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Page 38
"No one," said Mrs. Fisher firmly, "will wish to."
She then retired to her sitting-room, and from a chair placed
where she could look straight on to them, gazed at her battlements,
secured to her now completely, with calm pleasure.
Being here, she reflected placidly, was much cheaper than being
in an hotel and, if she could keep off the others, immeasurably more
agreeable. She was paying for her rooms--extremely pleasant rooms, now
that she was arranged in them--�3 a week, which came to about eight
shillings a day, battlements, watch-tower and all. Where else abroad
could she live as well for so little, and have as many baths as she
like, for eight shillings a day? Of course she did not yet know what
her food would cost, but she would insist on carefulness over that,
though she would also insist on its being carefulness combined with
excellence. The two were perfectly compatible if the caterer took
pains. The servants' wages, she had ascertained, were negligible,
owing to the advantageous exchange, so that there was only the food to
cause her anxiety. If she saw signs of extravagance she would propose
that they each hand over a reasonable sum every week to Lady Caroline
which should cover the bills, any of it that was not used to be
returned, and if it were exceeded the loss to be borne by the caterer.
Mrs. Fisher was well off and had the desire for comforts proper
to her age, but she disliked expenses. So well off was she that, had
she so chosen, she could have lived in an opulent part of London and
driven from it and to it in a Rolls-Royce. She had no such wish. It
needed more vitality than went with true comfort to deal with a house
in an opulent spot and a Rolls-Royce. Worries attended such
possessions, worries of every kind, crowned by bills. In the sober
gloom of Prince of Wales Terrace she could obscurely enjoy inexpensive
yet real comfort, without being snatched at by predatory men-servants
or collectors for charities, and a taxi stand was at the end of the
road. Her annual outlay was small. The house was inherited. Death
had furnished it for her. She trod in the dining-room on the Turkey
carpet of her fathers; she regulated her day by the excellent black
marble clock on the mantelpiece which she remember from childhood; her
walls were entirely covered by the photographs her illustrious deceased
friends had given either herself or her father, with their own
handwriting across the lower parts of their bodies, and the windows,
shrouded by the maroon curtains of all her life, were decorated besides
with the selfsame aquariums to which she owed her first lessons in
sealore, and in which still swam slowly the goldfishes of her youth.
Were they the same goldfish? She did not know. Perhaps, like
carp, they outlived everybody. Perhaps, on the other hand, behind the
deep-sea vegetation provided for them at the bottom, they had from time
to time as the years went by withdrawn and replaced themselves. Were
they or were they not, she sometimes wondered, contemplating them
between the courses of her solitary means, the same goldfish that had
that day been there when Carlyle--how well she remembered it--angrily
strode up to them in the middle of some argument with her father that
had grown heated, and striking the glass smartly with his fist had put
them to flight, shouting as they fled, "Och, ye deaf devils! Och, ye
lucky deaf devils! Ye can't hear anything of the blasted, blethering,
doddering, glaikit fool-stuff yer maister talks, can ye?" Or words to
that effect.
Dear, great-souled Carlyle. Such natural gushings forth; such
true freshness; such real grandeur. Rugged, if you will--yes,
undoubtedly sometimes rugged, and startling in a drawing-room, but
magnificent. Who was there now to put beside him? Who was there to
mention in the same breath? Her father, than whom no one had had more
flair, said: "Thomas is immortal." And here was this generation, this
generation of puniness, raising its little voice in doubts, or, still
worse, not giving itself the trouble to raise it at all, not--it was
incredible, but it had been thus reported to her--even reading him.
Mrs. Fisher did not read him either, but that was different. She had
read him; she had certainly read him. Of course she had read him.
There was Teufelsdr�ck--she quite well remembered a tailor called
Teufelsdr�ck. So like Carlyle to call him that. Yes, she must have
read him, though naturally details escaped her.
The gong sounded. Lost in reminiscence Mrs. Fisher had forgotten
time, and hastened to her bedroom to wash her hands and smoothe her
hair. She did not wish to be late and set a bad example, and perhaps
find her seat at the head of the table taken. One could put no trust
in the manners of the younger generation; especially not in those of
that Mrs. Wilkins.
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