‘However, as I have pointed out to Mrs Monk, this situation is most irregular, since I cannot act for both of you in this matter. So I would like to have a clear expression of your wishes. I do not even know that you will be in favour of letting Mrs Monk file suit for a divorce uncontested. There are many points to be straightened out here, and I would suggest that, at this stage in the proceedings before any official action has been taken, you should write to Mrs Monk herself and discuss this matter fully, in order that there may be no misunderstandings later. Once the suit has been filed, it will be most inadvisable for you to do this, lest you should be charged with collusion. If you will write in care of this office, I will see that the letter reaches her, as she is no longer in California right now.
‘Mrs Monk wishes me to tell you definitely that under no circumstances will she accept any alimony that may be awarded her by the court. I cautioned her against making such a statement, but she asked me to pass this on in my private capacity as a friend of both parties. This does not of course bind her legally to maintain her intention; but I may tell you unofficially, and as a private friend, that I think she means what she says. She is a very determined little lady in all respects, as you no doubt have discovered by this time!
‘May I say in conclusion that I greatly regret what has taken place, although I know from my own experience that with human beings you never can tell, and some of the greatest guys and the swellest gals I have known couldn’t seem to hit it off together, even though individually so popular with all who met them. If you are both resolved to go through with this thing, then we will try to get it through for you without any undue formalities, because “least said soonest mended” may be a truism but holds good in such matters, as always.
‘With sincere regards, and write me soon, willya?
‘Your friend and legal adviser,
‘Morton Frosch.’
I was still holding this letter in my hand when Gerda came back into the room. My first instinct was to slip it under the covers, out of sight. (I seemed to be becoming more and more secretive as my bed-life progressed: my habit of keeping Elizabeth’s letters hidden had affected the whole of my conduct.) But, instead, I smiled at Gerda and said brightly: ‘Well, I’m getting divorced.’
‘Please?’
‘I’m getting divorced. From my wife. Jane.’
‘Oh … I am sorry.’
‘No need to be sorry. I’m not.’
‘You are not?’
‘No. It’s the best thing, for both of us. We ought never to have married, in the first place.’
Gerda said nothing. She went on tidying the room.
‘Why didn’t you ever ask me about Jane?’ I said.
‘Because I do not think you like to talk about her.’
‘Oh, you noticed that?’
‘Certainly I notice it.’ Gerda smiled. ‘You speak of all things in the world, except that you never say anything of your wife. Is that natural? Do you think I am complete idiot?’
‘I think you’re very discreet … But now I do want to talk about Jane. I’ll tell you anything you like.’
‘Very well … You say you should never have married. Why did you marry?’
‘I told you about the villa Elizabeth and I had, didn’t I—at St Luc? Well, in 1937—that was nearly two years after she died—I finally went back there. I hadn’t felt like going before, as you can imagine, and I didn’t want to, then. But the villa had to be sold, and I couldn’t get any action just by writing to the agent. And there I met Jane again. She’d been living almost next-door to us, when Elizabeth was still alive. And she’d come back for another visit, too. So I knew her already, you see.’
‘And you married her because she was a friend of Elizabeth?’
‘That’s a strange thing. Actually, she and Elizabeth never even met. And yet, if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth, I’m sure I wouldn’t have married Jane. There was some sort of connection between them, in my mind.’
‘How—a connection? I do not understand.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t explain it any better than that. It’s too complicated, and, besides, I—’
‘It does not matter. And when did you and Jane get married?’
‘That same year. In July.’
‘And then you started not to agree together?’
‘Just as soon as she got the ring on.’
‘About what did you not agree?’
‘Oh, all sorts of things—it could be a party I didn’t want to go to, or an argument about something in the newspapers, or a movie we’d seen—’
‘These are no reasons.’
‘No, they were just excuses.’
‘You know, Stephen, there is only one true reason why two people will make a divorce. That they do not love each other.’
‘You’re a wise girl, Gerda.’
Gerda smiled. ‘As I am so wise, I will tell you something else. I do not believe that you wish really to talk about Jane. There are many things hidden—things you cannot tell me. Isn’t it so?’
‘I guess it is.’
‘Good—then we say no more. One should not discuss such things with another. But if this makes you sad, I am sorry.’
‘It doesn’t.’
‘Then I am not sorry.’
We both laughed. ‘Look, Gerda,’ I said. ‘Please don’t tell Sarah anything about this. I would hate for her to know.’
‘I think Sarah knows already.’
‘Good God, how can she?’
‘She says to me, quite soon after your accident: do not ever speak to Stephen of Jane unless he speaks first to you. That was all. But she knows, I am sure.’
‘Do you suppose Jane can have written her? No, that’s impossible—’
‘Sometimes, Stephen, you are very simple.’ Gerda smiled. ‘Why should Sarah not guess, as I have? You men think women are stupid. We are not so stupid. And Sarah, she is least stupid of all. She sees much in me, that you do not see.’
‘What does she see?’
‘Never mind! She sees. Do not underestimate Sarah.’
That night, after Sarah and Gerda had gone to bed, I settled myself to write to Jane:
‘I’ve just heard from Frosch that you want a divorce. He suggests that I write you, so I’m doing it at once. I’d have written you anyway, before long, as I’ve had a lot on my mind I wanted to say. This looks like being a lengthy letter, so let me tell you right away that it isn’t a plea for reconciliation, or any such thing. I most certainly shan’t try to get you to change your mind. I entirely agree with you, it’s high time we were divorced, and I’ll do everything necessary to help it along. If Frosch doesn’t handle it himself, he’ll get you an attorney. I agree in advance to anything you decide.
‘He says you don’t want any alimony. I won’t kick if you change your mind about this later—though I doubt if you will. You’re not one of those gold-digging whores. And if I’ve ever suggested, or thought to myself, that you were, I take it back now, with a humble apology. Yes—that’s a sincere bouquet; but, believe me, as I said above, I’m not throwing it with any sinister reconciliation motives. In this letter, I’m going to tell you the truth about certain things, as well as I can, simply in order to straighten out the record. I think it should be straightened out, because there’s no reason why we shouldn’t end up friends, whatever we may do with our lives in the future.
‘I don’t know if the news will have leaked through to you that I had an accident and broke my thigh. If this is the first you hear of it, don’t be alarmed; I’m well on the way to getting better. I only mention it because I want you to know that I’ve had a lot of time to think things over, lying here in bed, and this has resulted in a different attitude, not only toward what happened that night at the Novotnys’, but toward our whole marriage.
‘After that night, I came straight on out here to Tawelfan and Aunt Sarah. I suppose it was a somewhat hysterical move. A lot of people would say that I ought to have stayed and had things out
with you. But I’m glad, now, that I made a clean break; and I’m sure you are, too. There were things I did that night that I’m still bitterly ashamed of, though. I only hope you have enough humour to forgive them.
‘The first thing I want to get said is this: I’m quite well aware that I made you do what you did, at the Novotnys’. Underneath, I was hoping you’d do it. I’d been trying to provoke you to something of the sort, for months; even though I didn’t admit it to myself. I was such a coward that I had to make you take the decisive step. Maybe you realized that, and that’s why you did it. But even if you didn’t realize, I’m grateful to you anyway, just because you didn’t give a damn. One of those gold-diggers would have been too careful ever to get caught. She’d have cheated on me every night and still hung on to me for the rest of my life.
‘When I try to understand what went wrong between us, I have to go back to the very beginning. Well, no, not quite the beginning—not the first year at St Luc—there was nothing wrong with that, as far as it concerned you and me. It’s one of the most exciting things that ever happened to me, and I’d have felt wonderful about it, if Elizabeth hadn’t been there in the background. Which wasn’t your problem. And you were much more honest about the whole thing than I was, that’s certain.
‘But when I met you again, in 1937, that was all wrong, every bit of it, from the start.
‘To do you justice, you knew it. You knew we oughtn’t to begin our affair again. You saw the awful morbid state I was in, miserably lonely, and bitter and aggressive. Like lots of unhappy people, I was really shopping around for a victim to vent my misery on. And you were the ideal one, because I could punish you for what I’d done to Elizabeth by sleeping with you in 1935. You smelt all that sickness in me, and it disgusted you, because you’re healthy. You tried to shake me off. I remember how you actually said, “What you need, Steve, is a mother or a nurse. Why don’t you go look for one? I can’t help you.” But I was obstinate and quite shameless. I was determined to get you, and I used every trick in the book to do it. I suppose you finally gave in because you felt sorry for me, and because it wasn’t that important to you, either way.
‘I think that second stay at St. Luc was the purest period of hell on earth I can imagine. For me, I mean. I guess you enjoyed it. That house was always swarming with people and cocktails and hangovers; and the laziness and the drifting drove me nearly frantic with guilt. You see, I was raised with a Puritan conscience about work, and I’d lived almost all of my life with people who really did it; first Sarah, and then Elizabeth. I’d got to feeling that Elizabeth’s writing was something I had a share in—and I had, too, in a way. That salved my own conscience. Now that she was gone, I had nothing whatever to do. I felt horribly guilty because I was doing nothing, and I hated all of you because you didn’t encourage me to do anything. That was completely unfair of me, as I see now. Why in hell should you and your friends have done anything? You didn’t have Puritan consciences, and I was paying for the drinks. (That’s so typical of Puritan ghouls, like me; they pay for other people to get drunk and then sit around with long faces, disapproving of it.) Anyhow, the kind of life you all led was much more genuine and innocent, really, than a lot of people’s. At least you didn’t pretend it mattered. Like those millionaire hunters and fishermen who spend their time killing every living thing within miles, and being so deadly serious and holy about it. Or those businessmen like your Father, who are actually the most unbusinesslike men in the world, and waste eight hours a day flapping around the office and barking into electric boxes, while their employees quietly go on running the firm in spite of them. What utter fakes they all are!
‘But it wasn’t only the laziness and the drifting that made St Luc so hellish for me. Much worse than that was my feeling of not belonging. I could never tell you about that, of course. I was ashamed to, and anyway you wouldn’t have understood. I used to feel as if the whole lot of you were in league against me. When some newcomer would arrive and be given a drink, for instance, Lee was fond of saying, “You don’t have to sip it—it’s on the house,” and then he’d glance at me quickly, to see how I’d take it. It was like a game you all played: seeing just how much I would take. And then the atmosphere of mock deference when I made a remark. And the winks behind my back when my accent was particularly British, or I used some unfamiliar, literary word. Oh, yes, I know I imagined a great deal of that—but it wasn’t entirely imagination.
‘When I started sleeping with you, that only made it worse. It was as if I’d forfeited all claim to you in the daytime, by having you in bed at night. I knew they kidded you about me and you laughed, in that off-hand way which never showed if you were on my side or on theirs.
‘Sometimes I tried desperately hard to belong; sometimes I stopped trying, and sulked. When I tried, I never could do it right. If I made up my mind to get drunk with the rest of you, I’d get too drunk and pass out. Remember the time I suggested we should swim back to the shore after lunch on that rich Texan’s yacht, when we were anchored way outside the harbour —and the water was so rough, and Donald nearly got drowned? I only did it to impress you, of course; but afterwards you acted bored and told me I was an idiot.
‘Deep inside, I was longing to get away. And I suppose, in the normal course of events, that’s what would have happened. I’d have simply disappeared one morning, leaving a note and a cheque to cover expenses. I often played with the idea. I remember sitting watching you all dancing at the Casino, and thinking: I could do it now, before they come back to the table. It was my secret joke. I imagined myself like a whale which a party of people have mistaken for an island. They’re living on its back and really having a ball; but that old whale is just biding its time. Suddenly, it’ll sound, diving away down to the deepest depths of the sea, and leave them all floundering in the water. And there isn’t a thing, I said to myself, that any of them could do about it.
‘That’s where I was mistaken.
‘Let’s get one thing straight, here. That night you told me you were pregnant, you said, “I suppose you think I did this on purpose?” Well, I never thought that. And I certainly don’t think it now. You’d never stoop to that kind of bitchery. And anyhow, if you’d simply wanted me to marry you, you could have had me any time. I definitely hinted at it more than once, but you shut me up. You wouldn’t even discuss it.
‘It’s very important that you should understand this, because of what I’m going to tell you in a minute. I didn’t object to marrying you one bit; it was I who insisted on doing it right away, remember, as soon as I knew about the baby. I didn’t even feel trapped. I didn’t feel anything. It just didn’t seem particularly important. Maybe it’s not very charming of me to say this, but it’s the truth. Marrying you seemed like paying some unexpected income-tax, that’s all. It was a shock, but I obviously had to do it, and I could afford it. I was too completely bogged down in the present to worry about what would happen later to the two of us. It didn’t make the situation any worse, and certainly not any better.
‘But what I did mind about was the baby itself.
‘I didn’t want to have a child with you. The very thought that I’d made you pregnant filled me with disgust. There—I’ve said it. I could never have told you this to your face, and I could never be writing it to you now, if we weren’t about to split up. Even so, I’m resisting an impulse to crumple up this sheet of paper, and rewrite the whole thing in a more tactful way. But I know I mustn’t. I must try to tell you the exact truth.
‘I know how you hate psychology—all those pat little explanations. But I’m afraid you’re going to have to put up with some of it here. At least, it’s home-made and quite unscientific.
‘I can think of three separate reasons why I didn’t want that baby. The truth is never in reasons, but it’s somewhere in between them or around them. Reasons are the nearest I can get to it.
‘First, a good old-fashioned one: I wasn’t in love with you and you weren’t in love with me. There�
��s a lot in that.
‘Second: I still thought of our affair as a triangle, with Elizabeth. If you’d gotten pregnant that first summer, while she was alive, I’d have felt ever so much guiltier. But the feeling carried over; and when you did get pregnant, it was as if I were still cheating on Elizabeth. That’s partly true, too—only it’s a bit too subtle. If I’d been in love with you, I don’t believe I’d have felt that way.
‘Third, and maybe nearest to the truth: I didn’t want a child at all—not yours or anybody else’s. In fact, I had a horror of having children. (I say “had”, because I believe I would want them now, with the right person.) Why? Well, when Elizabeth’s baby died, I felt guilty. This sounds crazy, because her miscarriage certainly hadn’t anything to do with me. But the truth is, I was jealous—although I never admitted it to myself at the time. I was afraid the baby would come between us. And when it died, I was glad and guilty; and I hated the poor thing, because it had nearly killed Elizabeth and ruined her health for the rest of her life.
‘All right—we’ve cleared that hurdle. Now we come to the big water-jump. I wish you were in the room now; because maybe you’ve guessed what I’m going to tell you, and if I knew that, I wouldn’t have to write this down. Do you know, my hand is actually beginning to shake, at the thought of doing it? Isn’t that stupid?!’
This was perfectly true. My hand was trembling so much that I had a hard time holding the pen. I’d avoided thinking about that whole business for such a long time that it came back to me with an extra vividness of shame.
It happened three days after Jane and I had gotten married. This we did very quietly, because Jane didn’t want any rumours leaking out to her parents. She was afraid that her Mother, who was in Europe somewhere, might come swooping down on us and find out more than it was good for her to know. So we were married by the American Consul in Marseille, and stayed on for a few days at a hotel there. (Not the same one we’d stayed at in 1935: Jane had seemed to understand, without our discussing it, that I would want to avoid that.) We hadn’t told any of the gang about the wedding. We were going to break the news when we got back to St Luc.
The World in the Evening Page 27