For Love Alone

by Christina Stead

  He heard the bell at the front door. He was about to go when he heard Lucy’s steps in the hall and he smiled to himself; Lucy too had been listening for the bell. He heard the voices of the two, he opened his door. “Hullo, Tess,” he said jovially. Lucy swung past, her shoulders bent and bowed, just as usual, carrying a packet of paper. Teresa said: “Oh, you have some flowers!” He picked up his pipe and began to stuff it.

  “Yes, Lucy got them out of the garbage tin or somewhere and put them there.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly.”

  She laughed. He looked at her good-naturedly. He noticed that she had a certain slight, almost delicate charm when she was in a good mood. He had had nothing to do the livelong day and had thought up a more sympathetic way of approaching her. He asked her about her book, the one that was to be about Miss Haviland. She tucked her gloves away behind a vase, took off her hat, stood up against the large oak table near the door, and clasping her hands, with eyes wide open and shining, she told him about it; she had really written some pages. This astonished him. He had thought it was one of the novels of life that the girls he knew had always been thinking of writing.

  “I’d like to look it over,” he said. She refused. It was not ready, she had to think it out, he could not see it before it was ready to print. He smiled and said eagerly: “You mean, you’ll really write a book about Miss Haviland?”

  “When I first heard her story I thought, I’ll write about the sorrows of women.”

  “The sorrows of women,” he said, laughing tenderly. It was getting dark and he judged it better to leave the lights off. She was much better in the dark, something fell away from her, she became a different woman. One would have said, just to hear her softened fluent voice, her variable tones, that she had become a desirable woman. How queer to put the light on later and see her.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It will be called ‘The Testament of Women’.”

  “Rather funereal?”

  “Or ‘The Seven Houses’.”

  “Ah that’s more like it. ‘The Angel in the House’?”

  She laughed. Her voice had become contralto, it was the dark working. He had only noticed this last week. She went to the window and looked down into the yard. He had started towards her when, after a brief knock at the door, Lucy came. into the room, saying “Excuse me!” Jonathan halted at the fire and bent down to turn the gas lower. He said in a dry tone to Teresa: “It is getting warmer this evening”, and then to Lucy: “What is that?”

  “The flowers,” said Lucy. She took away the half-dead pinks and sweet williams in a small white vase, and put in their place a green vase with yellow roses. She said in her ladylike voice: “The young lady brought them and I put them in water.” Then she went out, closing the door after her.

  “Did you bring those?” said Jonathan angrily.

  “Yes.” He could not see her loving expression until she reached the gas-fire.

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m afraid it’s wasted on me.”

  “They look nice.”

  “Not to me, I’ve got no eye for that kind of thing. Take them home with you!”

  “I can’t take them home,” she said. “Why, you had flowers here.”

  “Lucy—I don’t know where she got them, as I said before.”

  “Well, don’t take it hard, Jonathan.”

  He grumbled: “I don’t take it hard, don’t worry about me! I don’t even notice them, just some more dead flowers for Lucy to throw out in three or four days.”

  She sat on the edge of the table. “A funny thing, my French friend, Francine—that sounds like a musical comedy—said she would bet I was the kind of woman that took flowers to men. How did she know? I said I did.”

  “And she told you not to,” said Jonathan, laughing.

  “No! She said it could not be helped, in real love, one must do anything, go to any extreme, the point was to love truly.”

  “She said that? The French know about love,” Johnny conceded. “I thought you were going to bring her.”

  “She wouldn’t come, she said some other time.”

  After a long silence, during which she swung a leg under the table, he resumed: “I was beginning to think that you had made up your mind it was wiser to stay away.” He lounged across the room and put his pipe on the mantelpiece. “I had a letter from my mother, unopened since Christmas Day, which I only just opened while waiting for you. She reproaches me, of course, for my way of life.” He laughed brazenly. “There is something uncanny and unholy in mother love, perhaps it is the absolute, unhallowed, unquestioned property of each sex in the other, the only case in which it occurs—but why argue? There it is! She is angry with me, has been for six months, and I didn’t know. I was happy until now. You must own men, husbands or sons.”

  “We have no other property,” said Teresa. She threw herself backwards across the table, her long silk-clad legs dangling. She flung her arms outwards and upwards and consulted the dark ceiling. “We don’t want the souls of men,” she laughed.

  “I don’t know,” he muttered. He looked at her with surprise, put on the standard lamp to see her better. He could see round knees and thighs; her attitude was provocative but she had not sent a glance in his direction. She went on addressing the ceiling. “I almost did stay away tonight.”

  “Ah!” She sat up and saw his depthless dark eyes on her. She continued: “A man on the street asked me to go for a walk with him and I nearly did.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “It wasn’t a pick-up,” she said quickly.

  “If it was? What’s the cliff?” Insolent, staring, he came close to her. “Yes, there is danger,” he said, breathing small. “Just fear, it’s not attractive to think that’s the foundation of chastity, is it?”

  “Why isn’t it?” She swung her legs. “Besides, I think love makes you chaste.”

  He snorted a laugh. “Not likely.” After a moment he said miserably: “But I don’t know, don’t pay any attention to me.”

  She looked at him standing quite close to her with resigned love, sighed: “Jonathan—”

  “What was that you wrote about me?”

  “What?”

  “The poem—verse—”

  “I don’t know, ‘He bath made this night’, or ‘Who hath made this night’, or—I don’t know any more.”

  “Funny, isn’t it—it must seem funny to you now?”

  “Oh, never, Jonathan,” she said huskily. “I will always feel that way.”

  “About me—that’s funny, isn’t it?”

  “Why—” But the word was half choked in her throat and ended on a whistling note as he flung himself upon her, grasping her tight and trying to make her bend backwards. She had no idea of his intention, only of the brutality of his clutch and his hoarse breathing. She remained quite still, her breath gone. He did not kiss her, or move, merely held her like iron. She was angry and whispered: “Stand up, Jonathan.” After a moment, he coolly released her and walked away to the window. She got down from the table and sat in his arm-chair, the first time she had ever done that. After a couple of minutes she continued as before: “The man I met in the street was my boss, Mr Quick. He happened to be passing down Southampton Row when I was coming here.”

  “And?” He had his back turned.

  “He wanted me to go for a coffee.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  She stared. “I was coming here. Even so, I was late, just standing there talking to him. I walked to the corner with him.”

  “Why didn’t you bring him along? I’d like to meet a City man.” He added: “If he has influence in the U.S., which he probably has, he might even give me a leg up.”

  “Oh, he would, he’s so kind.”

  “Let me ask him,” said Jonathan. “I’m sorry you didn’t bring him along.”

  “Next time I will.”

  “Any outsider might help,” said Jonathan heartil
y. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” He laughed lazily. “All’s fish to my fry. Could I go down to his office one day?” She hesitated, said Quick mightn’t know who Jonathan was. “Wait till I ask him,” she said.

  He flung an angry look at her, “Never mind, let’s drop it.”

  “Don’t drop it.”

  He sulked.

  “Let me speak to him, Johnny, he’s very decent.”

  “All right, but just say I’d like to learn about the City, and later I’ll put it to him about the universities.”

  “You ought to learn a bit about practical life too, it would do no harm.” He was silent, raging. He flung a malevolent look. He cried: “Yes, the American spirit I suppose.” Then he brightened, “You’re getting it, aren’t you?”

  He went on about his prospects, and he placed each word so that she could see that she was no figure in his future. She presently left off thinking about Quick and the office and listened to Jonathan’s monologue with bursting heart. She thought: “His life is just beginning and mine is over. What will happen to me? The work is getting harder, soon I will have to give it up and then—perhaps I will have to get work as a maid like Lucy, I will drop one day, they will put me out and next winter, for sure, that’s my limit.”

  Jonathan perceived her gloom and became light-hearted. He did not offer her tea, which was a loss to her because she was hungry.

  She had just paid in advance three pounds seventeen and sixpence to a French teacher whose advertisement she had answered. She had bought a typewriter out of her savings because Jonathan complained he had no secretary to type his notes and essays, and so she was poor again. She was trying to save money to go to France, but could not, she had lost the knack. In the stupidity of habit, she was again walking to the office in the City. When she got home, after walking back, she ate bread, cheese, and honey and drank milk. This was her supper. At lunch-time, she took a bun and a cup of tea. She had foolishly put down some money on a beautiful embroidered dress which was laid by in a shop for her. She went to no theatres or concerts, but a few extra expenses she had, which were necessary to please Jonathan; her hair, a pair of good shoes, were enough to extinguish her salary. She could not save money and her savings brought over from Australia were nearly gone. Jonathan knew nothing of all this, as he knew nothing of her previous struggles. He went on talking about the U.S.A. She borrowed a book on economics from him and returned one. When she left, he went out with her, putting on his black hat and scarf, so that he looked Italian, and he walked with her into Russell Square, where he shook hands with her, again mentioning James Quick. To his surprise, after the good-nights were said, she murmured: “Johnny, dear, let me walk back to your house with you, it’s so early.”

  “Why not? I thought you wanted to go early.”

  She actually felt all of his replies on her heart, which contracted painfully and irregularly and which seemed bruised by his ignorance of her misery.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Why not, if it pleases you?” the young man said. He turned on his heel and they retraced their steps.

  “A few minutes with you is enough to calm me,” she murmured.

  “Why aren’t you calm?” he asked with a smile.

  “I don’t know—because of you, Jonathan, perhaps.”

  “Haven’t you got over that yet?” he asked in a brotherly tone.

  “Over what ?”

  “Over liking me too much.”

  “I never liked you too much.”

  “Oh, yes, you did, and you thought too much of me. It wasn’t for want of warning, was it?”

  “No, you were always fair to me, Johnny.”

  “That’s good then,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I know myself I am not to blame.”

  “There is no blame. You are very kind to me.”

  “Why not? Time’s short and I’ll be gone soon.”

  She did not answer.

  “I have nothing to keep me here or anywhere,” he said with melancholy.

  “I know, Johnny.”

  “I’ll lay my head on a boarding-house pillow for the rest of my life—” Abruptly he became cheerful. “But what do I care—I care for nobody, no not I, and nobody cares for me.” He leaned over her, grinning.

  She murmured: “That isn’t true.”

  “It isn’t true, eh? Then who does care for me, for myself, that is?”

  “Others, you have friends.”

  He laughed bitterly. “And you, eh? The blind leading the halt. What a push, eh? We don’t know what we’re missing, do we? But I don’t know, that’s the point.”

  “I don’t believe that, Johnny.”

  He ground out fiercely: “You don’t believe it?” intimidating her.

  “You’ve just been unlucky, Johnny.”

  “So you think I can love, too?” he said, turning and facing her. Then he swung round and went on, ignoring her, leaving her a pace behind. “Well, perhaps, but I don’t care, I’m beyond good and evil.” They turned into Malet Street and walked along side by side without a word. At his gate, Johnny hesitated, expecting her to say good night. She felt as if she would burst, almost threw herself into his arms, to get the momentary comfort of his arms and breast. But she saw him standing there like a stone, his arms straight at his side.

  Jonathan resignedly walked to the gate, put his hand on it. “Well, Tess, here we are. Night-night.”

  She could not force a good night. He looked at her curiously, with a faint smile. She turned to go but after taking a step, came back just as he was pushing open the gate. She began speaking hurriedly, in a low tone: “Jonathan, let me come back for a while, inside for a while, only a few minutes.”

  “What to do?” said Jonathan insultingly, throwing back his head.

  “Not to do anything, to be there a moment.”

  He turned stiffly and walked up to the door without saying a word. Afraid and ashamed, she stood at the gate watching him. He put the key in the lock, looked over his shoulder, opened the door, went inside and stood there, then he beckoned stiffly. After apparently wrestling with herself, she came up the path and stairs with uneven steps and stood outside the door. He pointed the way to his room without a word. She stood inside the door with a flushed face, then blustered: “Johnny, I’m going.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t want me.”

  “I do,” he said in a hard tone. “I want you very much.” She looked frightened.

  “Come in,” he said with rough good-humour. “After all, I didn’t give you tea, that’s what you need perhaps, it’s been a long evening. Then I’ll set you on your way.”

  “I didn’t come back for tea,” she said, slowly pulling off her gloves; but she was hungry.

  He pushed her inside his door, took off his hat and muffler, pulled down the wall-bed and threw her things on it.

  “I’m pretty sleepy,” he said, “so I might as well air it a bit before I go to bed. The maid used to do it but old Bagshawe started to make a row about her coming here in the evening, said damned suggestive things that no doubt she chews over in her lecherous old mind, and so now I do it myself.” She sat down by the fire in a low seat. He filled the kettle with fresh water, put it on, all the time casting glances at her, while she looked downwards, with shame, at the mat. He smiled wryly. “Well, feeling better?”

  “I impose on you, you have troubles of your own.”

  “Nothing that will break or bend me. I’m not like you, sufficient unto the day is my motto, but you look before and after and pine for what is not.” He knelt by her to light the gas. “Eh? Isn’t that it?”

  “I don’t know why I’m like this,” she said, still looking down with shame. “I’ve practised self-control ever since I was a child, never let on, never let them know what was the matter with me, that was my ideal. It just passed from me. It doesn’t work any more.”

  “You’re a masochist,” he said. “Your whole history shows that, that girl on the boat, everything. You enjoy
seeing yourself suffer, you see, you don’t want others to share the spectacle with you, all the Christian martyrs under one hat—” he looked up, smiled, “one blond thatch. Isn’t that it? Put it to yourself.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  He laughed. She went on thoughtfully: “I never meant anyone to get the better of me, get through my armour so to speak. I couldn’t work it. You did.”

  “What do I do?” he asked gently, still kneeling by her feet. “It isn’t your doing. It’s my fault. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Don’t you know what’s the matter with you?” He looked into her face with such a strange, hard, gay expression that she felt the painful fire corkscrew through her from her knees where he knelt to her head. She looked warily at him. He veiled his eyes, got up to get the things out of the cupboard and said thickly: “What’s the matter with all of us? We haven’t what we need, the sweets of the world go to property and privilege.”

  “I don’t want those things.”

  “If you had them would you be in the hole you’re in now?” She looked up with sudden pride. “What hole?”

  “Where you are,” he said vaguely. “At Quick’s beck and call, working all day for a man who can sack you at the end of the week. You’ll be looking for work perhaps next week. But you,” he snarled, turning and looking hard at her, “now you see a lot of good in Quick. You’re credulous, you believe in the boss. What’s that but masochism? This masochism of yours is just a way of making spiritual capital out of your weakness. You’re helpless, but you don’t see it. So you go on putting yourself at the mercy of one person after another. It all comes from your inability to move freely. You’re pinned down. If you don’t like your job you must stick to it.”

  “But I do like it—”

  “If you don’t like London you must live here, if you don’t like me, you must stick to me—”

  “I’ve changed jobs and countries.”

  “But not me,” he said, smiling.

  “No,” she said very low.

  “I’d rather you changed me too, I can give you nothing.”

  “I know, Johnny.” Her voice broke. “Johnny, you have given me everything.”