XVII. La Dinette

Oh! douce illusion, berce moi de tes songes.
Demandant le bonheur à tes riants mensonges
Je me sauve en tremblant de la réalité.

Alfred de Musset.

The boarding house is deserted. By a happy chance Bill and I are left in sole possession. I don’t count the old German—“The Prussian Spy”—who is fast asleep in his room after his nocturnal duties. Miss Steele is at a tea-meeting, a semi-religious, semi-social function—(what a strange blend!)—given by one of her manifold societies.

The Commercial Traveller has gone with his perennial fiancée to inspect a store at Geelong. The landlady, by a miracle, is out for the day.

Her little drudge having left (they leave as soon as they come), she has gone into the country to interview a farmer’s daughter, and get ocular proof that this much vaunted pearl possesses the virtues she demands but so far has never met. So Billy and I are quite alone. Some cold viands are in the pantry; we shall not die of hunger. The weather is delightful, one of those mild Australian days of early Autumn. The Southern breeze comes straight from the Pole; lingering over the Fitzroy Gardens, it reaches us laden with the rich perfume of flowers. It is good to be alive, to enjoy. Can I not forget my sordid surroundings just for a few hours? I have it. We will play a little comedy, Bill and I, “Nous allons faire la Dinette.”

First the preparations.

Followed closely by the “Little Monkey,” I proceed to the florist’s. That is the most important.

A big bunch of native boronia, for love of its exquisite scent, a big sheaf of white chrysanthemums, some autumn leaves and graceful, feathery fronds of asparagus ferns.

Then the fish shop. A tiny lobster and some oyster patties. Cream puffs, chocolate and sweets from the confectioner. I am nearly ruined, and Bill’s arms are overflowing. Something is lacking still, but my purse is empty.

No! Here’s a shilling in the middle pocket—not enough for bubbling champagne. Bill scratches his head for an idea.

“I know, Miss. Gimme the bob.”

The slangy little urchin is never at a loss for long.

“They will gimme a arf pint bottle of claret at the pub. Wine of your country, Miss.”

“Well, mind you get true Bordeaux; don’t let them give you colonial wine.”

Billy winks. I take the parcels and he is off in a trice.

He will be clever who outwits this Australian gamin.

He is back in a few minutes, the neck of the precious little bottle peeping from his pocket. We return to Gipps-street.

Now for the transformation of the Parlor.

I throw all the atrocious antimacassars in a heap. The wax monstrosity and the mantelpiece ornaments (?) are deposited in Miss Steele’s room. Opening my trunks, I unfold some oriental draperies and silken scarves.

Quickly, let us drape the hideous horsehair chairs and sofa upon which we have piled all the cushions of the house. Now the infamous oleographs. Cover them up with the autumn leaves and trails of asparagus. Billy enters into the fun with keen zest, and brings in a big earthenware pot for the white chrysanthemums. The dining-room cloth covers the painted cedar table, and we set out the Dinette.

“Oh, Billy, we have forgotten the lemon for the mayonnaise.”

“Princess, you shall have it.” This is the name he has bestowed on me since the episode of the pearl necklace. His brain, always in ebullition, has conjured up a whole series of thrilling adventures. He is fully persuaded that I am a princess in disguise, patronising his mother’s abode for romantic reasons of my own.

Billy returns triumphantly with a lemon. Where has he unearthed it? From the room of some unfortunate lodger who indulges in “a night cap,” the drink you must take going to bed, as Billy authoritatively informed me. Under his tutelage I shall soon know as much Australian slang as he of French.

I take the lemon without questioning aloud its mysterious appearance, only too happy to consider it a gift of the fairies, and quite determined to commit every crime, if necessary, to make the dinette complete.

The chrysanthemums are in the centre. The dessert plates are white fortunately, and innocent of the atrocious design on the dinner service. The boronia is placed at intervals in little bunches. I have kept some for my corsage and Billy’s button-hole. Now for my toilette. What can I wear? Ah! the surah peignoir which used to so scandalise poor Meg. The very thing for the occasion. Quick, too, the silk stockings and high-heeled shoes which go with it. Here is my big feather fan, mounted in pale tortoise-shell, with my monogram carved on it. That will occupy Bill, who can fan me after the dinette.

But Bill! I must transform him also somehow. He cannot remain in my enchanted palace in that horrible jacket.

One of my aunt’s cashmeres. I pull it out and drape it around his shoulders, and wind a long white scarf spangled with silver around his head. He shall be the Genie of the Feast.

His queer simian features shining with repeated applications of soap and water look so droll under the turban that I dub him Hanuman on the spot. The name flatters him, and recalls vague recollections of the Arabian Nights. This book, picked up heaven knows where, and a copy of Sherlock Holmes compose his library, and are his favourite reading.

After the repast, to which we do full honour—I even suspect Bill of eating as hors d’oeuvre the full plate of sandwiches left for us by his mother—we uncork the little bottle of Bordeaux, and filling our glasses, drink to the fairies, to the benevolent Genii, and to the Prince who is to deliver the Princess from the prison of the wicked Enchanter.

That is Bill’s idea, not mine.

Alas, the “Enchanter” is Destiny, and the “Prison” is Life.... No, no, no sad reflexions to-day; I want to enjoy every minute of it.

While Billy clears away the remnants of our feast—he is a treasure when he likes—I recline on the sofa, transformed for the nonce into a turkish divan, and give myself to reverie.

Hanuman brings me a pile of books, the legacy of various boarders. The title of one attracts me—The Flower of Forgiveness.

Opening it, I notice the scenes of the short stories are laid in India, the land of my golden dreams.

Bill has opened the bag of sweets, spread out the boronia on the cushions, and is now squatting on the floor in true Oriental fashion. He begins to fan me gravely with one hand, while the other dives into the bag at regular intervals to make the contents hold out longer.

The hours pass. The waning light grows too dim to read. I awaken Hanuman, who has fallen asleep at his post. The fairy story is over. The princess must don her black serge dress, the little genie his soiled jacket. Together we silently restore the room to its squalid order, put the monstrosity on the table, the crochet abominations on the chairs, and leave the blatant chromos in their native crudity.

There remain nothing of our enchanted hour but the great chrysanthemums and the suave, penetrating perfume of the dying boronia.