‘Don’t talk about me,’ she said, ‘I am dead-alive, dulled out, fey. And the scarlet – I think I wore it out of spite. I said to myself, I will be April, too. And indeed I was – the First! … I thought you might come again before today. I always believe people will do what I hope they will – until they don’t. But there, do not listen. “The rain is over and gone.”’ She clasped her hands like a child, ‘I often think…’ she began again, almost as if she were speaking to herself; and then it was just as if a shadow had come over her face.
‘What do you often think?’ I said.
‘Never mind,’ she said under her breath; then she looked up at me with one of her curious smiles. ‘Will you come back with me? Father would be delighted to see you. Will you come? Besides, I have not showed you half the house yet. Come, and you shall go straight back, and be a child again. And to tell you the truth I want to get used to the idea of you – grown-up, and polite, and clever and all that. Oh, you are sadly altered. Still I want to see you as you are, and fit you into the house. Will you come?’
I could not be boor enough to refuse, though it was a precious nuisance. She was different from last time. Beneath all she said was something else; I can’t express it exactly. But I was not the least bit more at my ease with her.
Mr Lindsay rose up lank and stark as ever. Poor old man, his face does not practise his philosophical sermons. He sat there, his white cravat awry, a jagged frown on his forehead. Time has dried him up and ploughed him deep. Still he’s frightfully heavy, and for the life of me I couldn’t see the point of most of what he said. He seems to speak by rote. Gad, let me die green! I saw the woman, Helen; I suppose she’s a kind of housekeeper.
She brought Florence a wrap, and wound it round and round her as if she was bent on embalming her. I wanted to say ‘good afternoon’ to her, just to be civil; but she didn’t give me a chance. So F. and I walked up and down in the garden together. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘everything is the same, and time is a myth. I need not think unless I please, need I?’ She’s always saying peculiar things like that. I shan’t write it all down, but I can remember. She asked me all about myself. She leans forward with her questions. I have never met anybody with so many mannerisms. But I did not mention much. I told her about when I was at school, and all I remembered about my mother. And yet I hate talking about myself; like the hypocrite I am. And I have promised to go again.
May 7th. 9 p.m. Showery. Feel but poorly. Had rather a bad night. Fanny was in a pet this evening; and I too. I was never intended for a married life. I loathe being gloated over as if I were a fatted calf for the wedding feast. And ’pon my oath, I’m not after ‘Madam’s’ spoons, nor Madam’s chastity neither! Wrote to Fanny. Bill from Paige; moderate.
(Letter from Fanny to Nicholas, dated May 6th.)
My own dear, dear Nick,
You did not mean to hurt my feelings, and I was just as bad, and worse. Mama asked me why my eyes were so red; but I managed to put her off. I suppose I am rather fanciful, dear, but indeed you did not seem quite the same towards me, and I can’t help fancies coming, because I am not very pretty and attractive I know. But I won’t in the future. I have sent you the Smoking Cap, I hope it won’t be crumpled. Will you wear it for my sake, I worked it all myself in my room, except of course the design. The top of the N is not quite right, but it’s not nice stuff to work on, and just now there are so many things to do I hardly know which way to turn. Papa said last night you had a good head on your shoulders, it doesn’t sound much, but from him it means a good deal. Practicalness is not everything, whatever Mama may say. Are you quite sure you are not in the least bit cross with me now. I will try to understand, if you will be patient, because I get so confused. Good-night, dear, I feel rather mournful tonight. I don’t know what I should do without you.
From ever your affectionate,
FANNY.
P.S. It’s quite untrue about G.M. but I thought you did not care, and that made me angry and hateful.
May 8th. Sick headache. Fanny staying at her aunt’s for a day or two.
May 9th. Met F. on heath. She compelled me to run a race with her; we were like two children, and then, as I warned her, she had a fit of coughing and grew deadly white. She’s not very strong I fancy. So I made her take my arm, and she was very quiet all the way home. Only when I’m there I forget the shackles of conventionality, and am my real self. She is very difficult to understand – all index and chapter headings. But I am sure she does not do it on purpose, because she is very sincere. I think it’s rather morbid. There is something unnatural in a woman intentionally thinking much. A woman’s thoughts are almost always instinct, and we should not overstep Nature’s limitations. Why, love itself is absolutely unreasonable. You can’t prove it because then it simply goes.
May 10th. Fanny returned home. Mrs Mann thinks my voice is tenor in quality. Wants me to join her singing Academy. Discontented.
May 11th. F. Took tea in the garden under the Apple trees. But it began to be misty towards evening, and the old gentleman insisted on F. going into the house. But I don’t think she wanted to. She showed me her books. There is a long dark painting of the Madonna above the mantelpiece. She does not draw or paint or do fancy needlework or anything of that kind. ‘I could if I had not tried,’ she said laughing, when I asked her. And that’s rather good, because it’s just as I feel about some things. I almost think I like the quiet of the house, and the heath stretching out far away. Generally F. is very restless, but tonight she seemed scarcely to breathe, and though it sounds very absurd, you almost see her thoughts in her face; her eyes especially. Sometimes I catch Mr L.’s eyes fixed on me in a clear vacant stare, as if they had carried a message to his brains and were awaiting a reply. I don’t fancy he likes me. F. says he suffers a good deal of pain; from some internal complaint, I suppose. Of course it’s a pithy thing to ignore pain, but after all it’s only bragging to one’s self. It’s not philosophical to be excessive, but to take things as they come, and not to put on airs in private. I grow more and more melancholy every day.
May 12th. Spent the evening at Millar’s. Fanny there and a Miss Gwynn – fair hair and thin. A languishing ninny. She told F. I had the air of a flirt, silly chit. Rather good fun to talk to, though. Fancied Fanny was not in very good spirits. I can’t be forever at her heels… Voices in the air, as if someone were calling; I looked out and there was a crescent moon among the stars. It’s a mysterious world.
May 13th. O how I abominate this damnable world. What is it – sham Virtues, sham Friendship, sham Everything; why, even its vices are sham. Bear it all, and sneer at it! Rise above it. With the Worms is Peace. All is Vanity, said the sage Jew, and every wise man since has said the same. And Destiny said: ‘Sip thou of this cup, miserable mortal, thy journey is over, thy intolerable lassitude at an end.’ A Cynic is one who scrapes the Paint off the face of Truth. If only I could get away!
May 14th. Letter from Uncle Robert; still harping on my going away. And now he is mean enough to threaten L.S.D. as a trump card. ‘Some day they shall hear me!!!!’
May 15th. St Barnabas’s. Walked home from church with Fanny and could find positively nothing to say. My head keeps getting vacant.
May 17th. Caught in the rain. F. insisted on standing up under a chestnut tree. We were wet through. I have never seen anyone so eager over mere trifles as she is. Her very fingers seem to speak. We were discussing what we would like to have been. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I would like to have been a gambler – every groat I had, and the lights would twirl – and there, a white mist of faces, and the hubbub of voices would fall away little in the distance – and my forehead all cold – and my heart go so. And then – O yes, that’s it, that’s it. To spend all and buy nothing. One vivid moment of wild viewless light – only once to fling away and forget poor narrow I and thou and they and all … Look, the white sun comes reeling out and everything is on tip-toe, singing in the rain. It’s just as it used to be with the rhymes in t
he old silly pigtail days. Verses on verses I’d scribble all about “jetty hair” and “eyes of fire” and “dead sweet lovers” – I would sit down burning, my heart up here, in a very fine frenzy, and all would be mad ink and blurred brains, and in the midst of the scribble I would get up and come out and the wind would scatter all my poetry and blow me quite, quite sane again. And now – come! My voice is cracked.’
We talked incessantly. And as luck would have it Mr L. came out to meet her with wraps and umbrellas. He came stalking out of the distance over the dripping grass, staring into vacancy, his face as scarred and grey as an extinct volcano. But it looked uncommonly as if F. and I had met on the sly!
May 19th. I’m tired of trying to sympathize with people. They don’t appreciate it, and you get nothing but ingratitude for your pains. We are all selfish at the roots.
May 20th. Met Fanny with G.M. Don’t blame him, the puppy! and as for being jealous —!!! Derelict, derelict, derelict till the devil drops me a shot.
May 21st. Can do nothing. I am simply flotsam on the tide of life. I think it would be better to go away. I must work, work, work; that’s the sovereign remedy. I am simply rotting as it is, so of course I get self-conscious and exaggerate things. Weak, erring Humanity has not the power to pierce the Mystery of things. We must toil blindly on. If only I had someone to confide in utterly, who would listen and never weary, and take me all in all! Headache. Went to bed early.
May 22nd. Can a leopard change his spots? Told Fanny after church that I had decided to take uncle’s advice. She was extremely dejected. But I reasoned with her that it was all for the best, and pointed out that the heavier the present so much the easier would the future be. Poor child she has silly fancies of impending disaster. But it is best for her. God knows it is misery enough for me! Shall not mention my plans to Florence.
May 23rd. Wrote to Uncle R.
May 25th. Woman’s love is selfish, it will not bear analysis. Man’s love is intellectual, and of the soul. Woman’s is an instinct, a fleeting emotion. Henceforward I abjure ye all!
May 26th. Midnight. All is as I thought it would be. Every thing I do is rank and sour. I have proved myself an unutterable fool and blackguard, and that’s enough. I really thought that I meant all I said. Why did I not keep to my vow and not go down? Why did I tell her about my going away? She seemed to fascinate me, her silence and her strange smile, and her sympathy. How could I have been so foolish; I see it all, the brightening moon and the boughs thick with blossom, and how she turned, pale and strange, and looked at me when I kissed her. She was almost beautiful with that half sorrowful smile. Her eyes haunt me. Her lips were burning hot. And to think that all this time she has seen through me. I wonder if she has guessed about Fanny. What would Fanny say? – and the others! My thoughts are in a black whirling chaos. I do not think I really understand love, but she must think I love her. And she made me feel so utterly mean and contemptible, when she refused to listen to me, as if I were a silly chattering child. And so calm and unmoved she was afterwards, like Mr L. himself. I don’t think he noticed anything, because she was perfectly calm, and her hands were like stones. But that woman Helen is as sharp as a ferret. I don’t know which way to turn. What must she think of me, hypocrite and fool and traitor that I am! I must flee away into drudgery and solitude, and perhaps in the future the World may look in mercy on me – God knows I do not deserve mercy. There are moments in the life of a man, when the world is so bitter and himself so sour in his own mouth that even death is no hope, and Life one long interminable Woe.
(Letter from Nicholas to Florence.)
My dear Florence,
I cannot reproach and despise myself sufficiently for my conduct of last evening. It was very ungentlemanly and unpardonable. The troubles and anxieties of the past few days have sorely unhinged me. I daresay you can imagine what difficulties must occur to a man on first setting out on his career. I am going on the 15th prox. You have been so kind to me and so hospitable that I feel I can never repay you, indeed I do; you have been infinitely more than a sister towards me, and I do not see why separation should make any difference to us. At least it will not to me. I cannot remember quite what I said. How was it that you had heard what you said you had? I trust you did not take cold; it was so very thoughtless of me to keep you out in the garden. I hope you will take great care of yourself. I am not quite myself at present so will write no more.
Believe me ever your sincere friend,
NICHOLAS.
P.S. Do you really like talking to me? It seemed like Destiny that our paths should cross. And indeed I hate myself and everything, and I think if you knew me you would see what I mean and forgive me.
May 27th. Am going on the 15th. Wrote to F. Fanny has no idea. She trusts in me implicitly. I swear never to undeceive her. I must not think of myself. Very busy all day making preparations. I think I am acting wisely – but Oh, the difference to me!
(Letter from Florence to Nicholas.)
I ‘understand’. Indeed, I have indeed – forgotten all the sweet mad things you said to me and to the moon – was it not so? She was listening too – I saw her between the branches. Perhaps it is my shadows have whispered to me much about you – much that I could never have discovered for my poor self. You are going away to work, and I think it is much, much best for you; and if you knew what paths of glory I used to trace out for the child of my little black picture, and how I imagined my eagerness would help him on his way – just as his lonely company and his wistful child’s eyes have helped me – the very brightness of hope, you would not mind my clapping my hands and urging you on. Yes, my dear Nicholas, you must work, and I am glad to think it is to my bleak haunted Cornwall you are going, for there I can think of you where you are. And me – why, here I shall be in my own familiar world of solitude, just waiting. And if I do not forget you, my own friend of the springtime; and if sometimes I turn back to the brief magic of the moon, you will forgive me that. And forget my harshness, and my awkward ways and tongue, remembering only that I had kept faith with you these many, many years, and am not ashamed. You just came into this world of mine, as you were bound to come. And now, forget me, and work on. May God keep thee, Nicholas.
F.L.
May 28th. Letter from Uncle R. enclosing cheque.
Also from F. How she despises me! Yet perhaps she has taken me rightly. Who knows, if things had been otherwise, if – but ifs make sour thinking. Work! work!! work!!! that’s the secret and good-bye to sentiment. Talk is but braying.
June 13th. Went down to say good-bye. We walked over the heath; but she was too tired to go far. And we stayed by the Miller’s Pool. It seemed another world with its deep stars. We did not talk much. Only once she stopped suddenly – as if she had forgotten something. ‘You see sometimes I cannot remember,’ she said, almost to herself. And we came back to the house. All the windows were dark. She looked very ill, as though she were troubled about something. I asked her to write to me. She looked at me, saying nothing. So we stood by the gates, and she turned away from me. ‘For you see it could not be words,’ she said. ‘O, it comes into my silence, and I cannot but hear. But you, perhaps you will write – and tell me about the place – and yourself. Where you are and what you are thinking and – oh, everything. Let me see your face once more – say nothing.’ So I took her hand and she told me to work and said that I must remember that of her. ‘Good-bye,’ she said, ‘just seven letters – good-bye, that is all.’ And she pushed back my hair and kissed me on the forehead. The gate swung to on its hinges. Its noise seemed to startle her, I fancy she cried out.
Then Helen opened the door and came out, and stared under the lamp towards me. Very soon Florence came running back. She stumbled and nearly fell on the path, but ran on coughing and laughing. ‘There,’ she said to me, panting after her running, ‘it is quite safe; I have brought you this.’ I see her now, looking through the bars of the iron gates at me, and before I could answer she was gone. And I heard Hele
n shooting the bolts of the front door as I remember watching Martha do in the winter evenings a grey eternity ago. So I was shut out.
It was the little picture she had given me. I took it out and looked at it by the dim suffused light of the moon. The house was quite dark and silent, so I thought it better not to go back, and thank her. I can’t think why she gave me the picture. I thought she treasured it so. It was very mournful saying good-bye, but I feared she would have felt it more. So this is the end. It was all very strange, and my mind is confused and tired. Farewell to childishness. I am going solitary into exile and shall scribble no more. Day after day would be only the same whine; or sham and affectation which is worse. All diaries are. Thoughts spoken are thoughts belied. I think it higher and nobler for a man to plod patiently and silently on, through the impenetrable gloom; there may be light beyond. ‘Know thyself!’ said the Ancient Sage. Every great man has been disciplined by solitude. I am a fool, and that confession is the herald of Wisdom.
UNCOLLECTED AND UNPUBLISHED STORIES
UNCOLLECTED STORIES
The Lynx*
Her pale sad face had become little more than a mask from which shone out her shadowed, grief-stricken eyes. Yet with all her usual skill and care she continued to polish the glasses which, tired out, exhausted, she had managed to wash after the party was over the night before. On the kitchen table beyond her tray, the little old tin tea-canister containing her few scribbled love-letters was awaiting the last, the very last of them. It was brief, final, crafty as a fox, cold as a stone. It had shot her heart dead as a bird, and had made of the future a spectacle at which she dared not look. She could have repeated the letter word-perfect, and yet could no more resist reading it again than a dog can refrain from returning to its vomit. That fair-haired face, with its sly secretive smile, the lazy hazy blue eyes, were haunting her like a spectre beckoning to her from the iron gates of an asylum. He was gone beyond any cry of woe or longing to reach him. She knew it and was dumb. She knew now that he had been false from the very beginning – and that she still loved him. Confessing that she could be for ever silent; confessing what it meant – that was merely a question of weeks, three at most; perhaps less.
Short Stories 1927-1956 Page 72