly.
"It's true," sighed the doctor.
"She's quite well again," said the masseuse, enviously.
"I love children," Sylvia exclaimed.
"Do you?" said Miss Savage. "Wait till you've had to teach them. You'll hate them then!"
Claudinette's march was interrupted by the nun on duty, who was horrified at the ward's being used so noisily: though there were no fresh patients, the rule of stillness could not be broken like this. Claudinette having been deprived of her bugle, went and drummed out her martial soul upon a window-pane; the doctor, who felt a little guilty, stroked his beard and passed on.
The governess carried out her intention of having her bed moved next to Sylvia; on the first night of the change she whispered across to her in the darkness, which seemed the more intense round their beds because at the far end of the ward a lamp burned before an image of the Virgin, and, inclosed by two screens, the nun on night-duty sat in a dim, golden mist.
"Are you awake?"
Sylvia answered her in a low voice in order not to disturb the other patients; she could not bring herself to answer in a whisper, because it would have made this conversation seem surreptitious.
"Hush! Don't talk so loud. Are you a Catholic?"
"I'm nothing," said Sylvia.
"Do tell me about your life."
"We can talk about that in the morning."
"Oh no, one can't talk secrets in the morning. I want to ask you something. Do you think that everybody in Russia will go and fight? You see, Prince Paul isn't a soldier. You remember I told you that Prince George and Prince Paul, the two elder sons of the family, were both very handsome? Well, Prince George is in the army, but Prince Paul isn't. They both made love to me," she added, with a stifled giggle.
Sylvia lay silent.
"Are you shocked?"
"Neither shocked nor surprised," said Sylvia, coldly. "The nobility of Russia seem to think of nothing else but making love."
"Paul gave me a book once. I've got it here with me in my box. It's called The Memories of a German Singer. Would you like to read it?"
"That book!" Sylvia exclaimed, scornfully. "Why, it's the filthiest book I ever read."
"You are shocked, then," the governess whispered. "I thought you'd be more broad-minded. I sha'n't tell you now about Prince Paul. He makes love divinely. He said it was so thrilling to make love to somebody like me who looked so proper. I'm dreadfully afraid that when I get back I shall find he's gone to fight. It's awful to think how dull it will be without George or Paul. Haven't you had any interesting love-affairs?"
"Good God!" exclaimed Sylvia, angrily. "Do you think there's anything to be proud of in having love-affairs like yours? Do you think there's anything fine in letting yourself be treated like a servant by a lascivious boy? You make me feel sick. How dare you assume that I should be interested in your—oh, I have no word to call it that can be even spoken in a whisper."
"You are proper," the governess murmured, resentfully. "I thought girls on the stage were more broad-minded."
"Is this muttering going to continue all night?" an angry voice demanded. Farther along the ward could be heard the sound of a bed rattling with indignation.
The nun pushed back her screen, and the candle-light illumined Madame Benzer sitting up on her ample haunches.
"One must not talk," said the nun, reproachfully. "One disturbs the patients. Besides, it is against the rules to talk after the lights are put out."
"Well, please move me away from here," Sylvia asked, "because if mademoiselle stays here I shall have to talk."
"I'm sure I'd much rather not stay in this bed," declared Miss Savage in an injured voice. "And I was only whispering. There was no noise until mademoiselle began to talk quite loudly."
"Is this discussion worth while?" Sylvia asked, wearily.
"Am I ever to be allowed to get to sleep?" Madame Benzer demanded.
"I should like to sleep, too," protested the masseuse. "If I'm to get strong enough to resume work in November, I need all the sleep I can get. I'm not like a child that can sleep through anything."
"I'm not asleep," cried Claudinette, shrilly. "And I'm very content that I'm not asleep. I adore to hear people talking in the night."
The nun begged for general silence, and the ward was stilled. Sylvia lay awake in a rage, listening to Madame Benzer and the masseuse while they turned over and over with sighs and groans and much creaking of their beds. At last, however, all except herself fell asleep; their united breathing seemed like the breathing of a large and placid beast. Behind the screens in that dim golden mist the pages of the nun's breviary whispered now instead of Miss Savage; the lamp before the image of the Virgin sometimes flickered and cast upon the insipid face subtle shadows that gave humanity to what by daylight looked like a large pale-blue fondant.
"Or should I say 'divinity'?" Sylvia asked herself.
She lay on her side staring at the image, which was the conventional representation of Our Lady of Lourdes with eyes upraised and hands clasped to heaven. Contemplated thus, the tawdry figure really acquired a supplicatory grace, and in the night, the imagination, dwelling upon this form, began to identify itself with the attitude and to follow those upraised eyes toward an unearthly quest. Sylvia turned over on her other side with a perfectly conscious will not to be influenced externally by what she felt was an unworthy appeal. But when she had turned over she could not stay averted from the image; a restless curiosity to know if it was still upon its bracket seized her, and she turned back to her contemplation.
"How ridiculous all those stories are of supernatural winkings and blinkings!" she thought. "Why, I could very easily imagine the most acrobatic behavior by that pathetic little blue figure. And yet it has expressed the aspirations of millions of wounded hearts."
The thought was overwhelming: the imagination of what this figure reduplicated innumerably