This Real Night by Rebecca West Page B

take long. I will be on my feet before Mary and Rose.’
    ‘How extraordinary!’ said my mother. ‘Really, how extraordinary!’
    ‘What is extraordinary?’ asked Cordelia crossly. Suddenly she looked young and tender, younger than me or even Richard Quin, and it seemed as if she might cry. ‘I thought you would be pleased,’ she said.
    ‘Why, you silly old Cordy, Mamma is so impressed she can hardly speak,’ said Richard Quin.
    ‘Yes, it is wonderful,’ said Mamma, ‘in the midst of all that - I cannot help thinking of it as cornet-playing, I have always disliked the cornet, it is such a coarse instrument, that woman was so coarse - there you were, quietly making your plans. But, my dear, be sure, I do not want you to rush into anything just for the sake of making a living. There are other things to think of than that. Are you sure you will enjoy it?’
    ‘Quite sure,’ said Cordelia. ‘I have always loved pictures,’ she added dreamily, screwing up her eyes as if she were already looking at one with an expert gaze.
    ‘What a lovely unexpected end to the day,’ said Mamma. ‘See, it is a good thing after all we went to luncheon with Mr Morpurgo, it has all turned out happily. I thought when we found these chairs free on a Saturday afternoon this could not be such an unlucky day as we had supposed. I wonder when you will know enough for it to be worth while for you to go to Florence. Most of the best pictures are there or in Venice. There are only a few in Rome, which I always thought a great blessing.’
    ‘How can it be that?’ I asked.
    ‘Because one never wants to be indoors in Rome,’ said Mamma. ‘Oh, children, how lovely it is for you to have your lives before you. All the things that you are going to see and do!’
    A family of ducks swam up, self-possessed in their smooth and shining close-fitting feather suits, some in brown tweeds, others in a birds’ version of men’s black and white evening clothes, only with the shirt-front right underneath them, so that their yellow paddling legs stuck out of its whiteness. Then they landed on the strip of grass in front of us and waddled about suddenly grown simpletons, stupid about their balance, not certain where to go. They were myself. Often I felt at ease and then, suddenly, I did not know what to do. I was a fool for all the world to see. Mamma laughed at them tenderly, and wished we had something to give them, and then an old man came up with a paper bag full of bread, and threw them crumbs. He stumbled over the low iron rail that marked the edge of the grass, and Richard Quin just saved him from a fall. He thanked our brother and explained that his sight was bad; and indeed it must have been nearly gone, for his eyes were milky with cataract. After he had given his bread to the ducks he told us the story of his life. He had fought at Omdurman, and that he had been in the Army and had fought in a famous battle was an aspect of his old age, for there were to be no more wars, everybody knew that. Walloh-wah, said the ducks, and went back to the water. The old man bade us goodbye, he told us his name, which was Timothy Clark, of course he had been Nobby Clark in the Army, all Clarks who served their time were Nobby Clarks. We told him our names and he said he had once known someone who was called Rose like me. When he had gone we sat in a happy drowse, the ducks we knew and other ducks inscribed arrowheads on the bright water; the green branches above us sometimes stirred but for the most part kept the pattern of shadow steady as if they were an awning; the people who came and went along the paths on the other side of the lake seemed carefree, as people do when seen from a distance. ‘It is beautiful to be at peace again,’ sighed Mamma. But presently we heard a clock strike and Mamma said, ‘We must go home. Mary and Rosamund, Constance and Kate.…’ We stood up; and Brown the chauffeur was beside us.
    ‘Are you ready to go home now,