Angel by Elizabeth Taylor Page A

enough for one day.”
    Angel looked tired. There were dark shadows under her eyes, as if she had smudged them with her ink-stained fingers.
    â€œ I think she’s been long enough at it for ever,” said Aunt Lottie. “I can see that much more of it and my life won’t be worth living. It’s all round the servants’ hall as it is, because of course Palmer didn’t put the book on the kitchen-range. Cook took charge of it. She keeps it under one of the big dishcovers and lends it round. The sniggering that goes on, and the insinuations I am exposed to, Emmy, you can imagine for yourself. ‘What about a nice game of cards?’ the footman dared to say to me. They all knew what he meant by that. I could have slapped his face. And with Madam upset and the under-servants tittering, it will be lucky if I can keep my position.”
    â€œGive it up, then,” Angel said casually. “Tell them to go to the devil. Retire.”
    â€œRetire! I like that!” Aunt Lottie gave an imitation of one of Madam’s nasty little laughs. “And what, pray, should I use for money if I did?”
    â€œI would give you enough.”
    â€œOh, you would ! That’s very generous of you, I’m sure.”
    â€œNo, it isn’t. I shall have plenty.”
    â€œAnd what makes you think that?”
    â€œMy book is a success and so will all the others be that I am going to write.”
    Her calm infuriated her aunt. “I don’t know what you mean by a ‘success’,” she said loudly. “I should have thought it was more of a disgrace. Madam’s word for it was ‘unsavoury’ and cook was only too glad to be able to point out a piece from the newspaper, saying it was gibberish.” She pronounced the word with a hard ‘g’ and made it sound vicious.
    â€œThe people who are right are those who buy it,” Angel said. “And they will go on buying it. Mr Gilbright says so. So I shall always have plenty of money, and if you want any of it, you’re welcome.”
    Before they could answer, she left them and went back to her bedroom. Here, she leaned against the closed door and shut her eyes, struggling to control her anger. She hated the word ‘gibberish’, however it was pronounced: it bit into her like acid. There were other words, equally hurtful, which reviewers had used and which she would never be able to hear without feeling pain.
    Her vanity had been stunned by the way in which her book had been received. No trumpets had come thrusting out from behind clouds, proclaiming ‘genius’ and ‘masterpiece’. For a long time nothing at all had happened, and then, slowly, the abuse and sarcasm had begun. The very passages of which she had been most proud, had been printed as if they were richly humorous; her dialogue, her syntax, her view of life, her descriptions of society were all seen to be part of some new and quite delicious joke. No one had wept, it seemed, when reading the funeral scene—unless it was with laughter.
    She had destroyed the cuttings as soon as she had read them, but they had been photographed upon her mind. She could remember every word of mockery they contained. Some were unsigned, but the worst, the one with the word ‘gibberish’, was above the name Rowland Pearce. Him she hated with unswerving ferocity and tried to find solace in imagining scenes in which she was able to express her contempt for him and to humiliate him in public. She had sent off a long letter to the newspaper: it was full of sarcasm and indignation, and this morning she had seen it printed with a gleeful footnote by the reviewer, as if it were a continuation of the joke. At the same time—too late—a letter had come from Theo Gilbright. “Be calm: resist reading the reviews, if you can: above all, never answer back.”
    The book was selling well, but she had expected fame and praise as well as