The Black Laurel
Page 41
Her hand on the young woman’s arm, as if to keep her from running away, the nun said,
“I asked you to come so that you can tell her that you don’t intend to harm her. Will you tell her so?”
She went into the other cellar, leaving Renn alone with Marie. He felt a difficulty in talking to her, and she herself said nothing: a flicker of malice came into her eyes as she listened to his clumsy story of his search for her. At last she said,
“Why? Why did you bother?”
Yes, why? As always, it was for myself, he thought heavily; to get rid of a regret: not to have to carry about with me that last glimpse of her, in the bed in the ugly shabby room. And, as always, it is too late. I’m not being given the chance to cancel out any of my failures, the failures of a cold heart. And indeed, why should I be? I had no right to expect it.
“I’m sorry,” he began, “sorry I tormented and frightened you that evening. Since then, you’ve had a hard life — my fault.”
He paused. She did not answer.
“How long. . . why did you come back here?” he asked.
“Here? To the sisters? I had nowhere else to go.”
She had spoken in the gentle drawling voice of the young girl. His glance fell on her hand, covered with fine scratches, as if she had been playing with a cat; and he remembered that it had been the same in those days: her hand, too, had not changed, it was still the hand almost of a child, a short soft thumb and dimpled wrist. He was seized by pity. The temptation — to sacrifice himself — sprang in him at the same instant, from the same depth. He threw himself into it as a man followed by wolves might roll over a cliff. In a hurried voice he said,
“Marie, there is an easy way of getting you home again — to safety. If you were married. . . will you marry me? I’ll look after you, you know. And there’s —” he only remembered him as he spoke — “the boy.”
He felt a pang of doubt. He waited. Marie was looking at him with an ironic smile.
“Thank you. It’s good of you, but I don’t want pity.”
“Yes, forgive me,” he muttered, “but it’s the best way — much. Think it over.” Without knowing it, he smiled — and added, “You needn’t live with me, what I’m suggesting is a way of getting you home; we’ll arrange then what would be the best life you —”
She had scarcely listened. With a restless movement, as though she were bored by his talk, she interrupted. There was, or he imagined it, a touch of scorn in her voice.
“No, it’s impossible. What made you think of it? It would be silly and ridiculous, and you would soon resent it. . .”
She was silent. After a moment, almost with indifference, she said,
“But there’s the child. Why not save him?”
“What?”
“I mean, take him away. Mr Scorel says you’re going to England, and that you’re not a policeman. If you want, if you really want to do something to help, take him with you. Keep him. He doesn’t know me — and I — well, I’m not used to him.”
“But —”
He broke off. Someone — Scorel — had come in from outside. At once, her face changed; its sullenness and boredom vanished, she became gentle and answered him in a confident lively voice, like a child talking to an adult it has known and trusts. Renn turned sharply, and went into the next cellar, where he expected to find the Mother Superior. She was there — seated at a table with a lamp, her small hands lying idly in her lap, her eyes closed. She opened them when she heard him come in, and looked at him with a calm intent scrutiny. She moved — so that he saw, behind her, in the darkness outside the little circle of light, the child lying quietly on its mattress.
“You haven’t forgotten William, have you?” she asked. “He’s been ill. We thought he was going, but he’s better — or almost — thanks to our good Scorel’s medicines and oil.”
Renn did not look at the child. He said abruptly,
“His mother has just asked me to take him to England, and keep him.”
After a minute, the nun said calmly,
“Why not?”
“Why not? Look at me. What could I do for a child? I’m finished — no good to anyone. Un’ uomo finito.”
She smiled slightly. He felt that he had been absurd: what he had said was romantic nonsense. He said swiftly,
“In any case I’m a poor man, I’ve resigned from my only secure job, I shall always be poor — I can’t make money.”
Looking at him calmly, she said,
“What does it matter? We work on our lives until only what is essential — the few things our soul can bear to carry with it to the last minute — is left.”
“Easier to do that in solitude,” he said bitterly.
With surprise, she said,
“But the one thing we all have, without asking for it, is solitude.”
Standing up, she moved to look at the sleeping child. Renn followed her. She set the lamp on a chair near his mattress, but the child’s face was turned to the wall, and the only thing Renn saw of him was his fair hair, like dry flax in the light.
“Poor little devil — he could hardly have chosen a worse age to be born into.”
“The future must have looked as dark, even darker, many times before this,” she said, in her muted authoritative voice. “Besides, in the darkness seeds grow. At least it’s so in the earth we know, in Europe — which is used to growth.”
A silence. She is right, he thought. In spite of the millions of deaths, in spite of the dead cities, and the survivors burrowing in them like worms, we’re not living in a graveyard, We expect to live. Once more we shall pick ourselves up and set out towards a discovery and another death — knowing why, but not where. . . He said curtly,
“What about Marie?”
“You can’t help her,” she answered, “what she needs is warmth.”
Moving noiselessly, she set the door ajar between the two cellars. Scorel was in the middle of one of his reproving decided speeches. . . “My dear girl, you’ll certainly not go back to France, not with my consent. France is no place for a young woman, it’s corrupt, tired, bored, it needs fifty years’ hard work: you’ll go to Wisconsin, my wife will find work for you, you’ll be with other young men and women, you’ll learn, you’ll grow up, we shall see to that. Precisely. Mind, you’ll work hard, no easy life for you, let me tell you — you’ll work, yes.”
Marie laughed. It struck Renn that this was the first time he had heard her laugh. Closing the door again, the Mother Superior said placidly,
“You see. He is inexperienced, foolish in some ways, tiresome — but generous and good.”
Renn looked at her broad face, smooth, without a line, small pale eyes, aquiline nose, the face of a woman used to authority, unafraid, self-assured without meanness, hard: there was even cruelty in the short delicate mouth, but it had been turned to goodness. They are both bullies, he thought ironically: one old in experience, one new and crude. And both are good.
After a moment, she asked him,
“Are you taking the child?”
“Of course.”
At this moment, his dry life moved in him. With something between self-mockery and a painful joy, unexpected, he understood that he had attached himself again to the world by this child. He would have to work for it, and its survival, and bring it up. He laughed at himself, but almost kindly, as if he were at last going to forgive himself — for what? Never mind all that, he thought, lightly; the only thing is to go on. Not as if it were a duty. To begin to learn existence from the beginning — in the humbler existences: of the child’s toys, or of herbs, pots, jugs, rooms: and, so small and weak yet, of the child.
Sunk, he did not notice that the Mother Superior had left him, he was alone with the child. A slight movement — William turning his head on the mattress. Renn bent over him, and touched his cheek with one finger. The child opened his eyes and smiled at him.
January 1946 — April 1947
This electronic edition published in 20
11 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
Copyright © 1947
The moral right of author has been asserted
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication
(or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital,
optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written
permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
ISBN: 9781448200726
eISBN: 9781448202041
Visit www.bloomsbury.com to find out more about our authors and their books
You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can sign up for
newsletters to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers