«I'm going to see Christian.»
Marriage is a curious institution, as I have already remarked. I cannot quite see how it can be possible. People who boast of happy marriages are, I submit, usually self-deceivers, if not actually liars. The human soul is not framed for continued proximity, and the result of this enforced neighbourhood is often an appalling loneliness for which the rules of the game forbid assuagement. There is nothing like the bootless solitude of those who are caged together. Those outside the cage can, to their own taste, satisfy their need for society by more or less organized dashes in the direction of other human beings. But the unit of two can scarcely communicate with others, and is fortunate, as the years go by, if it can communicate within itself. Or is this the sour envious view of the failed husband? I speak now of course of ordinary «successful» marriages. Where the unit of two is a machine of mutual hatred there is hell in a pure form. I left Christian before our hell was quite perfected. I saw very clearly what it would be like.
«You've met her, you've discussed me, you think she's 'a most enormously nice person-«Bradley, don't shout. I-The telephone rings again.
I go and lift the receiver.
«Brad! I say, is that really you? Guess who this is!»
I put the telephone down, settling it carefully back onto its stand.
I went back into the sitting-room and sat down. «That was her.»
«You've gone quite white. You're not going to faint, are you? Can I get you something? Please forgive me for talking so stupidly. Is she hanging on?»
«No. I put the thing-down-The telephone rings again. I do nothing.
«Bradley, let me talk to her.»
«No.»
I get to the telephone just after Arnold has lifted the receiver. I bang it back onto the rest.
«Bradley, don't you see, you've got to deal with this, you can't shirk it, you can't. She'll come round in a taxi.»
The telephone rings again. I lift it up and hold it a little way off. Christian's voice, even with the American tang, is recognizable. The years drop away. «Brad, do listen, please. I'm round at the flat, you know, our old place. Why won't you come round? I've got some Scotch. Brad, please don't just bang the phone down, don't be mean. Come round and see me. I do so want to take a look at you. I'll be here all day, till five o'clock anyway.»
I put the telephone down.
«She wants me to go and see her.»
«You've got to, you've got to, it's your fate!»
«I'm not going.»
The telephone rings again. I take it off and lay it down on the table. It bubbles remotely. Priscilla calls in a shrill voice, «Bradley!»
«Don't touch that,» I said to Arnold, pointing at the telephone. I went in to Priscilla.
«Is that Arnold Baffin out there?» She was sitting on the side of the bed. I saw with surprise that she had put on her blouse and skirt and was putting some thick yellowish-pinkish muck onto her nose.
«Yes.»
«I think I'll come out to see him. I want to thank him.»
«As you like. Look, Priscilla, I'm going to be away for an hour or two. Will you be all right? I'll come back at lunch time, maybe a bit late. I'll ask Arnold to stay with you.»
«You will come back soon?»
«Yes, yes.»
I ran in to Arnold. «Could you stay with Priscilla? The doctor said she shouldn't be left alone.»
Arnold looked displeased. «I suppose I can stay. Is there any drink? I wanted to talk to you about Rachel, actually, and about that funny letter you wrote me. Where are you off to?»
«I'm going to see Christian.»
Marriage is a curious institution, as I have already remarked. I cannot quite see how it can be possible. People who boast of happy marriages are, I submit, usually self-deceivers, if not actually liars. The human soul is not framed for continued proximity, and the result of this enforced neighbourhood is often an appalling loneliness for which the rules of the game forbid assuagement. There is nothing like the bootless solitude of those who are caged together. Those outside the cage can, to their own taste, satisfy their need for society by more or less organized dashes in the direction of other human beings. But the unit of two can scarcely communicate with others, and is fortunate, as the years go by, if it can communicate within itself. Or is this the sour envious view of the failed husband? I speak now of course of ordinary «successful» marriages. Where the unit of two is a machine of mutual hatred there is hell in a pure form. I left Christian before our hell was quite perfected. I saw very clearly what it would be like.
The reason why, after swearing that I would not see her, I changed my mind and rushed to her was simply this. I realized quite suddenly that I would now be in torment until I had seen her and settled that she had no more power over me. Witch she might be, but surely not for me any more. And this was of course made much more obviously necessary by Arnold's having, by this vile chance, «got in on her.» I think his describing her as «an enormously nice person» had some cosmic effect on me. So she had got out of my mind and was walking about? Arnold had seen her with innocent eyes. Why did this threaten me so terribly? By going to see her myself I would be able to «dilute» the power of her meeting with Arnold. But I did not think all this out immediately. I acted on instinct, wanting to know the worst.
The little street in Netting Hill where we had lived in our more recent previous existence had become a good deal lusher since those days. I had, of course, avoided it always. I saw now as I ran along the pavement that the houses had been glossily painted, blue, yellow, dusty pink, the doors had fancy knockers, the windows cast– iron decorations, false shutters, window boxes. I had dismissed the taxi at the corner as I did not want Christian to see me before I saw, her.
The sudden recrudescence of the far past makes one dizzy even when there are no ugly features involved. There seemed to be no oxygen in the street. I ran, I ran. She opened the door.
I think I would not have recognized her at once. She looked slimmer and taller. She had been a bunchy sensuous frilly woman. Now she looked more austere, certainly older, also smarter, wearing a simple dress of mousy light-brown tweed and a chain belt. Her hair, which used to be waved, was straight, thick, longish, faintly undulating, and dyed, I suppose, to a reddish brown. Her face was more bony, a little wrinkled, the faintest wizening effect as on an apple, not unpleasant. The long liquidy brown eyes had not aged or dimmed. She looked competent and distinguished, like the manager of an international cosmetic firm.
The expression of her face as she opened the door is hard to describe. Mainly she was excited, almost to the point of idiotic laughter, but attempting to appear calm. I think she must have seen me first through the window. She did in fact laugh, in a suppressed burp of merriment as I came in, and exclaimed something, perhaps «Jesus!» I could feel my own face twisted and flattened as if under a nylon-stocking mask. We got into the sitting-room which was mercifully dark. It seemed to look very much as it had used to look. Huge emotions like gauze curtains made the place breathless, perhaps actually made it dark. One cannot at the time name these things, only later can one press them away and give them names. There was a moment of stillness. Then she moved toward me. I thought, rightly or wrongly, that she was going to touch me, and I moved back towards the window, behind an armchair. She laughed, in a sort of crazy wail like a bird. I saw her uncontrolled laughing face like a grotesque ancient mask. Now she looked old.
She had turned her back on me and was fiddling in a cupboard.
«Oh Jesus, I shall get the giggles. Have a drink, Bradley. Scotch? I guess we need something. I hope you're going to be nice to me. What a horrid letter you wrote me.»