Last night as I walked the corridors of the hotel I came across a door which was ajar. Stuck to it, white and altogether bony, was a hand with a wedding ring on it.
This impersonal cipher reminded me at once of my marriage to Grace — the fantastic quixotry of the idea. “Do you reely mean it, mate?” she asked me with that curious quick breathing she had when she was surprised. The answer to the question which you are about to put to me is simply, pride. I realized that, staring at the eroded yellow circle of gold last night. My friend Tarquin had said to me with a snigger: “You’re losing your reputation, my dear. Living with a tart quite openly here. It’s all over the hotel.” I knew then that the game was up. England is the one country where the word “freedom” is used without cynicism. By statute one is free. By opinion one is treated like a cretin. In a place like the Regina there is no law, only opinion. I give you the picture of Mrs. Juniper complaining to the manageress on an autumn afternoon. Such a shame you could not meet the lady. A virginity of brass which handcuffed her military husband and kept him down for twenty years in the wilds of India. Since he died her only interest in life, in the felicitous phrase of Chamberlain’s wife, has been to twist the knackers of everyone in sight. She nearly twisted mine.
Tarquin came down with the news one night, and listening to his account of the faction which was ranged against us, I was surprised at my own fantastic rage. Even lice, after all, do not prey upon one another. A petition had been drafted and circulated with the names left blank. My sins were so well known and of such weight that it was impossible for one not to know at once to whom the paper referred.
Tarquin had been approached for his signature and had supplied it — a fact for which he felt a little guilty. Chamberlain did what he could to help. This consisted in bursting into the lounge after dinner and saying in his most indignant tones: “I’ve just heard about this scandalous business and I’m disgusted at the cheap behaviour of all you old bitches. What you need, Mrs. Juniper, is a papal bull.” Naturally, this was more a hindrance than a help. His wife was insulted in the street by Mrs. Felix, who was quite clear about whose side Jesus was on in this fray. Added to this was the anxiety that Gracie would have another attack and have to go to bed for a while. Tarquin heard Mrs. Robbins announcing to the lounge that Gracie had a nameless disease. All this, of course, one bore with phlegm. Even when the doctor said he could not attend her again for fear of losing a lucrative source of practice, I could find nothing withering to say. I had become granite. Gracie herself burst into tears, put her tail between her legs, and said that she must either leave me or we must both move. It was exactly this point that screwed down the lid properly. I will not be interfered with. I will not be touched by the unclean. I will not. In the kind of mood in which murder is so easily committed I told her she must marry me. It was then she remarked, “Do you reely mean it, mate?”
What a bore loyalties are. “Of course, you little fool.”
“Gregory, I’ve not been a good girl,” she said, “I’ll make you a bloody awful missis I will. But if you reely want me I’ll try.”
“Want you?” For some reason I was angrily contemptuous. Then I saw that the little charade must be indulged in. It was too much part of her social upbringing for her to see its ludicrousness. A blind spot. But the damage to me, to my pride … You see, even this was not selfless. The wretched responsibility of our lives! Action always in response to outside forces. Never a pure irresponsible action, the theme of the Taoist meditation.
Well, the marriage was solemnized if you can use the expression. The registrar was bald. The witnesses were Lobo and Chamberlain. The day was cold. Grade coughed endlessly. The reception consisted of a tea in the tiny flat where Chamberlain hatched his schemes. The forced solemnity of everyone, the ceremony, were deplorable. Only Chamberlain was gay, and proposed the health of the blushing bride in a short speech. Gracie, called upon to reply, said: “O no I can’t, reely I can’t. You all been very very good to us, haven’t they Gregory?”
From remote regions of ice I called back. And heard my own tinny voice remark, “Yes, my dear.” My pride was finally wounded. The victory remained with these good-natured oafs who were trying to be so busy and so jolly, don’t you know. Make it easy for them, don’t you know. Try and pretend that nothing has happened. Put them at their ease, don’t you know. I walked home bareheaded. Followed a dinner at my flat (our flat) at which a great deal of wine was consumed; at which Clare allowed Tarquin to fill his glass; at which Gracie became alarmingly the piercing hostess, and remarked, “Oh, do have another portion won’t you, Mr. Chamberlain?”
After they had gone and the washing up was stacked for the char, Gracie came into the drawing room and announced, “Well that’s what I call a lot of reel sports, don’t you think?”
Shall I go on and recollect what a failure it all was? I had ended it all so nicely with Gracie dying in the little bedroom. It was planned out superbly, wasn’t it? The telephone ringing. The half-second of eternity when the light was switched on, and Gracie lay there goggling at the ceiling. Yes, it was all set. Even down to the last little touch: going up slowly to the front door, up the stairs, outside, to where the snow lay thick; the soft lamps; gateposts bathed in whiteness; hedges cut clean, fretted coal-dark against the powdered trees. Going up for a breath of air, I had intended to put it. Standing shivering at the gate to make water, while my whole life lay before me, written in the snow. Lies, all lies. My disease is the disease of the dwarf. To make myself plausible I am forced into a sort of self-magnification of action, of thought. I am forced to make myself transcend reality.
That is why Gracie was so wonderful. So aptly cut out for you in green ink, shaped for a fine slick tragedy. To tell the objective truth would be to cut my own throat. That is not how she died. But each line I add to this makes me more and more reluctant to finish the job. Hara-kiri. A knife turned round in the bowels — but not the bowels of compassion. The bowels of pride. If I could get at the ulcer which has poisoned my actions I would stir it with my nib until the black bile and pus and splinters gushed forth. Pity me, I was born dead.
There is no room for the classy irony with which I have treated the theme hitherto, which is almost my only literary wear. The moon is shining on these pages. Your genuine ironist is never grilled solely on the iron of pride, as I am grilled. The green fountain which starts from this pen is poisoned at source. False irony; a mask baked down tight over the real interplay of facial muscles. God, to find words which would bite down, right down to the pure lustral source from which perfect action flows. This ultimate purification is the theme of my meditations all night long. I try, believe me, I try. When the wireless shuts down I anaesthetize myself, my own body, my own quintessential self, and watch it carried to the theatre. The amphitheatre is crowded with advocates. Under the waxen arcs I see the cloth spread. I am wheeled on the great soft trolley to a point of vantage. Strict white automatons parade with necessary apparatus. The masked face of myself leans down over my body, selects an instrument, and begins. A long bloodless slit in the band of yellow. A sound as of a razor cutting silk. A quiet hiss and splash and infinite masque of movement among the white figures, busy as ants. The gutters are slowly, noiselessly brimmed with blood. Discarded livers, kidneys, tracks of coloured guts drop away from under the sheet and plop into an enamel pail. The yellow envelope of flesh which is my belly becomes ever more flaccid, more empty. I tell you this goes on all night, every night. I am thoroughly opened and explored. My guts are emptied. And to no purpose. It is no good whatsoever. Today I am still what I was yesterday or the day before. It is no good.