Nuns at Luncheon, Aldous Huxley
Nuns at Luncheon
«What have I been doing since you saw me last?» Miss Penny repeated my question in her loud, emphatic voice. «Well, when did you see me last?»
«It must have been June,» I computed.
«Was that after I’d been proposed to by the Russian General?
«Yes; I remember hearing about the Russian General.»
Miss Penny threw back her head and laughed. Her long ear-rings swung and rattled corpses hanging in chains: an agreeably literary simile. And her laughter was like brass, but that had been said before.
«That was an uproarous incident. It’s sad you should have heard of it. I love my Russian General story. ‘Vos yeux me rendent fou.'» She laughed again.
Vos yeux—she had eyes like a hare’s, flush with her head and very bright with a superficial and expressionless brightness. What a formidable woman. I felt sorry for the Russian General.
«‘Sans coeur et sans entrallies,'» she went on, quoting the poor devil’s words. «Such a delightful motto, don’t you think? Like ‘Sans peur et sans reproche.’ But let me think; what have I been doing since then?» Thoughtfully she bit into the crust of her bread with long, sharp, white teeth.
«Two mixed grills,» I said parenthetically to the waiter.
«But of course,» exclaimed Miss Penny suddenly. «I haven’t seen you since my German trip. All sorts of adventures. My appendicitis; my nun.»
«Your nun?»
«My marvellous nun. I must tell you all about her.»
«Do.» Miss Penny’s anecdotes were always curious. I looked forward to an entertaining luncheon.
«You knew I’d been in Germany this autumn?»
«Well, I didn’t, as a matter of fact. But still—»
«I was just wandering round.» Miss Penny described a circle in the air with her gaudily jewelled hand. She always twinkled with massive and improbable jewellery.
«Wandering round, living on three pounds a week, partly amusing myself, partly collecting material for a few little articles. ‘What it Feels Like to be a Conquered Nation’—sob-stuff for the Liberal press, you know—and ‘How the Hun is Trying to Wriggle out of the Indemnity,’ for the other fellows. One has to make the best of all possible worlds, don’t you find? But we mustn’t talk shop. Well, I was wandering round, and very pleasant I found it.
Berlin, Dresden, Leipzig. Then down to Munich and all over the place. One fine day I got to Grauburg. You know Grauburg? It’s one of those picture-book German towns with a castle on a hill, hanging beer-gardens, a Gothic church, an old university, a river, a pretty bridge, and forests all round. Charming. But I hadn’t much opportunity to appreciate the beauties of the place. The day after I arrived there—bang!—I went down with appendicitis—screaming, I may add.»
«But how appalling!»
«They whisked me off to hospital, and cut me open before you could say knife. Excellent surgeon, highly efficient Sisters of Charity to nurse me—I couldn’t have been in better hands. But it was a bore being tied there by the leg for four weeks—a great bore. Still, the thing had its compensations. There was my nun, for example. Ah, here’s the food, thank Heaven!»
The mixed grill proved to be excellent. Miss Penny’s description of the pun came to me in scraps and snatches. A round, pink, pretty face in a winged coif; blue eyes and regular features; teeth altogether too perfect—false, in fact; but the general effect extremely pleasing. A youthful Teutonic twenty eight.
«She wasn’t my nurse,» Miss Penny explained. «But I used to see her quite often when she came in to have a look at the tolle Engländerin. Her name was Sister Agatha. During the war, they told me, she had converted any number of wounded soldiers to the true faith—which wasn’t surprising, considering how pretty she was.»
«Did she try and convert you?» I asked.
«She wasn’t such a fool.» Miss Penny laughed, and rattled the miniature gallows of her ears.
I amused myself for a moment with the thought of Miss Penny’s conversion—Miss Penny confronting a vast assembly of Fathers of the Church, rattling her earrings at their discourses on the Trinity, laughing her appalling laugh at the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception, meeting the stern look of the Grand Inquisitor with a flash of her bright, emotionless hare’s eyes. What was the secret of the woman’s formidableness?
But I was missing the story. What had happened? Ah yes, the gist of it was that Sister Agatha had appeared one morning, after two or three days absence, dressed, not as a nun, but in the overalls of a hospital charwoman, with a handkerchief instead of a winged coif on her shaven head.
«Dead,» said Miss Penny; «she looked as though she were dead. A walking corpse, that’s what she was. It was a shocking sight. I shouldn’t have thought it possible for anyone to change so much in so short a time. She walked painfully, as though she had been ill for months, and she had great burnt rings round her eyes and deep lines in her face. And the general expression of unhappiness—that was something quite appalling.»
She leaned out into the gangway between the two rows of tables, and caught the passing waiter by the end of one his coat-tails. The little Italian looked round with an expression of surprise that deepened into terror on his face.
«Half a pint of Guinness,» ordered Miss Penny. «And, after this, bring me some jam roll.»
«No jam roll to-day, madam.»
«Damn!» said Miss Penny. «Bring me what you like, then.»
She let go of the waiter’s tail and resumed her narrative.
«Where was I? Yes, I remember. She came into my room, I was telling you, with a bucket of water and a brush, dressed like a charwoman. Naturally I was rather surprised. ‘What on earth are you doing, Sister Agatha?’ I asked. No answer. She just shook her head, and began to scrub the floor. When she’d finished, she left the room without so much as looking at me again. ‘What’s happened to Sister Agatha?’ I asked my nurse when she next came in. ‘Can’t say.’—’Won’t say,’ I said. No answer. It took nearly a week to find out what really had happened. Nobody dared tell me; it was strengst verboten, as they used to say in the good old days. But I wormed it out in the long run. My nurse, the doctor, the charwomen—I got something out of all of them. I always get what I want in the end.» Miss Penny laughed like a horse.
«I’m sure you do,» I said politely.
«Much obliged,» acknowledged Miss Penny. «But to proceed. My information came to me in fragmentary whispers. ‘Sister Agatha ran away with a man.’—Dear me.—’One of the patients.’—You don’t say so.—’A criminal out of the jail.’—The plot thickens.—’He ran away from her.’—It seems to grow thinner again.—’They brought her back here; she’s been disgraced. There’s been a funeral service for her in the chapel—coffin and all. She had to be present at it—her own funeral. She isn’t a nun any more. She has to do charwoman’s work now, the roughest in the hospital. She’s not allowed to speak to anybody, and nobody’s allowed to speak to her. She’s regarded as dead.'» Miss Penny paused to signal to the harassed little Italian. «My small ‘Guinness,'» she called out.
«Coming, coming,» and the foreign voice cried «Guinness» down the lift, and from below another voice echoed, «Guinness.»
«I filled in the details bit by bit. There was our hero, to begin with; I had to bring him into the picture, which was rather difficult, as I had never seen him. But I got a photograph of him. The police circulated one when he got away; I don’t suppose they ever caught him.» Miss Penny opened her bag. «Here it is,» she said. «I always carry it about with me; it’s become a superstition. For years, I remember, I used to carry a little bit of heather tied up with string. Beautiful, isn’t it? There’s a sort of Renaissance look about it, don’t you think? He was half-Italian, you know.»
Italian. Ah, that explained it. I had been wondering how Bavaria could have produced this thin-faced creature with the big dark eyes, the finely modelled nose and chin, and the fleshy lips so royally and sensually curved.
«He’s certainly very superb,» I said, handing back the picture.
Miss Penny put it carefully away in her bag. «Isn’t he?» she said. «Quite marvellous. But his character and his mind were even better. I see him as one of those innocent, childlike monsters of iniquity who are simply unaware of the existence of right and wrong. And he had genius—the real Italian genius for engineering, for dominating and exploiting nature. A true son of the Roman aqueduct builders he was, and a brother of the electrical engineers. Only Kuno—that was his name—didn’t work in water; he worked in women. He knew how to harness the natural energy of passion; he made devotion drive his mills.
The commercial exploitation of love-power, that was his specialty. I sometimes wonder,» Miss Penny added in a different tone, «whether I shall ever be exploited, when I get a little more middle-aged and celibate, by one of these young engineers of the passions. It would be humiliating, particularly as I’ve done so little exploiting from my side.»
She frowned and was silent for a moment. No, decidedly, Miss Penny was not beautiful; you could not even honestly say that she had charm or was attractive. That high Scotch colouring, those hare’s eyes, the voice, the terrifying laugh, and the size of her, the general formidableness of the woman. No, no, no.
«You said he had been in prison,» I said. The silence, with all its implications, was
