Progress of Stories

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Progress of Stories Page 30

by Laura (Riding) Jackson


  PRIVATENESS

  THEY have a small bedroom. The bed is small, but they are not fat and they love each other. She sleeps with her knees neatly inside his knees and when they get up they do not get in each other's way. She says, "Put on the shirt with the blue patterns like little spotted plates," and he says, "Put on the white skirt that you wear the purple jacket with." They have no prejudices against colours but like what they have.

  Their other room is not larger, but is cleverly arranged, with a table for this and a table for that. He makes the sandwiches at one table while at another she writes a letter to a friend who needs money. She writes promptly to say they have no money and sends their love. It is not true that they have no money; but they are both out of work and must be careful with the little money they have. They are thinking of renting an office and selling advice on all subjects, for they are very intelligent people. The idea seems like a joke, and they talk about it jokingly; but they mean it.

  They go to a large park. It costs little to get there and they know the very tree they want to sit under. It is more like a business trip than a holiday. They eat their lunch in a methodical way and afterwards look through the grass around them as a mother looks through her child's hair to see if it is clean.

  Then they think about their affairs and change their minds many times.

  They walk about on the grass and feel sensible, but when they walk on paved paths they feel they are wasting their time. Finally they decide to commit suicide. They talk about it in natural tones because they may really do it—and they may not. There is an oval pond in the park with solemn brown ducks paddling in it, and they sit down by it, sorry for the ducks but not for themselves.

  They go out of the park at a different entrance from the one they came in by. There are strange restaurants all around they would never think of eating in. It makes them feel lonely, so they speed home in a taxi, though they can ill afford this. At home there is the electric light, which makes them look at each other peculiarly. It was worth going out to be able to come home and look at each other in such a way—not a loving way or a tragic way, but as if to say, "It doesn't interest us what our story is—that is for other people."

  IN THE END

  THE end of the world was that there was no sky. There came to be no sky! Of the sky only the moon was left. And the moon was as the inside of the world, which now had no outside. And that which had once been the earth was now the inner surface of the world. The end of the world was a change from outside to inside. There was still a world, but it was not as it had been —it was not as a family which is scattered abroad and become everywhere a stranger to itself, so that there are scarcely to be found two who can speak together in their household-tongue. There was still a world, but it was as a single house.

  And everything which was in the world now was in the house. And there was no outside. It could not be said that the earth had been destroyed, but it was not as it had been; the world was not as it had been. The world was a house. It was a small world but a large house. The walls were what had once been the earth. The light which filled the house was what had once been the moon. In some rooms the light was darker than in others, according to the use of the room and the nature of the lord of the room. But nowhere was there darkness. There was no time which was night, no time which was day. There was no sleeping and waking up. There was no division of rooms according to sleeping and waking uses. The uses of the rooms were according to the nature of the lord of the room.

  And no people dwelt in this house who were not of a nature distinct from all the rest. For if there were any of a nature like any other, these were all the same person. Indeed, every person living in this house was many persons, all perfectly alike—as many persons as there was need of movement from one room to another. For no person was ever absent from the room proper to him, and yet each person moved from one room to another according to his need. And yet it could not be said that the people in this house moved as people had moved in the outside world. They did not move. If they had need to move from one room to a close or far room, it came about that in the close or far room others were who were themselves also. And thus there were many people here, and yet few people. And there were no people who were somewhat like this one and somewhat like that one. Each person was like only to himself'. And there were thirty-two kinds of people, and each kind was all the same person, so that there were thirty-two people.

  And each of these people was a man. For though there was one woman in this house, she was of none of the thirty-two kinds peculiarly; nor was she somewhat of this kind, somewhat of that. She was distinct from all the kinds; and yet she was not a separate kind. She was distinct from all the kinds as the house was distinct from all the people who lived in it. She was the whole, and yet she was another person to them, as to say that there were thirty-three of them. And there was no room which was hers, and yet the house was hers. And each person was the lord of the room which was his room. But she was the lady of the house; the house was hers though no room in it was hers. And she, too, moved from room to room, but according to her kindness, not according to her need. And she had thirty-two kindnesses, according to the number of kinds.

  And she was in all the rooms at once, always moving from one to the other, always in all of them, at each moment in each of them. And her look differed according to the use of the room, as her kindness differed according to the kind. And to each kind she seemed familiarly herself, though what they saw was only part. To each kind she seemed the essence of this world, though none saw it as a whole, as a house: as separate rooms only all saw it. For as a whole it was the light by which it was lighted. And they did not see the light: they saw only by the light. And in each room she was called 'our lady'. But the lord of each room was called 'my lord'. There was no man who could be called 'our lord'. For each was lord of his own room only: there was no lord of the house.

  And the lady of the house was seen only as she appeared in each room, according to the nature of the lord of the room. None saw the whole of her, none but herself. For the light which she was was both her mirror and her body. None could tell the whole of her, none but herself. For the house which she was was both her story and her mind. And its walls were what had once been the earth; the inner surface of this house was what had once been an outer surface.

  For indeed the earth had been never any more than a surface. When the surface was called an earth it was as a lining turned outwards to seem the very thing it is meant to line. Thus the earth seemed a world. And since it was not truly a world— since it was only the lining of the true world turned outwards against its destined use—instead of the true world there was only an inner surface without an inside. Instead of an inside there was only an outside; instead of a house there was only an emptiness; instead of a place to live in there was only a surface to cling to, against the fear of falling into the emptiness which began with the sky.

  And the cause of all this was the sun, which kept the earth turned inside out against its fated use from hate of the moon, to which alone the earth could be a lining. The sun, in fact, was the vanity of the earth to be both the lining and the place which it lined. And the earth was permitted to be all that it had need to be to be a lining, but it was not permitted to be the place of which it could be no more than the lining. And so for a time it seemed that men lived on the earth, though this could not be. They were permitted to seem to live there, as if the earth were a place, because of their fear of falling into the emptiness which began with the sky. For this fear was their confession that by itself the earth was only the lining of an emptiness. By clinging to the earth they told the truth: that they knew that the world which they tried in themselves to be, as a world in itself, was only a lining and an emptiness.

  And this false world began to end when men began to let themselves fall into the emptiness—when men began to fly. And the number of those who could thus fly was the uncountable number of those who were of mixed nature—those who both told the
truth and told otherwise. And there were a few who could not fly, who could not tell otherwise. There were thirty-two who could not fly, who could not tell otherwise. And these were of a distinct nature each, and the nature of each was distinct from the nature of the other. They were of a distinct nature each because they could tell only the truth. And the nature of each was distinct from the other because, although all understood that the earth could be but the lining and not the place as well, each understood but little of the kind of place to which it might be a lining. Each understood only according to the thirty-two ages of man—which age he was, what understanding he had come into. Each kept his mind apart from the other ages, the other minds, not to make with them in his fancy a mind falsely whole, a false place, a false world, a false house. Each understood that neither he nor any other man might be called 'our lord'. But when men began to fly, those who flew made themselves falsely into a whole mind. They said, "We are the lining of the place, but we are also the place." And they closed round the place which they thought they were. And this was only that the sky and the further degrees of empty outerness closed round the sun.

  And the sky and the further degrees of empty outerness destroyed the sun and were destroyed by the sun. The vain were destroyed by their vanity. And now the moon could permit the earth to have the use it was destined to have, since all vanity had gone from it. And the earth began turning outside in, and the moon slid inside it and was surrounded by it. And it was clear now what the moon really was: she was the lady of the house.

  And what had once been the earth was now the walls of the house; the earth folded in and became walls. It folded in according to the thirty-two kinds which were left when the mixed kinds began to fly. It folded in according to the thirty-two men, each of a nature distinct from the other, who were left on the earth when the mixed kinds began to fly. And the thirty- two men were in the house, each in the room proper to his nature, his understanding. And there was only one woman in this house, in thirty-two appearances.

  Never truly had there been any woman on the earth, never had she been on the earth. For a woman is an inside, and to the earth there had been no insideness. As it had seemed to them that they lived, so it had seemed to them that there were women in their houses. But these had been empty houses, and the women only mirrors of their desire to dwell finally in the true house.

  And in the true house, the true world, the new world which came after an old world that had never truly been, there were no windows, since all the light came from inside. And there were no doors, since if a man had need to move from his own room to another, someone who was also himself was thereupon in the room into which he had need to go. And in whatever other room a man might be, still he was not absent from his own room. And each of these men was one of the thirty-two ages of man. And all these ages were now going on at one time, in one house—each in its own time, in its own room, under its own lord. And the lady of the house was present in every time, in every room. All of these ages were now going on at one time, but this time was no new age, though it was a new world. For there could be no age beyond the thirty-two ages of man; the thirty-third age was the age of the lady of the house, the age of woman. For there were no ages of woman, there was but one age of her; she was ageless. The men who had flown off from the earth had thought to make a new age of man, they had thought to steal the age of woman, her agelessness. But they had only made the age of flying—the age of their destruction by the sun and the sun's destruction by them. They had only made the end of the old world that had never truly been.

  And in the new world there was no sky, no emptiness, no outerness. All was inside the house which the new world was. And as the walls which had once been the earth made the picture within which the lord of each room dwelt, so the water which had once been the careless ignorance that the earth had of how things were to be in the end became as the fullness with which each picture continually flowed into itself—as the loving ignorance which the lord of each room had of all the other rooms. For if he went from his room into another, from his picture into another, he did not know the use of the room he went into, or its name, or the name of the lord of the room; he did not see the picture which it was. He had no understanding of the room, or of the lord of the room—no sight of the picture. If he went from his room into another it was for love of the lady of the house. For sometimes, when he was with her as she appeared to him in his own room, he would grow loving to know more of her, as if to have her in her entire appearance in his room, which could not be. And since it could not be, he would go into another room to enjoy, at least, the appearance of her which was in that room. And it might be that he would go into all the rooms at once, and at the same time enjoy all the different appearances of her. But never could he enjoy the entire appearance of her as a single appearance either in his own room or in any other room.

  And never did any of the different appearances of her please him so well as that appearance of her which was proper to his own room. And the walls of his room were as the beginning of the picture which the room was. And the content of the room, its depth and height and fullness, was as the end of the picture, and as the end of his mind. The end of his mind was as water. For even on the earth water had been the questioning of what was not understood, an unphrased questioning, to which there could be but a silent answer, as to self-singing ears. And this is the whole story of how it was in the end.

  And this is one account of the thirty-two ages of man—for you may give as many accounts as you please, so long as each account has the fullness of its ignorance. This is an account of the ages of man which, in its fullness, speaks all the present ignorance your ancient understanding is so rich in. And the ages of man, by its dull-wise sense, are these: the age of learning that one man does not love another, and the age of learning that women have ways of their own, that children are omens of despair, that beasts are omens of familiar evil—

  that the same home is not for many,

  that travel takes not far,

  that eyes are the slaves of suspicion,

  that hands cannot do all the work,

  that silence is safer than speech,

  that speech is more profitable than silence,

  that time is the length of uncertainty,

  that yesterday only lies were told,

  that it is honourable to die,

  that remembrance is a hunger of what never sated,

  that sleep is loss of days never lived,

  that the sun is lunatic,

  that the stars are bewildered,

  that the moon watches,

  that trees haunt,

  that flowers envy,

  that rocks scorn,

  that water feigns,

  that fire mocks,

  that earth equivocates,

  that air betrays,

  that pain does not pass,

  that pleasure is self-love,

  that sorrow is self-hate,

  that desire is doubt,

  that ignorance is a fear of false understanding,

  that understanding is a fear of false wisdom,

  and the age of learning that in the end the account which has

  the fullness of its wisdom shall never yet have been given.

  OTHER EARLY STORIES

  INTRODUCTION

  THE stories that follow here were not originally included in this book, although they existed, published, prior to its publication. In reviewing stories of my early writing for determining which might be suitably joined to the contents of the original Progress of Stories, I was struck by there being more posing of what is fixed and perhaps unalterable, as if the story lay in large part in learning a certain set of circumstances as the stuff of its happenings; I wondered whether the distinguishing cruciality of their story-quality was essentially identifiable with that of the others. This consideration enabled me to see that in these outsiders to the original Progress there was, at the root of the motivating story-telling sense-of-things in all the stor
ies, a same thrust-of-mind of appreciation of the pathos of that which has only the outline of a single, individually peculiar story, a lonely existence in its particular frame of story-interest, whatever resemblance to the 'real' its content might have, or to the true, the words of its telling. There seems to me to be in these more disciplining of sensitivity to the contradiction between the unimportant and the important that necessarily has representation in all story-telling as committed to a general effect of life-likeness, out of respect for the intelligence of the readers- (or hearers-) to-be; and perhaps more restraint exercised against what might seem nonsense-telling. Story-teller self-consciousness about the near-invisible line between nonsense and relative congruity in story-telling narrative possibilities introduces a guardedness of intellectual conscience in the readers' behalf: one feels 'I must not carry them, and myself along with them, into story areas in which the importance of the true-to-tell gets altogether lost in the respose-giving un- concernedness of story-telling about the non-trueness of it.'

  In the explanation we call 'life' of what can and cannot be, the mind must keep the heart-breaking need of explanation, to which the telling of stories ministers without fulfilling it, from all seeming of being mind-breaking. What shows in the added early stories surely matches the dilemmas of choice, as between the lead of heart and the lead of mind that plague all who own to possession of a full human anatomy. The soul surely, in these junctures, takes the reins of choice in tight hold and stops the course of sense towards 'what next!' in its tracks with 'Whoa! The organs of explanation, of discovering the tellable, are one and the same. Heart-and-mind are the heart-or-mind of stories. Or the soul of truth.'

 

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