“Isn’t that a sad sight, dear Anna?” said Paul, indicating the group of young men with Maryrose. “There they are, every one positively hang-dog with sex frustration, and there she is, beautiful as the day, and with not a thought for anyone but her dead brother. And there’s Jimmy, shoulder to shoulder with her, and he has no thought for anyone in the world but me. From time to time I tell myself I should go to bed with him, because why not? It would make him so happy. But the truth is, I’m reluctantly coming to the conclusion that not only I am not a homosexual, but that I never was. Because who do I yearn for, stretched on my lonely pillow? Do I yearn for Ted? Or even for Jimmy? Or for any of the gallant young heroes with whom I am so constantly surrounded? Not at all. I yearn for Maryrose. And I yearn for you. Preferably not both together of course.”
George Hounslow came into the hall and went straight over to Maryrose. She was still on her chair, supported by her gallants. They gave way in all directions as he approached. Suddenly something frightening happened. George’s approach to women was clumsy, over-humble, and he might even stammer. (But his stammer always sounded as if he were doing it on purpose.) Meanwhile his deep-set brown eyes would be fixed on the women with an almost bullying intentness. And yet his manner would remain humble, apologetic. Women got flustered or angry, or laughed nervously. He was a sensualist of course. I mean, a real sensualist, not a man who played the role of one, as so many do, for one reason or another. He was a man who really, very much, needed women. I say this because there aren’t many men left who do. I mean civilised men, the affectionate nonsexual men of our civilisation. George needed a woman to submit to him, he needed a woman to be under his spell physically. And men can no longer dominate women in this way without feeling guilty about it. Or very few of them. When George looked at a woman he was imagining her as she would be when he had fucked her into insensibility. And he was afraid it would show in his eyes. I did not understand this then, I did not understand why I got confused when he looked at me. But I’ve met a few men like him since, all with the same clumsy impatient humility, and with the same hidden arrogant power.
George was standing below Maryrose who had her arms raised. Her shining hair was down over her shoulders, and she wore a sleeveless yellow dress. Her arms and legs were a smooth gold-brown. The airforce men were almost stupefied with her. And George, for a moment, had the same look of stunned immobility. George said something. She let her arms drop, stepped slowly down off the chair and now stood below him, looking up. He said something else. I remember the look on his face—chin poked forward aggressively, eyes intent, and a stupidly abased expression. Maryrose lifted her fist and jabbed it up at his face. As hard as she could—his face jerked back and he even staggered a step. Then, without looking at him, she climbed back on her chair and continued to hang garlands. Jimmy was smiling at George with an eager embarrassment, as if he were responsible for the blow. George came over to us, and he was again the willing clown, and Maryrose’s swains were back in their poses of helpless adoration.
“Well,” said Paul. “I’m very impressed. If Maryrose would hit me like that, I’d believe I was getting somewhere.”
But George’s eyes were full of tears. “I’m an idiot,” he said. “A dolt. Why should a beautiful girl like Maryrose look at me at all?”
“Why indeed?” said Paul.
“I believe my nose is bleeding,” said George, so as to have an excuse to blow it. Then he smiled. “I’m in trouble all around,” he said. “And that bastard Willi is too busy with his bloody Russian to be interested.”
“We’re all in trouble,” said Paul. He was radiating a calm physical well-being, and George said: “I hate young men of twenty. What sort of trouble could you conceivably be in?”
“It’s a hard case,” said Paul. “First, I’m twenty. That means I’m very nervous and ill-at-ease with women. Second, I’m twenty. I have all my life before me, and frankly the prospect often appals me. Thirdly, I’m twenty, and I’m in love with Anna and my heart is breaking.”
George gave me a quick look to see if this were true, and I shrugged. George drank down a full tankard of beer without stopping, and said: “Anyway I’ve no right to care whether anyone’s in love with anyone. I’m a sod and a bastard. Well, that would be bearable, but I’m also a practising socialist. And I’m a swine. How can a swine be a socialist, that’s what I want to know?” He was joking, but his eyes were full of tears again, and his body was clenched and tense with misery.
Paul turned his head with his characteristic indolent charm, and let his wide blue eyes rest on George. I could positively hear him thinking: Oh, Lord, here’s some real trouble, I don’t even want to hear about it…he let himself slide to the floor, gave me the warmest and tenderest of smiles, and said: “Darling Anna, I love you more than my life, but I’m going to help Maryrose.” His eyes said: Get rid of this gloomy idiot and I’ll come back. George scarcely noticed him going.
“Anna,” said George. “Anna, I don’t know what to do.” And I felt just as Paul had: I don’t want to be involved with real trouble. I wanted to be off with the group hanging garlands, for now that Paul had become a member of it, it was suddenly gay. They were beginning to dance. Paul and Maryrose, even June Boothby, because there were more men than girls, and people were drifting up from the hotel, drawn by the dance music.
“Let’s get out,” said George. “All this youth and jollity. It depresses me unutterably. Besides, if you come too, your man will talk. It’s him I want to talk to.”
“Thanks,” I said, without much grace. But I went with him to the hotel verandah which was rapidly losing its occupants to the dance room. Willi patiently laid down his grammar, and said: “I suppose it’s too much to expect, to be allowed to work in peace.”
We sat down, the three of us, our legs stretched into the sun, the rest of our bodies in the shade. The beer in our long glasses was light and golden and had spangles of sunlight in it. Then George began talking. What he was saying was so serious, but he spoke with a self-mocking jocularity, so that everything seemed ugly and jarring, and all the time the pulse of music came from the dance room and I wanted to be there.
The facts were these. I’ve said his family life was difficult. It was intolerable. He had a wife and two sons and a daughter. He supported his wife’s parents and his own. I’ve been in that little house. It was intolerable even to visit. The young couple, or rather, the middle-aged couple who supported it, were squeezed out of any real life together by the four old people and the three children. His wife worked hard all day and so did he. The four old ones were all, in various ways, invalids and needed special care and diets and so on. In that living-room in the evening, the four played cards interminably, with much bickering and elderly petulance; they played for hours, in the centre of the room, and the children did their homework where they could, and George and his wife went to bed early, more often than not from sheer exhaustion, apart from the fact their bedroom was the only place they could have some privacy. That was the home. And then half the week George was off along the roads, sometimes working hundreds of miles away on the other side of the country. He loved his wife, and she loved him, but he felt permanently guilty because managing that household would by itself have been hard work for any woman, let alone having to work as a secretary as well. None of them had had a holiday in years, and they were all permanently short of money, and miserable bickering went on about sixpences and shillings.
Meanwhile, George had his affairs. And he liked African women particularly. About five years before he was in Mashopi for the night and had been very much taken with the wife of the Boothbys’ cook. This woman had become his mistress. “If you can use such a word,” said Willi, but George insisted, and without any consciousness of humour: “Well why not? Surely if one doesn’t like the colour bar, she’s entitled to the proper word, as a measure of respect, so to speak.”
George often travelled through Mashopi. Last year he had seen the group of children and o
ne of them was lighter than the others and looked like George. He had asked the woman, and she had said yes, she believed it was his child. She was not making an issue of it.
“Well?” said Willi, “what’s the problem?”
I remember George’s look of sheer, miserable incredulity. “But Willi—you stupid clod, there’s my child, I’m responsible for it living in that slum back there.”
“Well?” said Willi again.
“I’m a socialist,” said George. “And as far as it’s possible in this hellhole I try to be a socialist and fight the colour bar. Well? I stand on platforms and make speeches—oh, very tactfully of course, saying that the colour bar is not in the best interests of all concerned, and gentle Jesus meek and mild wouldn’t have approved, because it’s more than my job is worth to say it’s inhuman and stinkingly immoral and the whites are damned to eternity for it. And now I propose to behave just like every other stinking white sot who sleeps with a black woman and adds another half-caste to the Colony’s quota.”
“She hasn’t asked you to do anything about it,” said Willi.
“But that isn’t the point.” George sank his face on his flat palms, and I saw the wetness creep between his fingers. “It’s eating me up,” he said. “I’ve known about it this last year and it’s driving me crazy.”
“Which isn’t going to help matters much,” said Willi, and George dropped his hands sharply, showing his tear-smeared face and looked at him.
“Anna?” appealed George, looking at me. I was in the most extraordinary tumult of emotion. First, I was jealous of the woman. Last night I had been wishing I was her, but it was an impersonal emotion. Now I knew who it was, and I was astounded to find I was hating George and condemning him—just as I had resented him last night when he made me feel guilty. And then, and this was worse, I was surprised to find I resented the fact the woman was black. I had imagined myself free of any such emotion, but it seemed I was not, and I was ashamed and angry—with myself, and with George. But it was more than that. Being so young, twenty-three or four, I suffered, like so many “emancipated” girls, from a terror of being trapped and tamed by domesticity. George’s house, where he and his wife were trapped without hope of release, save through the deaths of four old people, represented to me the ultimate horror. It frightened me so that I even had nightmares about it. And yet—this man, George, the trapped one, the man who had put that unfortunate woman, his wife, in a cage, also represented for me, and I knew it, a powerful sexuality from which I fled inwardly, but then inevitably turned towards. I knew by instinct that if I went to bed with George I’d learn a sexuality that I hadn’t come anywhere near yet. And with all these attitudes and emotions conflicting in me, I still liked him, indeed loved him, quite simply, as a human being. I sat there on the verandah, unable to speak for a while, knowing that my face was flushed and my hands trembling. And I listened to the music and the singing from the big room up the hill and I felt as if George were excluding me by the pressure of his unhappiness from something unbelievably sweet and lovely. At that time it seemed I spent half my life believing I was being excluded from this beautiful thing; and yet I knew with my intelligence that it was nonsense—that Maryrose, for instance, envied me because she believed Willi and I had everything she wanted—she believed we were two people who loved each other.
Willi had been looking at me, and now he said: “Anna is shocked because the woman is black.”
“That’s part of it,” I said. “I’m surprised that I do feel like that though.”
“I’m surprised you admit it,” said Willi, coldly, and his spectacles flashed.
“I’m surprised you don’t,” said George to Willi. “Come off it. You’re such a bloody hypocrite.” And Willi lifted his grammars and set them ready on his knee.
“What’s the alternative, have you an intelligent suggestion?” enquired Willi. “Don’t tell me. Being George, you believe it’s your duty to take the child into your house. That means the four old people will be shocked into their graves, apart from the fact no one will ever speak to them again. The three children will be ostracised at school. Your wife will lose her job. You will lose your job. Nine people will be ruined. And what good will that do your son, George? May I ask?”
“And so that’s the end of it all?” I asked.
“Yes, it is,” said Willi. He wore his usual expression at such moments, obstinate and patient, and his mouth was set.
“I could make it a test case,” said George.
“A test case of what?”
“All this bloody hypocrisy.”
“Why use the word to me—you’ve just called me a hypocrite.” George looked humble, and Willi said: “Who’d pay the price of your noble gesture? You’ve got eight people dependent on you?”
“My wife isn’t dependent on me. I’m dependent on her. Emotionally that is. Do you imagine I don’t know it?”
“Do you want me to put the facts again?” said Willi, over-patient, and glancing at his text-books. Both George and I knew that because he had been called a hypocrite he would never soften now, but George went on: “Willi, isn’t there anything at all? Surely, it can’t be finished, just like that?”
“Do you want me to say that it’s unfair or immoral or something helpful like that?”
“Yes,” said George, after a pause, dropping his chin on his chest. “Yes, I suppose that’s what I want. Because what’s worse is that if you think I’ve stopped sleeping with her, I haven’t. There might be another little Hounslow in the Boothby kitchen any day. Of course, I’m more careful than I was.”
“That’s your affair,” said Willi.
“You are an inhuman swine,” said George after a pause.
“Thank you,” said Willi. “But there’s nothing to be done, is there? You agree, don’t you?”
“That boy’s going to grow up there among the pumpkins and the chickens and be a farm labourer or a half-arsed clerk, and my other three are going to get through to university and out of this bloody country if I have to kill myself paying for it.”
“What is the point?” said Willi. “Your blood? Your sacred sperm, or what?”
Both George and I were shocked. Willi saw it with a tightening of his face, and it remained angry as George said: “No, it’s the responsibility. It’s the gap between what I believe in and what I do.”
Willi shrugged and we were silent. Through the heavy midday hush came the sound of Johnnie’s drumming fingers.
George looked at me again, and I rallied myself to fight Willi. Looking back I want to laugh—because I automatically chose to argue in literary terms, just as he automatically answered in political terms. But at the time it didn’t seem extraordinary. And it didn’t seem extraordinary to George either, who sat nodding as I spoke.
“Look,” I said. “In the nineteenth century literature was full of this. It was a sort of moral touchstone. Like Resurrection, for instance. But now you just shrug your shoulders and it doesn’t matter?”
“I haven’t noticed that I shrugged,” said Willi. “But perhaps it is true that the moral dilemma of a society is no longer crystallised by the fact of an illegitimate child?”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Why not?” said George, very fierce.
“Well, would you really say the problem of the African in this country is summed up by the Boothbys’ cook’s white cuckoo?”
“You put things so prettily,” said George angrily. (And yet he would continue to come to Willi humbly for advice, and revere him, and write to him self-abasing letters for years after he left the Colony.) Now he stared out into the sunlight, blinking away tears, and then he said: “I’m going to get my glass filled.” He went off to the bar.
Willi lifted his text-book, and said without looking at me: “Yes, I know. But I’m not impressed by your reproachful eyes. You’d give him the same advice, wouldn’t you? Full of ohs and ahs, but the same advice.”
“What it amounts to is that everything is so ter
rible that we’ve got calloused because of it and we don’t really care.”
“May I suggest you stick to certain basic principles—such as abolishing what is wrong, changing what is wrong? Instead of sitting around crying about it?”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime I’m going to study and you will go off and let George weep on your shoulder and be very sorry for him, which will achieve precisely nothing.”
I left him and walked slowly back up to the big room. George was leaning against the wall, a glass in his hand, eyes closed. I knew I should go to him, but I didn’t. I went into the big room. Maryrose was sitting by herself at a window and I joined her. She had been crying.
I said: “This seems to be a day for everyone to cry.”
“Not you,” said Maryrose. This meant that I was too happy with Willi to need to cry, so I sat down by her and said: “What’s wrong?”
“I was sitting here and watching them dance and I began thinking. Only a few months ago we believed that the world was going to change and everything was going to be beautiful and now we know it won’t.”
“Do we?” I said, with a kind of terror.
“Why should it?” she asked, simply. I didn’t have the moral energy to fight it, and after a pause she said: “What did George want you for? I suppose he said I was a bitch for hitting him?”
“Can you imagine George saying anyone is a bitch for hitting him? Well why did you?”
“I was crying about that too. Because of course the real reason I hit him was because I know someone like George could make me forget my brother.”
“Well perhaps you should let someone like George have a try?”
“Perhaps I should,” she said. She gave me a small, old smile, which said so clearly: What a baby you are!—that I said angrily: “But if you know something, why don’t you do something about it?”
The Golden Notebook Page 17