Our House and London out of Our WindowsPennell, Elizabeth Robins
General
Our House and London out of Our Windows
Pennell, Elizabeth Robins
London (England) -- Description and travel; Pennell, Elizabeth Robins, 1855-1936 -- Homes and haunts -- England -- London
We had not realized the delight of having Louise to take care of us,
until she was replaced by the Swiss girl, who was industrious, sober,
well-trained, with all the stolidity and surliness of her people, and as
colourless as a self-respecting servant ought to be. I was immensely
relieved when, after a fortnight, she found the work too much for her.
It was just as she was on the point of going that Louise reappeared, her
face still white with powder, the sham diamonds still glittering in her
ears, but somehow changed, I could not quite make out how. She had come,
she explained to present me with a ring of pearls and opals and of
surpassing beauty, at the moment pawned for a mere trifle,--here was the
ticket; I had but to pay, add a smaller trifle for interest and
commission, and it was mine. As I never have worn rings I did not care
to begin the habit by gambling in pawn tickets, much though I should
have liked to oblige Louise. Her emotion when I refused seemed so out of
proportion, and yet was so unmistakably genuine, that it bewildered me.
But she pulled herself together almost at once and began to talk of the
restaurant which, I learned, was marching in a simply marvellous manner.
It was only when, in answer to her question, I told her that the
_Demoiselle Suisse_ was marching not at all and was about to leave me,
that the truth came out. There was no restaurant, there never had
been,--except in the country of Tartarin's lions; it was her invention
to spare me any self-reproach I might have felt for turning her adrift
at the end of her week's engagement. She had found no work since. She
and her husband had pawned everything. _Tiens_, and she emptied before
me a pocketful of pawn tickets. They were without a sou. They had had
nothing to eat for twenty-four hours. That was the change. I began to
understand. She was starving, literally starving, in the cold and gloom
and damp of the London winter, she who was used to the warmth and
sunshine, to the clear blue skies of Provence. If the aliens who drift
to England, as to the Promised Land, could but know what awaited them!
Of course I took her back. She might have added rouge to the powder, she
might have glittered all over with diamonds, sham or real, and I would
not have minded. J. welcomed her with joy. William Penn hung rapturously
at her heels. We had a _risotto_, golden as the sun of the _Midi_,
fragrant as its kitchens, for our dinner.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account