Summer Will Show by Warner Sylvia Townsend

Author:Warner, Sylvia Townsend [Warner, Sylvia Townsend]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Modern Classics, Novel
ISBN: 978-1-59017-406-7
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 1936-01-01T03:00:00+00:00

she took pleasure in imagining herself back again at Blandamer, sitting by the library fire, reading Don Juan, and letting her thoughts stray with the turning of a page to rent-roll and consolidated bonds. True, Frederick would be lounging near by: Frederick who was no buttress to the pleasures of avarice. But it was ill-advised to think of that, better to look on the other side of the penny, better to remember that the honourable estate of matrimony allowed one to read Don Juan in honour and ease, rather than by snatches in a cold bedroom.

The pleasures of avarice were emphasised by the surroundings. It was difficult to believe that this was Paris, so nipped and dingy did it look, so down-hearted and down-at-heel. A shrewish wind was blowing, and if the sun had tempted out the café tables and chairs, it had tempted out nothing else; for the few drinkers sat within the glass doors, and seemed to have wrapped newspapers round them for further protection. Certainly they had no mind for the stumpy young man who had been playing his guitar to a set of tables and chairs, and had now gone in to make his collection. As she passed, idly surveying, he came out again, pausing at the door for one more bow and one more soliciting glance around. A voice, protesting against the draught, cut short the poor hope. They met face to face and Sophia supposed he was about to hold out his hat to her, when he put it on in order to take it off, bowing with stiff politeness. Only then, seeing herself recognised, did she recognise him. It was the hump-backed little Jew who had offered her a chair at the rue de la Carabine, and to whom Minna had spoken of his symphony.

Poor child! — she thought. How cold he looks, what agony to press wire strings with such chilblained hands! Pity softened her blank good looks into beauty. Encouraged and romantic, he stood beside her, with his hat in one hand and his instrument in the other, asking if she were alone, if he might have the honour of escorting her. The Revolution, he said, had made Paris less agreeable than of old.

“You can go home, Madeleine,” she said, beckoning to the lady’s-maid, who had withdrawn herself from the spectacle of Mrs. Willoughby conversing with a street-musician — and on the very eve, too, of her reconciliation with Mr. Willoughby. “I will bring the buns.”

“I have been staying,” she said, “with an elderly relation in the Faubourg St. Germain. We play picquet and lament for Charles X. This revolution seems hardly real to me. I wish you would tell me about it, I am as ignorant as the carp at Chantilly.”

If I can get you to Columbin’s, her thoughts added, I will feed you. A good square meal is what you need, hopping beside me like a famished sparrow.

“It is magnificent. It is not like any other revolution. It is purer, more noble, more idealistic.

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