The Black Laurel

by Storm Jameson

“I don’t think so. Why?”

  “He knows Gary. . . Only something he said the other day, when he was dining with us. The English have lived so well for so many hundreds of years that now we’re poor, really poor, we’re mentally unable to live like people used to economising and making do, we shall simply die. He took it very well, though, when I said how good for you Americans to have to stop advising and put on our shoes, and I hope they’ll fit you as well as they did us, and that you’ll dance as bravely in them. He’s not a bad chap at all.”

  “So we’re done for. Well, well. Any other news?”

  “I don’t think so. I ran into Brett last night, he was in a black temper and bit my head off. I knew why. He had the chap you call your landlord, what’s his name, Rechberg, under the microscope, and the old man let him out. I suspect a spot of unofficial pressure. No, I don’t mean that, no one can twist the old man, but he wouldn’t be sorry if he and Gary — they’ve become bosoms — took the same view. Heard anything?”

  “No.”

  He was puzzled by the unpleasant feeling the incident gave him. He shook it off — and with it the half-formed impulse to tell Edward about Gary’s offer. At the moment when he came into the room, not to tell him had seemed ridiculous. Now he felt that he had almost made an ass of himself. He was uncomfortable, filled with a nagging mistrust; and he held his tongue.

  Edward was knotting his tie in front of the glass. In a casually amiable voice,

  “If you’ve nothing else to do, come with me to see Mary and the child. To tell the truth —” when Edward said this, he meant: What I need at this moment... “I’m not anxious to see Mary alone. I’m very fond of her still, but —” he frowned and seemed faintly embarrassed.

  Arnold’s heart began to beat more quickly; he wanted to stand up and give it room, but he sat still, sinking his head on his chest. He cleared his throat.

  “It’s like that, is it?”

  Turning from the glass, Edward said, with the greatest frankness,

  “Listen, my dear. I don’t want to have any trouble, or offend you again. Just tell me one thing — do you want Lise at all, or don’t you?”

  “No.”

  It vexed him that he could not get out another word; his coolness was in danger of giving way, and it seemed that he could save it by holding his tongue.

  “Then that’s all right,” Edward said, with a slight smile.

  “How d’you mean?”

  “Nothing much. She’s a pretty child, completely without any vanity, a little too spirited — and writes amusing letters.”

  “Oh, does she. Do you answer them?”

  He was surprised by the angry pity he felt, as if he had seen Lise composing, with infinite pains, the letters meant to impress Edward: he felt humiliated for her, she might be his child who was being mocked.

  “She wrote once — thanking me for something I sent her. Yes, I answered. I don’t know why.”

  Arnold tried to control his temper. It rushed up in him, and before he could stop himself he had said,

  “I’ll tell you why — because you see nothing unpleasant in taking up the girl when you’ve had enough of her mother. I don’t like your habits.”

  He had gone too far. Edward looked at him with malice.

  “I won’t quarrel with you,” he said coldly. “Of course you’re not disinterested. I ought to have known it. You can be sure of one thing, she —”

  Arnold interrupted him; he was in difficult control of himself again, and desperately impatient to turn his back on the whole thing.

  “I don’t want to argue about it. Besides, I must go, I have to dine with a chap.”

  He got up. As he reached the door, Edward said quietly,

  “It’s not worth a row. I wish you’d stay.”

  To stay was the last thing he could do: if he did not go quickly, he would lose his temper again; he felt it lying uneasily in wait in all his muscles. He walked out without answering.

  When he stepped out of the club, it was almost dark. Turning left, he walked without knowing where he was going. He was blindly angry and bewildered. In a few minutes his anger weakened and he began trying to think clearly. He had disgraced himself by losing his temper, but the disgrace did not worry him. Much worse things were happening to him — he felt more confused and wretchedly unhappy than he had ever been in his life. What do I do now? he asked himself childishly. Get drunk? In front of him, at the other side of the road, he saw Hyde Park. Darkness flowed from the trees, towards the paler sky and out to the gentle rumour of the city; in the October mist the line of buildings beyond the trees was a vapour or its own ghost. He rushed across the road, so narrowly avoiding a car that his heart jumped into his throat. His escape steadied him. I’ve made every sort of fool of myself, he thought; I’m no better than Edward, my vices happen to be different, that’s all, but I don’t want to see him again. . . Even at this moment, he was sure that if he went back to the club he could patch things up; Edward was not likely to make it difficult for him. Nothing, however, would take this taste out of his mouth — of revulsion and bitterness. And do I really know what he would do, or anything about him? he thought. . . Or about her? He stood still, to get his breath. His anguish choked him. I understand why she’s fallen for him; it’s natural. I can’t stop her, I can’t put it right. . . He could not deal with his despair. He began to walk quickly, almost running over the grass. . . Tomorrow I shan’t feel this, I shan’t know what it was about. . . Obscurely, he thought that his quarrel with Edward was probably the worst thing that had ever happened to him, worse than anything to do with Lise — far worse.

  Coming out of the Park, he went on walking with a desperate energy, choosing ill-lit side-streets. He believed he was walking at random. When he reached the Embankment, not a hundred yards from Mrs Brett’s block of flats, he realised that he had known exactly where he was going. He walked across the road to the river. Staring up, he tried to determine which of many lighted windows were those of her flat. Behind one of them, Lise was expecting Edward. Rage and grief fought in him. His face worked foolishly: with horror, he felt that he might burst into tears.

  An elderly man passed and looked inquisitively at him in the light from a street-lamp. At once, he was able to seem calm. He stared morosely and defiantly at the man and walked on.

  Less than an hour earlier Lise had come in and gone to her own room. Just as she closed the door she decided to destroy or give away to a young cousin all the frivolities of her childhood. Why? — heaven knows why, but once she had thought of it she could not wait a minute; she opened every drawer in the chest and threw out schoolbooks, scraps of ribbon, coloured postcards, a pair of worn-out bronze dancing sandals, shells, small animals — eight of them — covered in calf-skin. The pleasure of throwing things away went to her head, and she pulled out of her wardrobe (a half-empty cupboard) two dresses which for some reason displeased her. It was unfortunate that they were the new ones, chosen by her mother. She hesitated, then tied them quickly into a parcel: from now on she refused to wear anything so proud or so handsome that it intimidated her.

  Suddenly, she remembered that Tuesday was a friend’s birthday and sat down and wrote to her — briefly, since this friend never read letters. From now on, too, she would take care to remember all anniversaries... At this moment, without thinking about it, she put the animals back on their shelf: so much love had been poured into them that it would be only right to save it for a child of her own. As they had helped her so would they help and comfort that child and confide to him all she had once, in her loneliness, confided in them.

  She looked with smiling happiness at the desert she had made. It was seven o’clock, time to change for dinner. It was also one of the moments when she read Edward’s letter again. A rite, only a rite — she knew it by heart. She looked for it in its place, in the drawer with her handkerchiefs. It was not there — the truth being that it had several places. She stood still, to think about him. If I hadn’t written to him,
she thought, I shouldn’t have known he loved me. . . She smiled at herself in the mirror. Confused, she said aloud, “How silly you are. He would have said it, of course — but when?” . . . She half knew that what had made her write was not the need to thank him for a trifling present. Since her mother spoke to her about him, she had felt so ashamed. He must, must be made to respect her again. She wrote her letter several times before it satisfied her. His reply. . . I shall insist, she thought, on both of us reading at meals, so that when one of us speaks it will be important and I shall shut my book up and listen; or if I ask him for something and he stands up to reach it and puts his arms round me. . . She had forgotten to breathe, and closed her eyes giddily. Opening them, she saw her mother coming into the room.

  Without speaking, Mrs Brett laid Edward’s letter on the dressing-table. Lise looked at it in silence, she had become hollow and could not speak.

  Her mother, too, was silent; there was something in her face unlike herself, a simplicity and sternness. After a moment, she said,

  “I took it out of your drawer. I’ve read it.”

  Lise could speak now. She asked calmly,

  “Why did you steal my letter?”

  “How often has Captain West written to you?”

  “Once. This letter.”

  “How often have you written to him?”

  “Only once.”

  “Are you telling me the truth.”

  “You know I am,” the girl said in a light voice.

  Mrs Brett walked about the room. When she was reading the letter, she had felt despair, anger, and an emotion she knew was jealousy, but she would not give it a name for fear that if she did that she would never be able to turn it out. In the moment when she opened the door and saw Lise, a terrible grief took possession of her. It was not only grief. She felt guilty towards the young girl, for much else than for having wanted to punish her. . . She bored me and I neglected her. Heaven forgive me and help me. . . Nothing mattered now except to save the child from making a terrible, perhaps ruinous, mistake. She felt something like fear.

  “Lise,” she said gently, “this is the kind of letter people write nowadays. It doesn’t mean anything. A less experienced, a simpler or a kinder young man, wouldn’t write to you in these terms. But they don’t, I assure you, mean that he is in love with you. All they mean is that Captain West thinks it would be amusing to —” she hesitated — “to flatter you.”

  The girl looked at her with a smile.

  “What nonsense! Why should he do that?”

  “Why indeed! My poor Lise, because he’s cold-hearted and inquisitive. I know him very well. He wouldn’t think he’d done you any harm — whatever he did. But, he would treat you quite differently. . . if you were a young woman he meant to marry. I assure you.”

  In a calm voice, and with the same half mischievous smile, Lise said,

  “It’s obvious you don’t know him, mamma. I’ve talked to him half a dozen times, but I know him better than that.”

  With despair, she saw that she was making no impression on Lise. A radiant confidence and happiness cut the girl off from her. Nothing she could say would reach through them. Nothing? With an intolerable clarity she saw that only the truth would be any good. At once she felt an agonised revulsion against the thought of destroying the girl’s young pride — it can injure her for life, she thought.

  Or am I, she thought suddenly, only afraid for myself?

  This steadied her: she even felt calm.

  “There is something I must tell you. I would rather not tell you — but unless I do you won’t believe me. It’s not anything you can understand. You wouldn’t, I mean, understand that when I married I was your age, and knew less about myself. You have more —” she hesitated — “more natural dignity than I had. You’ll make fewer mistakes.”

  She hesitated again, feeling, with a helpless grief, that it was impossible to tell anyone about herself. Not that I matter, she thought, but it might have made it easier for her. She went on, slowly,

  “One of my mistakes was to fall in love with Edward West. Not very many years ago.”

  The change in Lise’s face was terrible. Her mother looked at her and shuddered. . . What am I doing?. . . She saw that she must tell her quickly now; the absurd idea crossed her mind that if she had had more practice pulling thorns out of a child’s hand, she would know better what to say, and how to spare her. But when had she even been there when a child needed her?

  “We have been in love with each other for more than four years,” she said gently. “Please understand me. Yes, I see you do understand me. I needn’t go on. Try to forgive me for having to tell you.”

  Looking her in the face, Lise said,

  “The only thing I don’t understand is why he wanted to be in love with an old woman.”

  Thank heaven she can be cruel, Mrs Brett thought. In a humble voice she answered,

  “It was vanity — his and mine.”

  Lise blushed crimson, like a child.

  “How you must have laughed at me, both of you.”

  “We have never spoken of you,” Mrs Brett said. She added, “I won’t speak to him about you. I promise you.”

  She felt herself trembling. Have I put things right? Have I saved her?. . . Lise had picked up the letter. She held it for a moment, as if she could not decide what to do with it; then, deliberately and slowly, tore it into pieces, and let them fall out of the open window. She came back into the middle of the room: suddenly she burst into tears, sobbing and pressing her hands to her eyes and shaking her hair over her face. Hurrying to her, her mother held her closely, stroking her hair, repeating, “My love, my little love”, with a deep shameful happiness. The girl clung to her for a moment. Then very gently and quickly drew back; and stood drying her eyes, with a faint smile.

  The smile startled her mother — it was not mocking, yet somewhere behind it there was both mockery and pride. Anxiously, she said,

  “You won’t think about this too much, will you? You don’t know now how quickly it will seem unimportant, and then nothing.”

  “It’s quite unimportant,” Lise said, with a gentle coldness. Her mother made another effort, using, she felt, all her strength.

  “I should like to make up to you for it, my darling. Is there anything you want very much? Would you like us to go away?”

  Looking at her with the same smile, Lise said gently,

  “There’s nothing I want.”

  She did not say: from you — she perhaps did not think it — but her mother heard it, clearly. With the same atrocious clearness she saw that she had put things right, at a cost. This, the first moment in which she found the young girl’s loving admiration something more than amusing, was the moment when she knew she had lost it — probably for life. Without speaking again, she went away.

  In her own room, she looked at herself in the mirror. The strong lights on either side of the glass showed her not only the fine lines crossing her temples, but the scarcely perceptible slackening below her chin. It was very little — yet; it could be remedied.

  She felt humiliated and bruised. Nothing had ever hurt her so deeply as the girl’s last words. When she was thinking this, she thought: I did the hardest thing anyone could do, and what have I got for it? I could have found some other way: I could have packed her off to Humphrey’s sister, and frightened Edward into promising not to write to her. . . Tears came into her eyes, she forced them back, and said softly, “My poor Mary, my poor Mary.” A feeling that she had abased herself — for nothing — seized her. It put her past all desire to cry. Bitterly mortified, she thought: What possessed me to tell her?

  Chapter Thirty

  Through Scorel, Renn had a note from the Mother Superior of the convent in the cellars. The Czech priest, in Berlin again in the course of his errands, had told her that he had seen in one of the internment camps, in Prague, a young woman who had given her name as Marie Pieck. He had never seen Marie Pieck when she was living in the ce
llar, but the young woman in the Czech camp, as he described her, could be that Marie. A fortnight ago, when he saw her, she was very ill, too ill to be talked to, but the doctor told him she was recovering. . . “Is it worth your while to go and see her?”. . . She gave him the name of the camp, and added, “No doubt you will know how to get in.”

  Renn reflected. He could get away for a day or two, it would be pleasant to leave Berlin and go to Prague. True, it was a flimsy sort of building they were running up — this Marie Pieck need not be the Mother Superior’s, and her Marie Pieck need not be Marie Duclos. . . Am I justified in picking up so crazy a thread? Am I, if I don’t, shutting for the second time the door I shut on a lost terrified girl six years ago?

  In an obscure corner of his mind he knew that he was as shamefully afraid of finding Marie as anxious to find her. It is never pleasant to look at one’s victims — (which may be a reason for burving them in quicklime or in the ovens of camps). What must she look like? She was ruined then, he thought, lost, ruined, before I. . .

  Another idea struck him. If he left Berlin, he left Kalb, as it were, friendless. They had Gary’s promise — he smiled, thinking of the triumphant sarcasms in Arnold’s letter. But what was it worth? The man is a brute, he thought, a great man and a great brute. On an impulse, he rang up Brett, who said, “My dear boy, go of course. Why not? What the devil can you do for Kalb? I saw Gary yesterday evening, and he told me he remembered the fellow and would drop a word to Patterson. There’s nothing more you can do. Go — what’s tomorrow? Thursday. Go tomorrow.”

  Already, before speaking to Brett, he had decided to go. An excitement so deep that it showed itself only as a dryness of his lips possessed him. What can I do for her when I see her? he asked himself. He meant, he knew it: What can she do for me?

  Late on Thursday afternoon, Rudolf Gerlach came to the end of an argument with himself which had been going on since three in the morning — or it was then he noticed it. Less an argument than a delirium. He was alone in their two rooms: Trotha had been taken to the country for a week by his young woman, and Kurt Bœsig had left, saying that he had business in the Zone and would be away a month. He won’t come back, Gerlach thought — the Free Cripples are dissolving. Alone, he had spent the rest of the night walking up and down the room, thinking, with a little remorse, about his uncle Lucius, and a great deal about himself. Why had Leist dropped him? Why, after promising to use him in all kinds of ways, had he left Berlin without even saying: I shall be back, or: I shan’t be back? . . . What’s going to become of me? he thought feverishly. Where do I go for honey, what can I do?