According to Cockerell, he loves me. So Cockerell says. So says Cockerell. Has he said as much to Cockerell? It seems unlikely; Cockerell will say anything. What is certain is that he has never said anything of the sort to me. There have been times when I have thought he might be about to make some declaration of love, but he never has. Not once! Not once in all the years! I used to say to myself, why, of course he loves you, Florence; it is merely that he is no good at expressing his love; that is in his nature, like many men, for men are not good at expressing emotions such as love, they are much better at hiding their emotions than at expressing them. Look at Jane Austen’s novels! How inarticulate the men are, how difficult they find it to express their love! However, without a doubt, he does love you – and to convince myself, I would take this or that gesture – a moment when he happened to touch my arm, for instance, or when he smiled at one of my remarks – and build it into a tacit declaration of love.
It was a delusion. He does not love me. He loves a woman a third his age, and writes her love poems. When has he ever written me a poem? Not for a long time. Yet he writes her poems, just as he wrote love poems to the first wife after her death. Does he not understand how much this neglect hurts me? Why has he never said that he loved me? Do I have to die before he writes me another poem? Is it possible that her baby is his? Of course, of course. How else can one explain his blind infatuation? How else explain these disgusting poems? Everything which did not make sense begins to do so. When, how, I do not know, but it must be his child! No, it cannot be his child. Again I am deluding myself. But, in truth, I am not in control of my mind; I am not able to assess whether I am deluding myself or not.
I knock on the door as lightly as possible, so as not to give him a start. There is no reply. I knock again, somewhat harder. My heart is thudding in my breast. I breathe deeply, and try the handle.
CHAPTER VIII
The study was not a large one, nor was there anything in it that inclined to the remarkable. A dusty violin hung on one wall, and a somewhat battered ’cello stood in a corner, but the room was dominated by several large bookcases containing hundreds of books, some of a poetical and literary species, others concerning themselves with such matters as natural history, archaeology, geology and local topography. These volumes, to judge from the worn leather of their spines, had been much consulted over the years, probably by the old man who even now, this quiet winter’s day, sat at a rectangular desk with a pen in his hand and a blank sheet of paper before him. The desk was drawn to the window and the pale light of the morning fell upon him.
He was, as any onlooker would have discerned, in that late stage of human existence commonly described as old age. His countenance, deeply inscribed by wrinkles, furrows, clefts and corrugations, and reminiscent of a dried-up river bed, seemed to be that of one who, in the course of a life’s long journeying, had found much matter upon which to reflect and ponder. His head, although largely bald, retained enough straggling hairs to enable one to reconstruct an image of his youthful self, and to hint that in former times he might have been sufficiently handsome to have caught the eye of a young woman searching for a lover. The arches of his eyebrows were a pale ash-grey, almost the same colour as his moustache, which drooped faintly beneath a strongly curving nose, more Roman than aquiline.
As to the details of his habiliments, he wore the following: a pair of corduroy trousers, ginger in colour but faded in their upper parts, in consequence of much crossing and uncrossing of legs, with several pieces of knotted string acting as a belt; a light brown knitted waistcoat, fraying at the edges, and with one bone button hanging loose; a white shirt; a dark green woollen tie, inaccurately knotted at his neck; and an old, crocheted shawl, beige in colour, which lay over his shoulders. These appeared to suggest an individual who paid but little attention to matters of dress and for whom the vagaries of fashion no longer held any interest, if they had ever done so.
A fire had been lit some time before, and was even now down to its last coals. Dozing before it on a small rug lay an elderly dog of the terrier variety, with brown ears and pale fur, the matted and dirty condition of which inescapably led to the conclusion that it had lately been engaged in some private agricultural activity, possibly involving the pursuit of rats or rabbits or the burial of bones. Its eyes were closed, but every so often it began to whimper in some canine dream; its paws twitched, its muzzle trembled, it uttered a low growl as it encountered some phantasmal enemy.
None of this appeared to breach the meditations of the old man, who had been seated at the desk, in much the same posture, for more than an hour, without stirring, or without paying any heed to the goings-on of the external world. In truth, he was in an interlude – a reverie, of a kind that had become altogether familiar to him over the years. That is to say, although he was not writing, he was waiting to write. The pen was there, the paper there, but the creative moment had not yet arrived. Considerable periods of time might pass in this fashion, especially in the lull of a winter’s morn such as now, while his mind moved at its own steady and mysterious pace, like that of a planet revolving round a sun.
He had learnt that it was a mistake to force the issue. Usually, not always but usually, after an extended period of contemplation, a thought would occur and lead to another thought, and thence to a line of verse, and after this first line others would arrive rapidly, of their own volition. He could not have easily accounted for this mysterious process, although at times it seemed akin to dreaming, and indeed the poems often came to him like dreams.
After a little, a phrase began to appear like a sail on a distant horizon. ‘The veil of time’. ‘The veil of time’? – he considered it as from afar, then closer to. ‘When the veils of time are lifted’. Or would this not be better: ‘When the veils of the present are lifted’? He contemplated ‘When the veils of the present are lifted on the past’ – and began to suspect that it was an old line that he had used upon some other occasion, or an echo of a line that some other writer had used in a poem he could no longer remember. Spenser? Shakespeare? Shelley? Fitzgerald? Or was it, as so often turned out to be the case, Biblical in origin? At all events, it seemed too familiar, and too superficially attractive. He was wary of glibness.
Another phrase, ‘the bride of time’, tried to engage him. ‘The veil lifts upon the bride of time’ – but no, he did not like that at all. He lost interest.
He gazed at the calendar that stood on his desk, the crimson numerals and letters on its page inaccurately announcing the date to be that of March the seventh. Beside it lay a pair of scissors; beside that a magnifying glass; beside that an ivory paper-knife.
He rose from his chair, the back legs of which gave a slight scrape on the wooden floor, sufficient to disturb the dog, which lifted its head and stared at him with an interrogative look. ‘No,’ he said, ‘nothing. Nothing – go to sleep’ – whereupon the dog obediently lowered its head and returned to its uneasy slumbers.
The window of the study faced in an easterly direction, overlooking a part of the vegetable garden, and also one of the lawns. A heavy frost had fallen, and even now, in the shadows untouched by the sun’s rays, left a pallor on the grass that would probably remain all day. Late winter was generally the hardest season of the year, much harder than that of early winter; each night the polar air irresistibly tightened its grip on a passive countryside. Here on the hill above the town the fields were drab and bare, with every flinty rut as solid as stone. Trees stood motionless, deep in thought, the sap like old glue within the casing of their thick trunks. Buds slept in a trance, dreaming of the future.
Nothing that could stay in shelter willingly ventured abroad at such a time, but birds are obliged to hunt for sustenance. As the old man watched, a wood pigeon with a rosy breast landed on a slender bough and, shuffling to its further extremity, attempted to pick at a cluster of dark lustrous ivy berries before losing its perch and flying off with a clatter of wings.
As so often, this small and
unexpected event was enough to dislodge any mental impedimenta, and to set him going. He took a book of poetry – one bound in green leather – from a shelf, opened it at a particular place and set it on his desk. He was writing freely when the knock came, and he recognised it at once, for the maids always knocked harder. Indeed, it was scarcely a knock, more of a light, interrogative tap which, being so timid, irked him more than somewhat, for it seemed to suggest that the knocker was frightened of the reception she might receive.
He did not answer, though the sound halted the progress of his pen across the page.
At the second tap he sought to expunge from his features any trace of irritation. ‘Yes?’ he said, and saw the handle turn. The next moment she stood before him, her hands clasped in an attitude of entreaty.
‘Thomas,’ she said, ‘may I speak to you? I am sorry to disturb you. Are you not cold? It is very cold in here.’ So saying she glanced at the fire, which had burnt very low. ‘I don’t know how you can work like this.’
Was he cold? True, it was cold in the study, but not that cold; a certain amount of heat rose from the kitchen below and a certain amount emanated from the embers of the fire. Besides, old habits die hard, and he had long ago taught himself to ignore the cold. Sometimes he felt that he wrote better in cold conditions.
Rather pointedly, he put down his pen. Whatever the purpose of her entry, it was not to discuss the temperature of the room; much more likely, she had come to badger him about the trees. The trees: if that was it, he would refuse to discuss it now. Now was not the moment: he was writing! He had begun – was in mid flow! Did she not understand what that meant?
‘There is a letter,’ she began, and unclasping her hands she gave him a letter she had been holding. ‘I am not sure how you would like me to reply.’
The letter concerned a passage in an old novel of his in which, apparently, he had referred to certain amber butterflies that appeared on Egdon Heath and ‘were never seen elsewhere’. What, the writer of the letter demanded to know, was the species in question?
He did not know: that was his first, impatient response. The novel dated from a period so distant in his past that he could no longer recall the twists and turns of the plot, let alone the impulse that had led him to mention a butterfly of amber hue. Looking over the passage quoted in the letter, he had a curious sense that he was reading the work of another man. The inquiry was frankly pedantic, besides. The Fox Moth? The Lulworth Skipper? It did not surprise him to note that the writer came from London, for the urge to identify and classify species was a characteristic example of urban thought. Country folk generally saw beyond the narrowness of scientific nomenclature to the essence of things.
He handed the letter back to Florence. ‘I have not the slightest idea. Write anything. I am busy, I am writing.’
‘Thomas, I can’t write back and say you don’t remember. He requires an answer.’
‘Thank him for the letter and tell him that such matters are best left to the judgement of the reader.’
‘I am not sure that will satisfy him.’
‘Well, I am sorry.’
Upon which note he picked up his pen, as a signal for Florence to leave. She did not leave, however. ‘What are you writing?’ she asked in a tremulous voice.
‘Nothing of any great merit. A poem.’
‘I see.’ She remained where she was, her face suffused with anxiety. ‘Thomas, there is something else. I know that this may not be the best moment, but I have to speak. It concerns Gertrude Bugler.’
Gertie! The old man said nothing, though his eyes might well have shifted to the lines that he had just written, or to the open book, on one page of which lay a long black hair.
‘I have been thinking of her a great deal, and of her performing on the London stage. I am convinced that it is a mistake, a grave mistake, and that we should discourage her from proceeding any further in the matter. I fear that it will end in disaster for her.’
‘We have talked of this before. She is a very talented actress.’
‘She is a very limited actress. I am sorry to say such a thing but it is true, even though you are blind to it. She is striking, I grant you, and has many excellent qualities as a person, but she over-acts all the time. She over-elaborates. Her voice at times is painfully affected. I am not alone in this, you know. Others feel the same. The reviewers have been kind thus far, but only because they are judging her as an amateur. Once in London, at the Haymarket, judged by professional standards – you know how cruel they are. They will pitch into her and her illusions will be shattered. They will tear her to shreds.’
The old man put down his pen. ‘I understood that you were in favour of her going to London. You encouraged her.’
‘I did; but that was before she had a baby.’
‘What has that to do with it?’
‘Her baby is less than a year old. To be parted from its mother at this age – it cannot be right! It is her duty to stay with it. We must dissuade her.’
‘My dear,’ he said, doing his best to adopt a reasonable tone, ‘Gertrude has told us that she has talked it over with her husband, and that he is more than willing for her to go to London. That should be enough, surely.’
‘I fear for her marriage!’
‘Neither of us knows anything of the true state of her marriage. How husbands and wives behave towards each other in private is impossible to say. Besides, it is her chance, is it not? She has decided to take it.’ He paused. ‘I do not agree that she over-acts. She acts the part exactly as I conceived it. As for the newspapers, the same reviewers who praised her here will be judging her at the Haymarket.’
‘I am thinking of you and your good name. If she is savaged, you will be touched. Your reputation will be tainted by her failure. It would be so much better if a professional actress were to play the part. If Sybil Thorndike could play the part!’
The old man stared at his desk and said nothing.
She continued: ‘I should like you to write to Harrison. Tell him that he must engage a professional actress, if not Sybil Thorndike then someone else. I beg you, Thomas.’
‘But I do not want anyone else as Tess. I have every confidence in Gertrude.’
His mind was settled on this; nothing could have shifted it. Gertie’s performance of Tess at the Corn Exchange had won universal praise, and he could see no good reason for her not to play the part in London. Indeed, he very much doubted that a professional actress, even the redoubtable Sybil Thorndike, would play it any better. He had seen photographs of Sybil Thorndike: she did not look in the least like Tess, and almost certainly she would mangle the Wessex accent, which Gertie had to perfection.
‘Please, Thomas.’ She twisted her hands in agitation. ‘I beg you, for your own sake.’
‘But what would you have me say to Gertrude?’
‘She will understand.’
‘I disagree; she will not understand. Harrison has her offered the part, and she has accepted his offer. It cannot be withdrawn. The newspaper reviewers may or may not be cruel, but for us to tell her that she cannot play the part, that we have found someone else, would undoubtedly be an act of cruelty.’
‘Her marriage will be destroyed.’
‘I doubt it very much,’ he said in a tone of brutal finality, hoping to end the conversation. ‘A month or so away from her husband is scarcely going to destroy her marriage.’
‘But where will she live?’
The old man was bemused by the way her mind seemed to jump from one place to another. ‘In London? In an hotel, I imagine.’
‘And you intend to go up to see her?’
‘Certainly. When the time comes, I hope to be there. If I am still alive,’ he added dryly. ‘One never knows.’
‘You are not well enough. You are eighty-four … believe me, Thomas. You must not go. It would be most unwise.’
‘If I am unwell, then of course I shall not go. But I have every intention of going. I dare say I am capable of judg
ing my own health. One can worry about one’s health unnecessarily,’ he remarked.
It was perhaps not the kindest of observations, given Florence’s state of health, but it was not unjustified. The bump on her neck – what an Icelandic saga that had been! Dr. Gowring’s view, throughout, had been that it was merely an inflamed gland, but she had determined from the outset that it should be cancerous and that she needed to visit Harley Street for a second opinion. This had upset her greatly, for the Harley Street doctor had agreed with Gowring that there was no need to do anything about it; whereupon she had insisted on trying for a third opinion, and at last the doctor told her what she wanted to hear by pronouncing the gland to be ‘potentially cancerous’. Whether it was cancerous or not remained highly debatable, but finally, this last September, she had gone up to London for an operation to have it removed.
It was this to which her next remark referred.
Winter Page 17