Stories

by Doris Lessing

  “He hated me painting,” said Maureen. “Every time I said I wanted a morning to paint, he made jibes about Sunday painters. I’d serve him his breakfast, and go up to the studio—well, it’s the spare room, really. First he’d shout up funny cracks, then he’d come up and say he was hungry. He’d start being hungry at eleven in the morning. Then if I didn’t come down and cook, he’d make love. Then we’d talk about his work. We’d talk about his bloody films all day and half the night….” Maureen’s voice broke into a wail: “It’s all so unfair, so unfair, so unfair … they were all like that. I’m not saying I’d have been a great painter, but I might have been something. Something of my own…. Not one of those men did anything but make fun, or patronise me … all of them, in one way or another. And of course, one always gives in, because one cares more for …”

  Peggy who had been half-asleep, drooping over her settee, sat up and said: “Stop it, Maureen. What’s the good of it?”

  “But it’s true. I’ve spent twenty years of my life, eighteen hours a day, bolstering up some man’s ambition. Well, isn’t it true?”

  “It’s true, but stop it. We chose it.”

  “Yes. And if that silly red-haired bitch gives up her job, she’ll get what she deserves.”

  “She’ll be where we are.”

  “But Jack says he’s going to marry her.”

  “Tom married me.”

  “He was intrigued by that clever little redheaded mind of hers. All those bright remarks about politics. But now he’s doing everything he can to stop her column. Not that it would be any loss to the nation, but she’d better watch out, oh yes, she had….” Maureen wove her brandy glass back and forth in front of hypnotised eyes.

  “Which is the other reason I came to see you.”

  “You didn’t come to see the new me?”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “Well?”

  “How much money have you got?”

  “Nothing.”

  “How long is the lease for this flat?” Maureen held up the fingers of one hand. “Five years? Then sell the lease.”

  “Oh I couldn’t.”

  “Oh yes you could. It would bring you in about two thousand, I reckon. We could take a flat somewhere less expensive.”

  “We could?”

  “And I’ve got forty pounds a month. Well, then.”

  “Well then what?” Maureen was lying practically flat in the big chair, her white lace shirt ruffled up around her breasts, so that a slim brown waist and diaphragm showed above the tight brown trousers. She held her brandy glass in front of her eyes and moved it back and forth, watching the amber liquid slopping in the glass. From time to time the brandy fell on her brown stomach flesh and she giggled.

  Peggy said: “If we don’t do something, I’ve got to go back to my parents in Outshoorn—they’re ostrich farmers. I was the bright girl that escaped. Well, I’ll never make an actress. So I’ll be back living out my life among the sugar-bushes and the ostriches. And where will you be?”

  “Ditto, ditto.” Maureen now wriggled her soft brown head sideways and let brandy drip into her mouth.

  “We’re going to open a dress shop. If there’s one thing we both really understand, it’s how to dress.”

  “Good idea.”

  “What city would you fancy?”

  “I fancy Paris.”

  “We couldn’t compete in Paris.”

  “No, can’t compete in … How about Rome? I’ve got three ex-lovers in Rome.”

  “They’re not much good when it comes to trouble.”

  “No good at all.”

  “Better stay in London.”

  “Better stay in London. Like another drink?”

  “Yes. Yesssh.”

  “I’lll get-get-itit.”

  “Next time, we musn’t go to bed without the marriage shertificate.”

  “A likely shtory.”

  “But it’s against my prinshiples, bargaining.”

  “Oh I know, I know.”

  “Yesh.”

  “Perhaps we’d better be leshbians, what do you think?”

  Peggy got up, with difficulty, came to Maureen, and put her hand on Maureen’s bare diaphragm. “Doesh that do anything for you?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “I fanshy men myself,” said Peggy, returning to her settee, where she sat with a bump, spilling liquor.

  “Me too, and a fat lot of good it duz ush.”

  “Next time, we don’t give up our jobs, we stick with the dress shop.”

  “Yessh….”

  A pause. Then Peggy sat up, and focussed. She was pervaded by an immense earnestness. “Listen,” she said. “No, damn it, lishen, that’s what I mean to shay all the time, I really mean it.”

  “I do too.”

  “No. No giving it up the firsht time a m-m-man appearsh. Damn it, I’m drunk, but I mean it…. No, Maureen, I’m not going to shtart a dresh shop unless that’s undershtood from the shtart. We musht, we musht agree to that, work firsht, or elshe, or else you know where we’re going to end up.” Peggy brought out the last in a rush, and lay back, satisfied.

  Maureen now sat up, earnest, trying to control her tongue: “But … what … we are both good at, itsh, it’s bolshtering up some damned genus, genius.”

  “Not any more. Oh no. You’ve got to promish me, Maureen, promish me, or elshe …”

  “All right, I promish.”

  “Good.”

  “Have another drink?”

  “Lovely brandy, lovely lovely lovely blandy.”

  “Lovely brandy …”

  Our Friend Judith

  I stopped inviting Judith to meet people when a Canadian woman remarked, with the satisfied fervour of one who has at last pinned a label on a rare specimen: “She is, of course, one of your typical English spinsters.”

  This was a few weeks after an American sociologist, having elicited from Judith the facts that she was fortyish, unmarried, and living alone, had enquired of me: “I suppose she has given up?” “Given up what?” I asked; and the subsequent discussion was unrewarding.

  Judith did not easily come to parties. She would come after pressure, not so much—one felt—to do one a favour, but in order to correct what she believed to be a defect in her character. “I really ought to enjoy meeting new people more than I do,” she said once. We reverted to an earlier pattern of our friendship: odd evenings together, an occasional visit to the cinema, or she would telephone to say: “I’m on my way past you to the British Museum. Would you care for a cup of coffee with me? I have twenty minutes to spare.”

  It is characteristic of Judith that the word “spinster,” used of her, provoked fascinated speculation about other people. There are my aunts, for instance: aged seventy-odd, both unmarried, one an ex-missionary from China, one a retired matron of a famous London hospital. These two old ladies live together under the shadow of the cathedral in a country town. They devote much time to the Church, to good causes, to letter writing with friends all over the world, to the grandchildren and the great-grandchildren of relatives. It would be a mistake, however, on entering a house in which nothing has been moved for fifty years, to diagnose a condition of fossilised late-Victorian integrity. They read every book reviewed in the Observer or the Times, so that I recently got a letter from Aunt Rose enquiring whether I did not think that the author of On the Road was not—perhaps?—exaggerating his difficulties. They know a good deal about music, and write letters of encouragement to young composers they feel are being neglected—“You must understand that anything new and original takes time to be understood.” Well-informed and critical Tories, they are as likely to despatch telegrams of protest to the Home Secretary as letters of support. These ladies, my aunts Emily and Rose, are surely what is meant by the phrase “English spinster.” And yet, once the connection has been pointed out, there is no doubt that Judith and they are spiritual cousins, if not sisters. Therefore it follows that one’s pitying admiration for
women who have supported manless and uncomforted lives needs a certain modification?

  One will, of course, never know; and I feel now that it is entirely my fault that I shall never know. I had been Judith’s friend for upwards of five years before the incident occurred which I involuntarily thought of—stupidly enough—as the first time Judith’s mask slipped.

  A mutual friend, Betty, had been given a cast-off Dior dress. She was too short for it. Also she said: “It’s not a dress for a married woman with three children and a talent for cooking. I don’t know why not, but it isn’t.” Judith was the right build. Therefore one evening the three of us met by appointment in Judith’s bedroom, with the dress. Neither Betty nor I was surprised at the renewed discovery that Judith was beautiful. We had both often caught each other, and ourselves, in moments of envy when Judith’s calm and severe face, her undemonstratively perfect body, succeeded in making everyone else in a room or a street look cheap.

  Judith is tall, small-breasted, slender. Her light brown hair is parted in the centre and cut straight around her neck. A high straight forehead, straight nose, a full grave mouth are setting for her eyes, which are green, large and prominent. Her lids are very white, fringed with gold, and moulded close over the eyeball, so that in profile she has the look of a staring gilded mask. The dress was of dark green glistening stuff, cut straight, with a sort of loose tunic. It opened simply at the throat. In it Judith could of course evoke nothing but classical images. Diana, perhaps, back from the hunt, in a relaxed moment? A rather intellectual wood nymph who had opted for an afternoon in the British Museum Reading Room? Something like that. Neither Betty nor I said a word, since Judith was examining herself in a long mirror, and must know she looked magnificent.

  Slowly she drew off the dress and laid it aside. Slowly she put on the old cord skirt and woollen blouse she had taken off. She must have surprised a resigned glance between us, for she then remarked, with the smallest of mocking smiles: “One surely ought to stay in character, wouldn’t you say?” She added, reading the words out of some invisible book, written not by her, since it was a very vulgar book, but perhaps by one of us: “It does everything for me, I must admit.”

  “After seeing you in it,” Betty cried out, defying her, “I can’t bear for anyone else to have it. I shall simply put it away.” Judith shrugged, rather irritated. In the shapeless skirt and blouse, and without makeup, she stood smiling at us, a woman at whom forty-nine out of fifty people would not look twice.

  A second revelatory incident occurred soon after. Betty telephoned me to say that Judith had a kitten. Did I know that Judith adored cats? “No, but of course she would,” I said.

  Betty lived in the same street as Judith and saw more of her than I did. I was kept posted about the growth and habits of the cat and its effect on Judith’s life. She remarked for instance that she felt it was good for her to have a tie and some responsibility. But no sooner was the cat out of kittenhood than all the neighbours complained. It was a tomcat, ungelded, and making every night hideous. Finally the landlord said that either the cat or Judith must go, unless she was prepared to have the cat “fixed.” Judith wore herself out trying to find some person, anywhere in Britain, who would be prepared to take the cat. This person would, however, have to sign a written statement not to have the cat “fixed.” When Judith took the cat to the vet to be killed, Betty told me she cried for twenty-four hours.

  “She didn’t think of compromising? After all, perhaps the cat might have preferred to live, if given the choice?”

  “Is it likely I’d have the nerve to say anything so sloppy to Judith? It’s the nature of a male cat to rampage lustfully about, and therefore it would be morally wrong for Judith to have the cat fixed, simply to suit her own convenience.”

  “She said that?”

  “She wouldn’t have to say it, surely?”

  A third incident was when she allowed a visiting young American, living in Paris, the friend of a friend and scarcely known to her, to use her flat while she visited her parents over Christmas. The young man and his friends lived it up for ten days of alcohol and sex and marijuana, and when Judith came back it took a week to get the place clean again and the furniture mended. She telephoned twice to Paris, the first time to say that he was a disgusting young thug and if he knew what was good for him he would keep out of her way in the future; the second time to apologise for losing her temper. “I had a choice either to let someone use my flat, or to leave it empty. But having chosen that you should have it, it was clearly an unwarrantable infringement of your liberty to make any conditions at all. I do most sincerely ask your pardon.” The moral aspects of the matter having been made clear, she was irritated rather than not to receive letters of apology from him—fulsome, embarrassed, but above all, baffled.

  It was the note of curiosity in the letters—he even suggested coming over to get to know her better—that irritated her most. “What do you suppose he means?” she said to me. “He lived in my flat for ten days. One would have thought that should be enough, wouldn’t you?”

  The facts about Judith, then, are all in the open, unconcealed, and plain to anyone who cares to study them; or, as it became plain she feels, to anyone with the intelligence to interpret them.

  She has lived for the last twenty years in a small two-roomed flat high over a busy West London street. The flat is shabby and badly heated. The furniture is old, was never anything but ugly, is now frankly rickety and fraying. She has an income of two hundred pounds a year from a dead uncle. She lives on this and what she earns from her poetry, and from lecturing on poetry to night classes and extramural university classes.

  She does not smoke or drink, and eats very little, from preference, not self-discipline.

  She studied poetry and biology at Oxford, with distinction.

  She is a Castlewell. That is, she is a member of one of the academic upper-middleclass families, which have been producing for centuries a steady supply of brilliant but sound men and women who are the backbone of the arts and sciences in Britain. She is on cool good terms with her family, who respect her and leave her alone.

  She goes on long walking tours, by herself, in such places as Exmoor or West Scotland.

  Every three or four years she publishes a volume of poems.

  The walls of her flat are completely lined with books. They are scientific, classical and historical; there is a great deal of poetry and some drama. There is not one novel. When Judith says: “Of course I don’t read novels,” this does not mean that novels have no place, or a small place, in literature; or that people should not read novels; but that it must be obvious she can’t be expected to read novels.

  I had been visiting her flat for years before I noticed two long shelves of books, under a window, each shelf filled with the works of a single writer. The two writers are not, to put it at the mildest, the kind one would associate with Judith. They are mild, reminiscent, vague and whimsical. Typical English belles-lettres, in fact, and by definition abhorrent to her. Not one of the books in the two shelves has been read; some of the pages are still uncut. Yet each book is inscribed or dedicated to her: gratefully, admiringly, sentimentally and, more than once, amorously. In short, it is open to anyone who cares to examine these two shelves, and to work out dates, to conclude that Judith from the age of fifteen to twenty-five had been the beloved young companion of one elderly literary gentleman, and from twenty-five to thirty-five the inspiration of another.

  During all that time she had produced her own poetry, and the sort of poetry, it is quite safe to deduce, not at all likely to be admired by her two admirers. Her poems are always cool and intellectual; that is their form, which is contradicted or supported by a gravely sensuous texture. They are poems to read often; one has to, to understand them.

  I did not ask Judith a direct question about these two eminent but rather fusty lovers. Not because she would not have answered, or because she would have found the question impertinent, but because such
questions are clearly unnecessary. Having those two shelves of books where they are, and books she could not conceivably care for, for their own sake, is publicly giving credit where credit is due. I can imagine her thinking the thing over, and deciding it was only fair, or perhaps honest, to place the books there; and this despite the fact that she would not care at all for the same attention to be paid to her. There is something almost contemptuous in it. For she certainly despises people who feel they need attention.

  For instance, more than once a new emerging wave of “modern” young poets have discovered her as the only “modern” poet among their despised and well-credited elders. This is because, since she began writing at fifteen, her poems have been full of scientific, mechanical and chemical imagery. This is how she thinks, or feels.

  More than once has a young poet hastened to her flat, to claim her as an ally, only to find her totally and by instinct unmoved by words like “modern,” “new,” “contemporary.” He has been outraged and wounded by her principle, so deeply rooted as to be unconscious, and to need no expression but a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, that publicity seeking or to want critical attention is despicable. It goes without saying that there is perhaps one critic in the world she has any time for. He has sulked off, leaving her on her shelf, which she takes it for granted is her proper place, to be read by an appreciative minority.

  Meanwhile she gives her lectures, walks alone through London, writes her poems, and is seen sometimes at a concert or a play with a middleaged professor of Greek, who has a wife and two children.

  Betty and I had speculated about this professor, with such remarks as: Surely she must sometimes be lonely? Hasn’t she ever wanted to marry? What about that awful moment when one comes in from somewhere at night to an empty flat?

  It happened recently that Betty’s husband was on a business trip, her children visiting, and she was unable to stand the empty house. She asked Judith for a refuge until her own home filled again.