The Honeymoon

by Dinitia Smith

  Barbara never spoke of her illegitimacy, though everyone knew and talked about it. Perhaps that was what fueled her sympathy for the oppressed people of the world.

  As their friendship deepened, Marian confessed to her that one day she would like to write books of her own, novels, but she wasn’t sure she had any talent. Besides, she had no time because of her work at the Westminster and her need to churn out reviews and essays to earn money. When she told Barbara of her secret desire, Barbara leapt on it.

  “But if that’s what you want to do in life,” Barbara cried, “then you’re obligated to do it.”

  “Think of Scheherazade in The Arabian Nights,” Barbara said. “My father hired a tutor to try to tame us, and he used to read it to us. I loved it! Scheherazade telling the sultan stories night after night, so he wouldn’t have her killed, entrancing him with them. In the end, he falls in love with her and he spares her life. Storytelling set her free!” Barbara cried.

  One evening, Herbert Spencer invited her to go to the theater with him. He had press orders for The Merry Wives of Windsor at the Princess.

  Arriving at the theater, they found George Henry Lewes in their box, there to review the performance for the Leader.

  When Lewes saw her, he smiled. “We met at Jeff’s, if you remember?”

  She did remember. As they were waiting for the curtain, she told him, for the sake of conversation, that she’d read some of his pieces in the Leader. He used a pseudonym in them, “Vivian.” “Vivian” was a witty, mischievous character, a blistering critic, and a ladies’ man. Lewes had just published a satire in the magazine called “The Beauty of Married Men.” But he’d also written serious things, including an essay on George Sand in which he’d compared her to Balzac. He’d defended Sand’s position against marriage: Sand wasn’t against marriage itself, he argued, just unfair marriage laws.

  She told him she’d just read his essay “A Gentle Hint to Writing Women” in the Leader.

  “Yes!” he cried. “That’s my idea of the perfect woman, the woman who can write but doesn’t. Charlotte Brontë and Mrs. Gaskell should just get back to their knitting! They’re so talented they’re crowding us men entirely out of the field. Burn your pens and purchase wool! say I.”

  She noticed that he hardly kept still as he chattered on. Even Spencer smiled at his ebullience.

  At last the audience was settling down, the curtain was going up. “C’est la pire pièce de Shakespeare,” Lewes muttered. “My grandfather was a comic actor, you know,” he whispered. “I’ve done some acting myself and written plays. Did you see my play The Noble Heart, by any chance?

  “Sorry, I didn’t,” she said, sitting up and focusing on the stage.

  At last the play began. It was awful, the actors overacted. Every time there was a joke, they nudged one another and laughed loudly in case the audience didn’t get it.

  Intermission came. Lewes hit himself on the head. “Oh, mon Dieu, c’est terrible, n’est-ce pas?”

  All through the rest of the play, he kept up a commentary in a loud whisper. “Consolez-vous, chère Madame. Il ne reste qu’une heure …”

  At the end she asked him, “Do you often speak French?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I spent part of my childhood in Jersey and France. When I get excited, I tend to lapse.”

  When they reached the door of the theater and it was time to say goodbye, he bent over low and kissed her hand.

  “Au revoir, Madame,” he said. “I do hope we meet again.” She didn’t quite know what to think of the man, but he was rather amusing.

  Lewes began coming to the Friday evenings at the Chapmans. He was usually surrounded by a group of people, telling silly jokes: “An Irishwoman goes to a lawyer because she wants a divorce … ‘Is he violent?’ the lawyer asks. ‘Yes! Once he was so annoying I threw a tumbler at him and he locked me in my room.’ The lawyer says, ‘I’m afraid that’s not enough. Is there any other evidence in favor of a divorce?’ ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I’m not certain he’s the father of my child …’ ”

  In spite of herself, she laughed. He was also a flirt. Whenever a woman left the party, he’d always notice it, jump up, and insist on kissing her goodbye.

  He was clearly not a man to be trusted. She’d had her time with married men.

  She and Spencer began taking long walks together on the terrace of Somerset House, deep in discussion about his work. And as they leaned over the balustrade looking out at the brown waters of the Thames — upstream toward Westminster and Whitehall, downstream to St. Paul’s and the factories and smokestacks — she managed to draw him out about his own life.

  He told her he came from a family of religious Dissenters in Derby. His mother gave birth to seven children and six of them had died. Herbert was the only one who survived.

  “That must have been so very terrible for your parents, and for you,” she said.

  “They died in infancy,” he replied, without emotion. “Except for my sister, Louisa, who died when she was two and I was three.”

  “Do you remember her?”

  “I remember vaguely playing with her in the garden.” He said nothing more.

  He told her that his parents were so afraid their one surviving child would get sick that they refused to send him away to school. Then, when he was thirteen, they finally sent him to boarding school. But he was so homesick that he ran away, walking over a hundred miles home by himself. “All I had were two shillings in my pocket, some bread, and some beer.”

  The story made her want to cry, imagining the brave, stalwart boy marching through the countryside, missing his parents so, determined to get home. “Did your parents punish you?”

  “No. They embraced me. I’m afraid I cried rather a lot. Eventually, they persuaded me to go back. From then on it was all right.”

  She felt so sorry for him, that his early life was so marked by tragedy. Perhaps that explained his coldness and his inability to engage with others. She felt herself wanting to allay the sadness that must surely lurk in his soul with warmth and affection, to woo him into the comfort of human companionship. She wanted to make him laugh, or at least smile, to lift the burden of his shyness and isolation.

  “You have no lines on your forehead,” she joked.

  “That’s because I’m never puzzled.” And he gave her a little, self-mocking smile.

  He had many peculiarities. He had constructed a device, a circular spring with ear pads. If someone was boring him, he’d put it on over his head to block them out, explaining it was on the advice of his doctors. Naturally, the person would stop talking. “Please, do continue,” he’d say. “I can’t hear what you’re saying anyway.” She teased him about it, and sometimes elicited a sly smile from him, as if he were aware of how odd he was. He was also a hypochondriac, forever putting his hand uneasily to his stomach and complaining vaguely of digestive difficulties.

  Perhaps she held a special place in his life, perhaps even … perhaps he was even falling in love with her? Could it be that here at last was someone for her alone?

  As spring warmed the air, and the daffodils, then the tulips, blossomed in the park, the sweet fragrance of new life floating in the air made her feel old. She was thirty-two now, her complexion sallow, her skin felt dry.

  In July, the next issue of the Westminster Review was closed and she was exhausted. London was blisteringly hot. She decided to take a holiday and rent a room in Broadstairs. Perhaps the sea would heal her. She mentioned to Spencer that she was going, hoping he’d offer to accompany her. But he didn’t, so she went alone.

  When the boat arrived at the little town, she disembarked and made her way to the room she’d rented, across from the cliffs overlooking the sea. After she’d unpacked her things, she went out for a walk. It was high season, and the narrow beach on Viking Bay was packed, every inch of sand filled with families and children and bathing machines. She seemed to be the only unaccompanied woman in the whole place, and she wouldn’t think of using o
ne of the bathing machines by herself.

  She went to the town library and read the Times, and looked through the books. She felt safer there, not as uncomfortable being a woman alone.

  Later, she had supper in the ladies’ dining room at the Broadstreet Arms. Even there, no other single women appeared, just women in couples or groups. So as not to seem too alone or unhappy, to show she wasn’t seeking to meet anyone, she propped up Harriet Martineau’s novel, Deerbrook, in front of her. It wasn’t bad. Two sisters arrive in a village and become romantically involved with the apothecary. Thank God, she could become absorbed in the book and didn’t betray herself to the other diners as lonely.

  In the morning, she rented a deck chair and sat on the beach. For two days she occupied herself reading and sleeping while the families played around her, their cries mingling with the cries of the gulls. Beyond her the narrow bay was flecked with sailboats.

  She read George Henry Lewes’s novel Rose, Blanche and Violet — very melodramatic, with courtship, adultery, suicide, prostitution — and walked along the beach beneath the cliffs, fending off the smiles of strangers who guessed at her plight and seemed about to try to engage her.

  At the post office, she asked if any letters had come for her — perhaps there would be something from Spencer. But it was too soon to expect anything.

  After a few days letters began arriving from Chapman about magazine business. Everything was falling apart in her absence, he wrote. The Westminster Review was going bankrupt and George Combe, who was one of the investors, said he was pulling out his money because Chapman couldn’t manage the finances. Chapman begged her to intercede with Combe — Combe was fond of her because his phrenological analysis of her skull had revealed that she had such great intelligence. She wrote to Combe, pleading with him on behalf of Chapman, and he softened.

  At last a letter came from Spencer. She dashed through it, searching for some personal note, an expression of affection. But it was mostly about his progress on his book on human psychology. He did, however, complain about the heat in London. “Dear Miss Evans, London is appallingly hot, and my room is on a high floor, which makes it worse. I do miss our conversations. I think of you with some envy there enjoying the cool sea air …” She felt a rush of joy — he missed her.

  She wrote back, trying to be playful and not too forward. “No credit to me for my virtues as a refrigerant. I owe them all to a few lumps of ice which I carried away with me from that tremendous glacier of yours.” Careful to keep a joking tone so that he wouldn’t be frightened off, she continued, “We will not inquire too curiously whether you long most for my society or for the sea breezes.” So he wouldn’t think she was flirting, she called herself “a Medusa.” “But seriousness and selfishness apart,” she wrote, “I should like you to have the enjoyment of this pleasant place.” She knew of a hotel where he might stay — of course she couldn’t invite him to stay with her. “Do come Saturday, if you would like.”

  Five days later, she stood on the pier to meet him. As the boat pulled in, all around her children jumped up and down excitedly, calling out, “Papa! Papa!”

  Catching sight of the familiar stooped figure in the shabby suit, happiness welled in her. A man of her own age, coming to visit her. A man who wasn’t married, who had sought her out, who cared for her, a man whose mind she so admired.

  He spotted her and took his hat off and waved. When he alighted on the pier, he stepped toward her as if he were going to kiss her. Then he hesitated, and a vaguely startled look came to his face. He looked almost frightened, as if he hadn’t expected to see her. At length he gripped her arms as if both to greet her and to keep her at a distance. He didn’t kiss her.

  She’d booked a room for him at Ballard’s on Albion Street, and they’d arranged to have supper there too. As they studied the menu, he said, “This place is really too expensive for me, I’m afraid.”

  She felt a moment of trepidation. Would he be angry with her for booking his room at such an expensive hotel? She’d written him the rates and he’d told her to go ahead. Was he going to leave early then?

  “I’m afraid I got a bit seasick during the journey and I’m not that hungry,” he said.

  “Have some ale,” she suggested, “that’ll settle your stomach.”

  The meal came and they spoke, as usual, about his new book on cognition. “I’m afraid I’ve taken on more than I can manage,” he said

  “Why not publish something on it in the Westminster first, and see the response? Perhaps it’ll help.”

  His lips pursed as he thought it over. “A good idea,” he said.

  When they’d finished their trifle, he said he was tired. “I’ll walk with you to your cottage,” he offered.

  There were still people about, mostly couples, strolling arm in arm along the promenade, looking out to sea. The night air was warm and sensuous, suffused with the smell of the ocean and the gentle sound of breaking waves. The sky beyond was deep violet. Below, on the sand, the breakers were iridescent, cresting and foaming along the sand, their phosphorescence glowing eerily in the darkness.

  At the door to her cottage, he stopped, took her hand, and kissed it. Then, gently, he let it drop. He took his hat off to her, a signal for her to enter the house. From the door she watched him walking down the path. There would be no more from him tonight.

  In the morning, they walked on the beach, northward under the cliffs. They walked apart from each other, but it was difficult to talk anyway because of the wind. They stopped to explore the tunnels, supposedly dug by smugglers, and she scanned the beach for shards of sea glass and pocketed them as souvenirs.

  On the way back to town, she hid behind a rock and removed her shoes and stockings so she could go barefoot. She continued on ahead of him, hoping that he’d be drawn by her few inches of bare flesh, her naked feet and ankles. She turned around. He wasn’t looking at her. He was bent over a tidal pool examining something.

  The long hike left her languid, her limbs suffused with a sweet relaxation. At dinner, they drank ale again and it made her limbs feel heavy, her body feel ripe.

  “Shall we walk on the beach one more time before we say good night?” she suggested.

  “If you wish.”

  The night sky was clear, the stars glittering in the blackness. “Look!” she said. “Is that the Scorpion?”

  “I can’t see it,” he said.

  She traced the air with her fingertips. “Over there. See it?”

  “Sort of,” he said.

  She inhaled the night air. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the sky this beautiful.”

  “Yes,” he said distractedly.

  For a moment he was caught in her glance, his face visible in the starlight. She held him with her eyes and refused to let him look away.

  She asked him softly, “I hope you’ve liked it here. I very much wanted you to enjoy it.”

  “Why — yes …,” he said, as if he didn’t quite understand the question.

  “We’ve been happy together, haven’t we? We share so many interests, our work …”

  “Yes.” He began scraping the sand with the toe of his shoe.

  “I feel that I’ve never quite had the same sympathy with anyone … as I’ve had with you.”

  And then suddenly, without even thinking, she found herself moving toward him. She put her arms around his neck, pulled his face toward her, and kissed him full on the lips. She felt her body rise up to him, expectantly, longingly. But his mouth was tight, his teeth hard beneath her lips.

  He stepped back and pushed her away. She could see, in the light of the stars, alarm on his face. “I …” He struggled for words. “I — I’m sorry …,” he said helplessly. “I think you misunderstand. You see, I don’t feel … that sort of … attraction …” For the first time since she’d known him, he looked desperate, as if he were going to cry.

  He took his hat off and wiped his brow. “I think, perhaps, I’m not made for this …, that I can’t feel
—” As if he expected her to come to his aid, to finish his sentence for him.

  The beach was deserted now, the night air filled with the hush of the waves rushing in.

  Then he said, “I think I’d best go back to London. On the morning boat. It’s best I leave.”

  There was nothing she could say. All she knew was that she couldn’t let him see her face. She hurried back across the sand and up the steps ahead of him, leaving him there on the beach.

  He didn’t say goodbye. She knew the boat left for Westminster at 7:30 a.m. She didn’t go out that morning, but lay in bed awake. He’d pushed her away, her desire to love him, to comfort him, to help him become whom he was to be. The shame would be with her forever.

  She had loved him, yes, loved his sweet, shy, peculiar self, the deep unhappy part of him, the frightened child beneath his eccentricities, the little boy whose brothers and sisters had all died, who was afraid that he himself would die prematurely, who was so strong and determined that he walked a hundred miles at the age of thirteen to get home to his mother and father, the man with his extraordinary ideas, ideas unique and peculiar to himself.

  She couldn’t rest, couldn’t concentrate enough to go out, to walk about the town. All she could think of was that she was losing him, that it was like death, and now would come even greater, unendurable loneliness, without at least this one intimate friendship, this one closeness that she felt. She was sure that somewhere he felt it too, that he loved her in his own way. And now she’d driven him away and it was unbearable to her. She’d have no friend in London, no one approximating a beau in her life.

  Sitting down at the little desk in her room, she wrote to him: “I know this letter will make you very angry with me, but wait a little, and don’t say anything to me while you are angry. I promise not to sin again in the same way.” She implored, “I want to know if you can assure me that you will not forsake me, that you will always be with me as much as you can and share your thoughts and feelings with me. If you become attached to some one else,” she wrote, “then I must die …”