or The Nurses of Maraquita
I. Lilah
Lilah was pale, and Maraquita loved her. She read her “Peep of Day,” a pretty book about a pretty man, that made her cry.
Maraquita’s introduction to crying without being hurt for it.
Lilah and Maraquita understood each other perfectly.
They read “Peep of Day” all over again, and the sauce of the “Last Supper” tasted of tears.
And Lilah wore a brooch of pale pink coral rose-buds, cool to the fingers.…
One day Maraquita threw a domino through the window-pane, and was punished by Mamma.
And after the psychic concussion, she was still alive.
… And Lilah was still there—and once she had been governess in a jewish family in Hungary.
And in Hungary you buried medlars under trees and dug them up when they were rotten.
And a cavalry officer had galloped after the beautiful daughter of the family—and rode her down—because she was a jewess.
So the world grew bigger than it had been … and Maraquita wondered where the domino went to, and she felt lonely, like the pretty man on the wooden cross.
And Lilah had kind soft hands, but not very useful … and Maraquita was never going to set any store by useful things again.
Lilah one morning wasn’t there any more … Maraquita wondered what it was about mornings, that made her wake up.
II. Queenie
She had large eyes.
Maraquita feeling affectionate called her Black-beetle.
And “Black-beetle,” who hadn’t lost all her fun yet, let her.
But after a few more months had happened to her, she would rather Maraquita called her “Queenie.”
Maraquita supposed she wanted to be called that way, because she hoped Victoria would die.
She liked grand funerals.
But Victoria wouldn’t die.
And nothing happened.
She was very clever at finding streets.
All the streets were the same—bare and buff.
Sometimes a richer house would have pillars painted a dull red.
The more streets they saw—the less they had to say.
“Next week will come Good Friday,” said Maraquita at the corner of Blenheim Terrace.
And after an hour and a half—they got back to the corner of Blenheim Terrace.
And Queenie answered. “Yes, next week will come Good Friday.”
III. Nicky
Nicky was the governess that Mamma loved.
She was very good.
Her breath was damp on the back of your neck over lessons, and the gold tassel on her watch chain tickled.
Nicky could sharpen pencils as fine as a needle.
And she drew narcissi with them, shading them till they shone.
Maraquita respected her for it.
This was the only respect from Maraquita she was ever going to get.
Her forehead was too high, and her square red fringe wouldn’t flatten to it.
Her face was spotted with sunrust.
Her nose was flat, and pinkly turned up at the tip.
Her teeth were yellow.
Her eyelashes were white.
Her sleeves were too short, and red hairs grew among the freckles above her wrists.
Her ears were flannelly!
She wore a brown velvet waistcoat to a plaid dress with glass buttons that rucked on her virgin bosom.
She was very good.
She only made Maraquita feel very sick.
She prayed at leather chairs in the morning, in the morning room.
And Maraquita curdled with shame for conversing with something she couldn’t see.
And the coal-heaver outside was quite likely to look in.
Nicky lived in fearful conspiracy with Mamma for two years.
Twenty-four months of unbearable biliousness.
Maraquita grew very thin.
They gave her porridge—with lumps in it.
Maraquita didn’t want it.
They gave her cod-liver oil.
For was she not the child of parents who never stinted of buying anything that was all for the best for her?
And it was best to go to bed early.
Maraquita went to bed at 7 o’clock, and Nicky was so good.
She sat outside the bedroom door—forever—with an open Bible, under the gas jet—so that Maraquita shouldn’t play.
Maraquita knew very well what should be done with Nicky.
Nicky, who was so blushfully buttoned up, should be quite undressed and thrown into a cage of Lions; she should be married to a lion—and have children with Lion’s manes and Nicky’s freckles.
Then again Maraquita felt the damp breath down the back of her neck—and the lions ROARED and their claws scratched.
* * * * * * * * *
And it was beter Maraquita should go to school in the country—she was getting very thin.