An Instance of the Fingerpost Read Free Page A

was one of those people whom you look at, turn away from, then somehow find yourself looking at once more. Partly it was her eyes, which were unnaturally big and dark. But it was more her deportment, because it was so unfitting, which made me take notice. For that underfed girl had the bearing of a queen, and moved with an elegance which my father had spent a small fortune on dancing masters trying to instil in my youngest sister.
    I watched her walk steadily up to the red-eyed gentleman on the other side of the room with little interest, and with only half an ear heard her address him as ‘Doctor’, then pause and stand there. He looked up at her with an air of alarm as she began to talk. I missed most of it – the distance, my English and her softness of voice all conspiring to snatch the meaning away – but I assumed from the few fragments I did hear that she was asking for his help as a physician. Unusual, of course, that someone of her servile state should think of coming to a physician, but I knew little of the country. Perhaps it was accepted practice here.
    The request met with no favour, and this displeased me. By all means put the girl in her proper place; this is natural. Any man of breeding might well feel obliged to do so if addressed in an inappropriate manner. However, there was something in the man’s expression – anger, disdain or something akin – which aroused my contempt. As Tully tells us, a gentleman should issue such a reproofwith regret, not with a pleasure which demeans the speaker more than it corrects the offender.
    ‘What?’ he said, gazing around the room in a way which suggested he hoped no one would see. ‘Go away, girl, at once.’
    She again spoke in a low voice so that I did not catch her words.
    ‘There is nothing I can do for your mother. You know that. Now, please, leave me alone.’
    The girl raised her voice slightly. ‘But sir, you must help. Don’t think I am asking . . .’ Then, seeing he was adamant, the girl’s shoulders slumped with the weight of her failure, and she made for the door.
    Why I got up, followed her down the stairs and approached her on the street outside, I do not know. Perhaps, like Rinaldo or Tancred, I entertained some foolish notion of chivalry. Perhaps, because the world had been bearing so oppressively on me in the past few days, I had sympathy for the way it was treating her. Perhaps I was feeling cold and tired, and so sunk down by my troubles that even approaching such as she became acceptable. I do not know, but before she had gone too far, I approached her and coughed politely.
    She swung round, fury in her face. ‘Leave me alone,’ she snapped, very violently.
    I must have reacted as though she had slapped me; I know I bit my lower lip and said, ‘Oh!’ in surprise at her response. ‘I do beg your pardon, madam,’ I added in my best English.
    At home, I would have behaved differently: courteously, but with the familiarity that establishes who is the superior. In English, of course, such subtleties were beyond me; all I knew was how to address ladies of quality, and so that was the way I talked to her. Rather than appear a semi-educated fool (the English assume that the only reasons for not understanding their language are either stupidity or wilful stubbornness) I decided that I had best match my gestures to my language, as though I actually intended such
politesse
. Accordingly, I gave the appropriate bow as I spoke.
    It was not my intention, but it rather took the wind out of her sails, to use a nautical expression beloved of my dear father. Her anger faded on finding itself met with gentility rather than rebuke,and she looked at me curiously, a little wrinkle of confusion playing most attractively over the bridge of her nose.
    Having started in this vein, I resolved to continue. ‘You must forgive me for approaching you in this fashion, but I could not help overhearing that you have need of physick. Is that correct?’
    ‘You are