Music played. Michael and Nicholas danced to the music. It was Michael's body and Nicky's that kept for her the pattern of the dance, their feet that beat out its measure. Sitting under the tree of Heaven Frances could see Mrs. Jervis's party. It shimmered and clustered in a visionary space between the tree and the border of blue larkspurs on the other side of the lawn. The firm figures of Michael and Nicholas and Dorothy held it together, kept it from being shattered amongst the steep blue spires of the larkspurs. When it was all over they would still hold it together, so that people would know that it had really happened and remember having been there. They might even remember that Rosalind had had a birthday.
Frances had just bestowed this life after death on Mrs. Jervis's party when she heard Michael saying he didn't want to go to it.
He had no idea why he didn't want to go except that he didn't.
"What'?" said Frances. "Not when Nicky and Dorothy are going?"
He shook his head. He was mournful and serious.
"And there's going to be a Magic Lantern"--
"I know."
"And a Funny Man"--
"I know."
"And a Big White Cake with sugar icing and Rosalind's name on it in pink letters, and eight candles--"
"I know, Mummy." Michael's under lip began to shake.
"I thought it was only little baby boys that were silly and shy."
Michael was not prepared to contest the statement. He saw it was the sort of thing that in the circumstances she was bound to say. All the same his under lip would have gone on shaking if he hadn't stopped it.
"I thought you were a big boy," said Frances.
"So I was, yesterday. To-day isn't yesterday, Mummy."
"If John--John was asked to a beautiful party he wouldn't be afraid to go."
As soon as Michael's under lip had stopped shaking his eyelids began. You couldn't stop your eyelids.
"It's not afraid, exactly," he said.
"What is it, then?"
"It's sort--sort of forgetting things."
"What things?"
"I don't know, Mummy. I think--it's pieces of me that I want to remember. At a party I can't feel all of myself at once--like I do now."
She loved his strange thoughts as she loved his strange beauty, his reddish yellow hair, his light hazel eyes that were not hers and not Anthony's.
"What will you do, sweetheart, all afternoon, without Nicky and Dorothy and Mary-Nanna?"
"I don't want Nicky and Dorothy and Mary-Nanna. I want Myself. I want to play with Myself."
She thought: "Why shouldn't he? What right have I to say these things to him and make him cry, and send him to stupid parties that he doesn't want to go to? After all, he's only a little boy."
She thought of Michael, who was seven, as if he were younger than Nicholas, who was only five.
Nicky was different. You could never tell what Michael would take it into his head to think. You could never tell what Nicky would take it into his head to do. There was no guile in Michael. But sometimes there was guile in Nicky. Frances was always on the look out for Nicky's guile.
So when Michael remarked that Grannie and the Aunties would be there immediately and Nicky said, "Mummy, I think my ear is going to ache," her answer was--"You won't have to stay more than a minute, darling."
For Nicky lived in perpetual fear that his Auntie Louie might kiss at him.
Dorothy saw her mother's profound misapprehension and she hastened to put it right.
"It isn't Auntie Louie, Mummy. His ear is really aching."
And still Frances went on smiling. She knew, and Nicky knew that, if a little boy could establish the fact of earache, he was absolved from all social and family obligations for as long as his affliction lasted. He wouldn't have to stand still and pretend he liked it while he was being kissed at.
Frances kept her mouth shut when she smiled, as if she were trying not to. It was her upper lip that got the better of her. The fine, thin edges of it quivered and twitched and curled. You would have said the very down was sensitive to her thought's secret and iniquitous play. Her smile mocked other people's solemnities, her husband's solemnity, and the solemnity (no doubt inherited) of her son Michael; it mocked the demureness and the gravity of her face.
She had brought her face close to Nicky's; and it was as if her mouth had eyes in it to see if there were guile in him.
"Are you a little humbug?" she said.
Nicky loved his mother's face. It never got excited or did silly things like other people's faces. It never got red and shiny like Auntie Louie's face, or hot and rough like Auntie Emmeline's, or wet and mizzly like Auntie Edie's. The softness and whiteness and dryness of his mother's face were delightful to Nicky. So was her hair. It was cold, with a funny sort of coldness that made your fingers tingle when you touched it; and it smelt like the taste of Brazil nuts.
Frances saw the likeness of her smile quiver on Nicky's upper lip. It broke and became Nicky's smile that bared his little teeth and curled up the corners of his blue eyes. (His blue eyes and black brown hair were Anthony's.) It wasn't reasonable to suppose that Nicky had earache when he could smile like that.
"I'm afraid," she said, "you're a little humbug. Run to the terrace and see if Grannie and the Aunties are coming."
He ran. It was half a child's run and half a full-grown boy's.
Then Mrs. Anthony addressed her daughter.
"Why did you say his ear's aching when it isn't?"
"Because," said Dorothy, "it is aching."
She was polite and exquisite and obstinate, like Anthony.
"Nicky ought to know his own ear best. Go and tell him he's not to stand on the top of the wall. And if they're coming wave to them, to show you're glad to see them."
"But--Mummy--I'm not."
She knew it was dreadful before she said it. But she had warded off reproof by nuzzling against her mother's cheek as it tried to turn away from her. She saw her mother's upper lip moving, twitching. The sensitive down stirred on it like a dark smudge, a dust that quivered. Her own mouth, pushed forward, searching, the mouth of a nuzzling puppy, remained grave and tender. She was earnest and imperturbable in her truthfulness. "Whether you're glad or not you must go," said Frances. She meant to be obeyed.
Dorothy went. Her body was obedient. For as yet she had her mother's body and her face, her blunted oval, the straight nose with the fine, tilted nostrils, her brown eyes, her solid hair, brown on the top and light underneath, and on the curve of the roll above her little ears. Frances had watched the appearance of those details with an anxiety that would have surprised her if she had been aware of it. She wanted to see herself in the bodies of her sons and in the mind of her daughter. But Dorothy had her father's mind. You couldn't move it. What she had said once she stuck to for ever, like Anthony to his ash-tree. As if sticking to a thing for ever could make it right once. And Dorothy had formed the habit of actually being right, like Anthony, nine times out of ten. Frances foresaw that this persistence, this unreasoning rectitude, might, in time, become annoying in a daughter. There were moments when she was almost perturbed by the presence of this small, mysterious organism, mixed up of her body and her husband's mind.
But in secret she admired her daughter's candour, her downrightness and straightforwardness, her disdain of conventions and hypocrisies. Frances was not glad, she knew she was not glad, any more than Dorothy was glad, to see her mother and her sisters. She only