Progress of Stories

by Laura (Riding) Jackson

  Poor not poor, alone not alone—Miss Banquett and Miss Banquett! You cannot hear what she says to her. Like all people who live alone she talks to herself. But do not spy on her. Or spy on her. You cannot hear what she says. Or you can hear what she does not say.

  You? You were a world. What is the name of your world? The name of your world was You. It was not We: We is; You was of old. It is not I: I can only be of new. You were a world, and Miss Banquett was not a character of history, romance, philosophy, religion or science. She was not. You were about to call her (you fringed gentians, you double red daisies and dervishes), you were about to call her—a personality. Sweet perspiration! Do you know what a personality is? A personality is a Jack-in-the-Box, that is, a Jack-out-of-the-Box, that is, an empty box. And where is Jack? Jack is everything. And where is Miss Banquett? Miss Banquett is nowhere. So leave her alone where she is alone. She needs no celebration, no lamentation, no rescue. She was not: she is not. So away with your cup of tea and away with your saliva and your sympathy. She does not want.

  Yet how to say good-bye? In Cosmania good-byes could not be said because each peculiar appearance of Miss Banquett was as a coming as well as a going. And now good-bye cannot be said because all her coming was a going as well: she is already gone. First the world looked, then Miss Banquett was beautiful. She was beautiful, then she showed. She showed, then she saw. Now the world does not look, she is not beautiful. She is not beautiful, she does not show. She does not show, she does not see. She does not see, she is not. Or she sees that she is not.

  In Cosmania she was the vision which was beautiful and which showed and which she saw. But when she saw the vision which was beautiful and which showed and which she saw, it abruptly and indecisively ended. And this she noticed or did not notice. For not abruptly yet decisively she went on, she saw yet did not see, she was not.

  What is blindness, what is sight? Blindness is not seeing, sight is seeing. But sight is also not seeing; you may not see and yet not be blind—or, at least, Miss Banquett may. Miss Banquett sees and yet does not see. What do I mean? I mean particularly Miss Banquett, or equally someone the same. If you say God, this is right, but you are wrong. I mean particularly Miss Banquett not Miss God. I mean particularly seeing yet not seeing: not to be looked at, not to be beautiful, not to show, not to see—yet to see. I mean what cannot be known before it is, and what cannot be known after it is because then it is not, because then it alone knows. She alone knows. I mean particularly Miss Banquett seeing and yet not seeing.

  But whenever you may conceive this to have taken place, it is not then. However you may plot her, she is otherwise. She is not anything you think. She is not. She is beyond herself, beyond fear, beyond desire, beyond finality, continuously beyond the continuum which was her experience of finality and which was Cosmania. How did she do this? She did not do this. She is not. No more may be said. And even this is false in whatever way you may conceive it.

  Is she then different? She is not different. She is not herself, yet she is not another. The story of Miss Banquett is not of Miss Banquett, yet the story of Miss Banquett is of no other than Miss Banquett. What, then, of the story? What, then, of Miss Banquett? What, then, of fiction? What, then, of truth? The only answer that may be given is that it is not possible to lie.

  An island is all round an island. An island is all round the outside of an island. From one side of an island across to the other side is from outside to outside; but also from inside to outside; and also from outside to inside. From one side of an island across to another is from inside to inside. An island is all round the inside and outside of an island. And so with open; and so with closed; and so with beautiful; and so with not beautiful; and so with Miss Banquett; and so with Miss Banquett. That is, it is not possible to lie, that is, only roundness is possible. Where, then, is the distinction? The distinction is in the circle which it is possible to draw around roundness. The distinction is in Miss Banquett. The distinction is Miss Banquett—or someone equally the same. Though it is not possible to lie because of roundness, it is possible because of roundness to draw a circle. It is possible to lie. Miss Banquett is not yet is, is yet is not.

  10

  "Enough, then," said Miss Banquett.

  "Are you quite sure," I asked, "that I have gone far enough?"

  "Yes," she answered. "There is nothing more."

  "It is the end of me," I said.

  "But of me, also," she answered.

  "But that is different," I said. "It is I who stop, not you. What afterwards for me?"

  "Afterwards as before. You shall go on where you left off."

  "Where did I leave off?"

  "Where I began," she said.

  My cheek is cool; I am beautiful. My heart is warm; I am Miss Banquett. My friends love me. My lovers adore me. I must choose among them, though I do not wish to, since my beauty demands action. They are impudent, but this pleases me, as a compliment to my beauty. I have chosen. My lover's uncles visit me persistently. They delight in and envy my wit. My lover's sisters ape me persistently. They delight in and envy my grace. I live in a splendid house. The surroundings are charming. The people are not too intelligent. My lover is a sensitive but retiring character. I should find peace here. I cannot find peace here. My lover buries himself in the contemplation of my beauty and is inaccessible. The people are not too intelligent. They are even more inaccessible. Indeed, it is well so, because I can go away without disturbing them. I do not wish to find peace. My beauty demands action. And they will have the memory of me. It will make no difference to them. My cheek is warm, my heart is cool. Am I beautiful Miss Banquett?

  I am not Miss Banquett, I do not wish to find peace or not to find it. I am not beautiful, I do not desire action. My beauty demands action, but I demand nothing. Let my beauty do for itself. Let my beauty do for me, if it wishes. Let it become me. I am undertaking this voyage for a holiday, not because I am beautiful. Miss Banquett undertook this voyage because she was beautiful, not for a holiday.

  III: Nearly True Stories

  THE STORY-PIG

  ON the mantelpiece of Hotel Moon, where people went to behave nicely, stood a large silver-plated pig with its mouth wide open. As no fire ever burned in the fireplace, the pig kept shiny and did not need to be polished more than once a month. When people were cold they put on their fur coats and huddled round the fireplace, telling stories to one another. Fires were never lit in the fireplace—not merely because people did not like to admit that they sometimes felt quite wintry (homesick) even there, but also because it was feared that the silver-plated pig might be offended if it were not the president of the chimney-corner, with no spluttering, aggressive fire to share in the honours. The pig was called the Story-pig because it was undoubtedly responsible for all the story-telling. It held its mouth wide open and gorged itself on the idle thoughts of the guests; and as they were all the pleasantest possible thoughts, since people came to the hotel to behave nicely, they turned to stories in the pig's shiny belly. The pig's belly was not shiny inside, but no one saw or thought of the inside. There was, as a matter of fact, a large slit in the pig's back to make it seem like a money-pig and make people feel as if they were children when they sat around it. Often they dropped money into the slit to show that they were not too dignified to live up to the spirit of the chimney-corner, though they would do this awkwardly, always putting too much in, forgetting that the inside of the pig's belly was not a grown-up bank, with marble floors and gold lettering, but a dark iron belly that only Hans the doorman had the key to.

  Every evening, no matter how late, when there was nothing left to do but go to bed, and it seemed too early to go to bed because they had not really done anything to speak of all day long, they would sit around the Story-pig and tell one another things to increase their self-respect—not exactly lies, but not exactly the truth: things to make the world seem a nice place to live in, perhaps nicer than it was, and themselves not quite so boorish as they might
seem, to be living in it so contentedly. And how full of interesting things the world was—things that were not good enough to go to heaven along with people, but that surely people would never forget even when they got to heaven. Ah, all the dear, human ways and doings that could obviously not be taken along to heaven. And yet one never entirely gave up hope of taking them along; one never threw them away. Perhaps, when one was in heaven, one would, at least, be allowed to come back to look at them now and again— as at childhood toys. It would be a comfort, at any rate, to feel that one knew that one had once been foolish.

  Hans would stand at the door listening to their stories, going out sometimes to look at the moon and coming in again when he heard them laughing. When they laughed he would always laugh with them. And as when they laughed it was generally because a story did not seem to have a definite point, so that there was nothing to do but laugh and pretend to be interested (any one of them was likely at some time to be the evening's dull boy), they were very glad to have Hans by to slap on the back—thinking to themselves, "Now, there's a fine dull boy for you." But when a story had a definite point, they fell sober for a moment or so, looking at the pig and thinking of bed perhaps. And Hans would watch them respectfully from the door, and they would say to themselves, "Now, there's a regular dull boy for you, but he, too, must have a pillow to lay his head on." And they would say good-night to Hans kindly, giving him the right to feel as sleepy as themselves.

  So in general they were self-respecting, fair-minded people who agreed with the Go-cart that "Each one has his own particular value." When they had gone up to their rooms Hans would turn some of the lights off for the night, pat the Story- pig, perhaps empty its belly, and leave it to say to itself, "Now we'll play at men and women, for that is always something." For the pig would go on all night telling over to itself all the stories that it had heard, fancying that it stepped gracefully this way or that like the lady who played a pretty joke on the man who had ruined her mother's life, when, of course, it sprawled as helplessly as ever on its stupid trotters—until the proud day came along, and so impressed the pig, who was very easily influenced, that it would grow silent and full of self-importance, thinking itself as wise as the day seemed. "Mere children's prattle," the pig would be saying to itself as Hans came in to turn out the lights that had been left burning (how foolish and ill-tempered they felt, made to burn for absolutely nothing, not even for an illness or a death).

  Then little by little the guests would come prattling downstairs to breakfast—so rich, so well-born, so good, and seeming ever so much more grown-up than last night, as if they had only been teasing the Story-pig. This was the time when they teased Hans, loitering outside the dining-room and making him answer silly questions politely as he hurried to pat the easy chairs smooth and make the chimney-corner a little orderly—Rose gave it its proper cleaning at ten o'clock. Mere children's prattle that was, but on purpose, to show that they did not have to worry, really, about making a good impression. Certainly there was no danger of their taking one another for fools, and Hans was too dull a boy to form an opinion. Then there was Rose, who went around from table to table with a large basket of new flowers from which they filled their table- vases according to their tastes—she would not dare to form an opinion about anyone.

  Such, more or less, was the change of heart that the Story-pig underwent when the day came on—if a Story-pig may be said to have a heart. By night it was a sentimentalist, by day it was a snob. If it may be said to have had a heart at all, its heart was a lump in its throat—idle thoughts that by day lay haughtily idle and by night melted into something like tears, and something also like smiles (as all clever people fancy themselves to be sympathetic people, too, as night comes on). The Story-pig was responsible for all the story-telling, but it was also responsible for the way the guests behaved by day—always nicely, no rudeness, no going deep into what anyone did or said lest unpleasantness and discomfort should follow. By day, it cannot be denied, they were no more than very, very amiable snobs. But by night their eyes, the eyes of the universal soul which they all shared, opened ever so little, the breadth of a money- slit, or a story-slit, we should say—just enough to look indulgently at themselves from a long, long distance and forgive themselves their vanities, as if it had all happened long, long ago.

  By the side of the fireplace stood a tall basket into which people threw things that they did not want for the moment. No one ever looked inside this basket but Rose, for once people threw things into it they forgot all about them, although at the time they would not mean to be throwing them away. Rose would leave them there for a while out of respect (Rose was all respect), sometimes quite a long while after their owners had gone away; then, one by one she would hide them under her apron and carry them off to the attic where she slept. Even here she would not feel them her own, but pack them away in discarded pieces of luggage and never touch them again—as a girl who is not going to be married for many years does not think of the trousseau that she is gradually accumulating as her own, but the property of the strange Mrs. Whoever that she is going to be. And would Rose ever marry Hans, would the idea ever come into Hans's head, would she ever dare let the idea come into her head? For more than anyone else in the world, Rose respected Hans. More than anyone else in the world Hans loved Rose. But not the Rose who more than anyone else in the world respected Hans. Respect and love did not go very well together. Respect was only the emotion of a hotel-maid, as self-respect was only the emotion of hotel guests. Love was the emotion of a king, and to match it there would have to be a change in Rose. She would have to have the emotion of a queen, something just higher than the emotion of a king: she would have to feel "I am beautiful".

  But when Rose was asleep the things in the discarded pieces of luggage were all hers. And the Sandman taught her how to speak smoothly and do her hair the right way. Who was the Sandman but Hans himself giving her her rights, and what was the sand but the shyness with which Hans behaved to her by day thrown into her eyes by night to make her see herself as she really was—the sand of love? At night she stepped into the beautiful picture that hung over the Story-pig, and down the stream of her true self she floated, a very invisible queen in a very visible ship, on her way toward the place where she would be visible only to those who knew how to see her as a queen and speak to her as a queen. Hans would not be much good at speaking, but his eyes were in the right place. And that, after all, is the important thing in love.

  When the things in the discarded pieces of luggage became all hers—the pretty slippers and fans and lace handkerchiefs and scarves and storybooks and tobacco-pouches and playing- cards and toss-balls and family photographs and travel curios— they became alive and very independent and talkative, which is how things behave when they belong to a queen. When they belong to ordinary people they must imitate the characters of their owners and keep well within the circumscribed limits of their social position; they must not even lose their heads at story-time or have feelings of their own if, listening through the basket, they should hear someone say: "No one would recognize the object of his deepest veneration if met with in a dustbin." When things belong to a queen they must not only have their own feelings and ideas, but they must express them freely; a real queen would insist on not being imitated, and, further, on not being surrounded by ninnies.

  But what unpleasant, critical creatures they became, so severe in their opinions of everything but the Queen: she, of course, was no one to have an opinion about, being the Queen. It was not a case, as when they were in the basket, of sighing to themselves: Ah, yes, so things had happened, and could they have happened any differently or any better, and how edifying, at any rate, to have something happen! It was a case of making no compromises whatever—why should anything happen if it was not in every respect good sense? It was all very well to idealize the little match-girl and find pathos in match-light visions; and to see the highest nobility in a little boy who was not cruel to birds. But, fundamentally
speaking, that was only half the reality, and the silver half at that. It left out the golden half, that had to do with the real visions and with real nobility, without twisting things round to seem somewhat beautiful, considering the ugliness of life, and somewhat perfect, considering what human nature was.

  By day Hans saw the silver half—which ordinary people only saw by night: they saw nothing at all by day but a finished picture with everything left out that might upset their immediate happiness. There was the finished picture, like the picture that hung over the Story-pig: a little of this and a little of that seeming more than enough for one day—the finished picture, time, to-day. And then there was the silver half, to-morrow, and the silver Queen—always someone different. And then there was the golden half, for ever and after, and the Golden Queen who was really both gold and silver, always full of surprises but always the same person.