maypole set up for the diversion of all the dancing devils of hell.
Midnight struck.
Asta dozed, and in a second of sleep, between two nods, she had a vivid dream of something she had seen many years before, at the end of a happy birthday, when the world was as fresh as an apple. Her father had taken her to a music-hall, and there was a juggler who filled Asta’s soul with wonder and delight. Standing in a beam of light, twinkling like a skyful of stars in his spangled tights, the juggler did new and marvellous things. Last and best of all, turning off the applause with a twist of one supple hand, he took a piece of fine tissue-paper and balanced it on the end of his nose. The paper wanted to fly away on every current of air in the darkened, draughty theatre, but the juggler made it stand. He remained, a strong man straining all his muscles to balance this flimsy bit of paper, for about ten seconds. Then he struck a match and set fire to the upper end of the balanced tissue-paper. It burnt down until the flame touched his nose and went out. The ash remained, miraculously balanced, for another ten seconds. Then the juggler jerked his head and the ash, floating down, disintegrated in the sizzling spotlight.
You know how, in a dream, you touch new heights and become aware of unexpected profundities in the most trivial of memories. You dream that you are untying a shoe-lace, and with the pleasant little jolt of the undone knot, there comes into your mind a certain sensation of lightness and of power, as if you had done something great and wonderful. Or you may be dreaming that you are rocking on your heels on a window-ledge fifty storeys above a misty pavement; and you know that you cannot keep your balance, and are afraid. Sometimes, by God’s grace, you have time to get an aide-de-camp to the vedettes of a reserve of courage that waits — that is always waiting for a signal— on one of your flanks at the edge of the nightmare. Courage charges in, like the Greys and the Gordons in the old battle print; you are rallied; you hurl_yourself right into the darkest, dirtiest part of the dream, and cut your way through.
Instead of falling you are flying.
The memory of that bit of burnt paper, coming back into Asta’s mind in that brief dream, made her laugh. She did not laugh as one laughs heartily at a good joke. She did not laugh at the end of her teeth in anger or in scorn. She laughed, in her little sleep, as a child laughs when you show it the solution to an exceptionally mystifying yet simple trick.
The sound of this laugh awoke her. She felt a great deal better. Mrs Kipling, who had an eye on the heel-taps in the bottles and the dregs of the glasses, was loitering about the place with a hypocritical air of anxiety to be of service to her mistress.
‘Kipling, put out all the lights and go to bed,’ said Asta, going upstairs.
After two or three great clumping strides she remembered that her sister Tot had gone to bed and was probably asleep; so she took off her shoes, went on her way cautiously, and at last got to bed with as little noise as she was capable of making.
Then Mrs Kipling and The Tiger Fitzpatrick slunk out to talk of old times over what the guests had left of the liquor.
40
Asta was awake, as usual, by seven o’clock in the morning, but she made less noise than usual while she dressed. She was almost tone-deaf, yet she sang Russian drinking songs in her bath when she was alone in the house. But she would not for any consideration disturb the dangerous old lady whom she described as her little sister’. After a silent, unsatisfactory bath, she got into her loose tweed suit, knotted about her bullock-throat a yellowdotted tie, and went (quietly for her) down to breakfast.
She was astonished to find Thea Olivia downstairs before her, dressed in a becoming garment of pink and grey, and seated in a Queen Anne chair with a high back. Mrs Kipling was dancing attendance, as she always did when Thea Olivia paid a visit.
‘What are you doing up so early, Tot?’ said Asta.
‘Good morning, Asta dear.’
‘Good morning. What are you doing up so early? What’s the matter with you? Couldn’t you sleep? Since when did you get out of bed before nine o’clock?’
Thea Olivia said: ‘Dear Asta!’
‘Look at her! Bags under her eyes!’ said Asta. ‘What happened? I know. That idiot Kipling. If I’ve told her once I’ve told her a thousand times to give you a hot-water bottle. Two bottles. I didn’t have time to see to it myself. I know, I know you, I know you to the heart and soul, Tot — you’d suffer on the rack rather than complain, but I know. Kipling!’
‘No, please. Everything was just as it should be, Asta dear, I assure you.’
‘What are you so angry about? I was only asking. I’ve never known you to be visible before nine or ten o’clock before.’
‘I think your party excited me.’
‘All the better. You need exciting, Tot. You know,’ said Asta, half defiantly, ‘you know I live my own kind of life here. Breakfast is breakfast. What are you going to have? Kidneys? Bacon? Eggs? Kippers? Finnon haddie? Say the word. Have an egg and haddock.’
Thea Olivia, to Asta’s astonishment, said: ‘I only want a cup of tea.’
For the first time in living memory Asta Thundersley was quiet at the breakfast table. She was marvelling at her sister’s presence; and her sister was amazed at her silence.
They looked at each other. There was suspicion on both sides. Asta was full of a desire to slap her sister on the back, take hold of her with her enormous red hands, pick her up and swing her round and whirl her off her feet. Asta wanted to make conversation, to talk about people.
‘What did you think of the party?’ she asked. ‘It struck me as being a complete failure. Didn’t it you?’
‘Do you mean as a party?’
‘Yes, Tot darling, as a party. As anything. A failure. Socially or otherwise - not a success How did it strike you? Be honest. D’you know what? Before I went to bed I found Pink asleep on the floor — fast asleep on the floor. I’ve often wondered whether that man was one of God’s holy innocents or just another common drunk. What’s your impression, Tot darling?’
