“Well, when am I going to see them his Didn’t she give you any ?”
“She told me I could take some, but I didn’t like to. They’re so large and-well, flattering. I’ll ask for some next time if you really want to see them.”
“You’re going again, then ?”
“Yes, but for something different.” He went very red.
“Oh, it’s too silly to talk about.”
I remembered Rose’s letter.
“Does she want you to go on the pictures ?”
He said it was nonsense, really— “But there was a man came to dinner last night who has to do with them and he thought I’d be all right. They got me to read a piece aloud. I’m supposed to go and be tested—that’s what they call it. Only I don’t know that I’ll do it.”
“But of course you must, Stephen,” I said encouragingly. He looked at me quickly and asked if I’d like it if he acted-and I suddenly saw that I had been wrong in thinking he had lost interest in me. (thought little did I then know how wrong.) I had only been asking him questions out of politeness—nothing but Simon mattered to me in the least—but I tried to sound enthusiastic:
“Why, Stephen, it would be splendid—of course I’d like it.”
“Then I’ll try. They said they could teach me.”
I thought they probably could—he has such a nice speaking voice though it gets a bit muffled and husky when he feels shy.
“Welt, it’s most exciting,” I said brightly.
“Perhaps you’ll go to Hollywood.”
He grinned and said he didn’t think he’d count on that.
After we finished tea he helped me with the washing-up and then went over to Four Stones Farm; the Stebbinses were having a party.
I bet Ivy was thrilled about his going on the pictures. (not that anything more has happened about it yet.) I went to bed early, still feeling happy. Even the sound of the rain beating on the roof gave me pleasure, because it reminded me that Simon had had all the leaks mended for us. Everything in the least connected with him has value for me; if someone even mentions his name it is like a little present to me—and I long to mention it myself, I start subjects leading up to it, and then feel myself going red. I keep swearing to myself not to speak of him again-and then an opportunity occurs and I jump at it.
Father came home the next morning with a London telephone directory sticking out of the carpetbag.
“Goodness, are we going to have a telephone?” I asked.
“Great heavens, no!” He plonked the bag on one of the kitchen chairs—from which it instantly fell to the floor, throwing out the directory and various other books. Father shoved them back into the bag as fast as he could, but I had time to notice a very fancy little Language of Flowers, Elementary Chinese and a paper called The Homing Pigeon.
“Where’s the willow-pattern plate ?” I asked, trying to make my voice sound casual.
“I dropped it on Liverpool Street Station—but it had served its purpose.” He turned to go to the gatehouse, then said he’d like a glass of milk first. While I got it for him, I asked if he had stayed at the Cottons” flat He said: “Oh yes, I had Simon’s room-by the way, he particularly asked to be remembered to you; he said you entertained him very nicely.”
“Where did you go when he came home yesterday ?”
“I just stayed on in his room. He went to Neil’s hotel; very obliging of him. Simon has a charming nature-unfortunately.”
“Why “unfortunately” ?” I asked, as I gave him his milk.
“Because Rose takes advantage of it,” said Father.
“But then no man ought to be as much in love as Simon is-it makes one resent the whole female sex.”
I took the milk jug back to the larder and called over my shoulder:
“Well, I don’t see why it should—considering Rose is in love with him.”
“Is she ?” said Father-and when I stayed in the larder hoping he would let the subject drop, he called me back.
“Are you sure she’s in love with him, Cassandra his I’d be interested to know.”
I said: “Well, she told me she was—and you know how truthful she is.”
He thought for a minute, then said: “You’re right. I can’t remember her ever telling a lie. Truthfulness so often goes with ruthlessness.
Yes, yes, if she says she’s in love, she is —and her manner last night was quite compatible with it, given Rose’s nature.”
He put down his empty glass so I was able to take it to the sink and keep my back to him.
“What was her manner like ?” I asked.
“So damned unresponsive—and so obviously sure of her power over him. Oh, I daresay she can’t help it—she’s one of the women who oughtn’t to be loved too kindly; when they are, some primitive desire for brutality makes them try to provoke it. But if she’s really in love, it’ll work out all right. Simon’s so intelligent that he’ll adjust the balance, eventually—because he isn’t weak, I’m sure;
it’s simply that being so much in love puts a man at a disadvantage.”
I managed to say: “Oh, I’m sure things will turn out right,” and then concentrated on the glass-I never dried a glass so thoroughly in my life. Father started off to the gatehouse again, to my great relief.
As he passed me, he said: “Glad we’ve had this talk. It’s eased my mind considerably.”
It hadn’t eased mine. I suppose I ought to have been pleased at hearing him talking so rationally, but I was much too submerged in my own troubles-for that was when misery engulfed me, and guilt too. Everything he said about Simon’s feelings for Rose was such agony that I suddenly knew it wasn’t only the wonderful luxury of being in love that had been buoying me up: deep down, in some vague, mixed way I had been letting myself hope that he didn’t really care for her, that it was me he loved and that kissing me would have made him realize it. “You’re a fool and worse was I told myself, “you’re a would-be thief.” Then I began to cry and when I got out my handkerchief it smelt of Rose’s scent and reminded me I hadn’t written to thank her for it.
“Before you do, you’ve got to get your conscience clear,” I said to myself sternly, “and you know the way to do it. Things you let yourself imagine happening, never do happen; so go ahead, have a wonderful daydream about Simon loving you, marrying you instead of Rose-and then he never will. You’ll have given up any hope of winning him from her.”
That made me wonder if I could have put up any opposition to Rose in the early days, when it would have been quite fair. I thought of the chance I missed on May Day when Simon and I walked to the village together. If only I could have been more fascinating! But I decided my fascination would have been embarrassing —I know Simon didn’t care much for Rose’s until he had fallen in love with her beauty; after that, of course, he found the fascination fascinating.
Then I remembered Miss Marcy once saying “Dear Rose will lead men a dance,” and it struck me that Father meant much the same thing when he spoke of Rose showing her power over Simon. Suddenly I had a great desire to batter her, and as I was going to imagine away any chance of getting Simon, I decided to have a run for my money and batter Rose into the bargain. So I stoked up the kitchen fire and put the stew on for lunch, then drew the armchair close and gave my imagination its head-I was longing to, anyhow, apart from its being a noble gesture.
I visualized everything happening at Mrs. Cotton’s flat—I gave it a balcony overlooking Hyde Park. We began there, then moved indoors. Rose came in while Simon was kissing me and was absolutely livid—or was that in a later imagining? There have been so many that they have gradually merged into each other. I don’t think I could bring myself to describe any of them in detail because, though they are wonderful at the time, they give me a flat, sick, ashamed feeling to look back on. And they are like a drug, one needs them oftener and oftener and has to make them more and more exciting—until at last one’s imagination won’t work at all. It comes back after a few days, though.
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Goodness knows how I can ever look Rose in the face after the things I have imagined saying and doing to her-I got as far as kicking her once. Of course I always pretend that she isn’t in love with Simon, merely after his money. Poor Rose! It is extraordinary how fond I can feel of her really, not to mention guilty towards her—and yet hate her like poison in my imaginings.
Coming back to earth after that first one was particularly awful, because it was the one which gave Simon up irrevocably —the others didn’t have the same tampering-with-fate feeling (but it is always dreadful when the pictures in front of one’s eyes become meaningless, and the real world is there instead and seems meaningless, too). I certainly wasn’t in any mood for writing to Rose, but in the afternoon I forced myself to-it was like making up a letter for a character in a book to write. I told her how pleased I was with the bottle of scent, and put in bits about Hcl and About and the miserable weather-the rain was useful as a lead into: “How lucky it was fine on Midsummer Eve. It was so nice that Simon was here for it—tell him I enjoyed every minute—” It was glorious writing that—almost like telling him I was glad he had kissed me.
But after I posted the letter I was worried in case he guessed what I meant. And as I walked back from the post-office I had the most agonizing thought; supposing he had told Rose about kissing me and they had laughed about it his It hurt me so much that I moaned out loud. I wanted to fling myself down in the mud and beat my way into the ground.
I had just enough sense to know what I should look like after trying, so stayed upright; but I couldn’t go on walking. I went and sat on a stile and tried to turn the thought out of my mind-and then worse thoughts rushed in on me. I asked myself; if it wasn’t wrong of Simon to kiss me when he is in love with Rose —if he was the sort of man who thinks any girl will do to kiss his Of all the agonies, the worst is when I think badly of Simon; not that I ever do for very long.
After I had been sitting there in the rain for a while, I saw that there was nothing dreadful in his having kissed me. In spite of his saying it wasn’t due to his missing Rose, it probably was. Anyway, I think Americans kiss rather easily and frequently—Miss Marcy had some American magazines once and there were pictures of people kissing on almost every page, including the advertisements. I expect Americans are affectionate, as a nation.
I would certainly never have been surprised if Neil had kissed me and I wouldn’t have thought it meant he was seriously in love. Somehow it seemed unlike Simon but… Then I wondered if he had thought I expected it, if I had somehow invited a kiss. That made me want to die of shame and yet was comforting because it put Simon in the right if he had done it out of kindness.
Suddenly I said aloud into the rain: “He won’t tell Rose and laugh.
And he didn’t do anything wrong—whatever his reasons were, they weren’t wrong. If you love people, you take them on trust.”
Then I got off the stile and walked home. And in spite of the drenching rain, I felt quite warm.
That little glow of comfort lasted me right through the evening but was gone when I woke up next morning. Wakings are the worst times-almost before my eyes are open a great weight seems to roll on to my heart. I can usually roll it off a bit during the day—for one thing, food helps quite a lot, unromantic as that sounds. I have grown more and more ravenous as I have grown more and more miserable. Sleep is wonderful, too-I never thought of it as a pleasure before, but now I long for it. The best time of all is before I fall asleep at night, when I can hold the thought of Simon close to me and feel the misery slip away. I often sleep in the daytime, too.
Surely it isn’t normal for anyone so miserably in love to eat and sleep so well? Am I a freak his I only know that I am miserable, I am in love, but I raven food and sleep.
Another great luxury is letting myself cry—I always feel marvelously peaceful after that. But it is difficult to arrange times for it, as my face takes so long to recover;
it isn’t safe in the mornings if I am to look normal when I meet Father at lunch, and the afternoons are no better, as Thomas is home by five. It would be all right in bed at night but such a waste, as that is my happiest time.
Days when Father goes over to read in the Scoatney library are good crying-days. On the Wednesday of that first week of mud and misery I went to see the Vicar; he has a lot of old music and I hoped I might find “Sheep May Safely Graze.” The rain stopped for a few hours that morning but it was very cold and damp, and the battered countryside looked rather as I felt. As I sloshed along the Godsend road, planning to be careful not to give myself away to the Vicar, I found myself wondering if it would be a relief to confess to someone, as Lucy Snowe did in Villette. The Vicar isn’t High Church enough for confessions, and certainly most of me would have loathed to tell him or anybody else one word; but I did have a feeling that a person as wretched as I was ought to be able to get some sort of help from the Church. Then I told myself that as I never gave the Church a thought when I was feeling happy, I could hardly expect it to do anything for me when I wasn’t. You can’t get insurance money without paying in premiums.
I found the Vicar starting to plan a sermon, wrapped in the collie dog carriage rug. I do love his study; it has old green paneling except for the wall that is bookshelves from floor to ceiling. His housekeeper keeps everything very shining and clean.
“Now this is splendid,” he said.
“An excuse to stop working-and to light a fire.”
He lit it; even to watch it crackling up was cheering. He said he didn’t think he had “Sheep May Safely Graze,” but I could look through his music. Most of it is in old calf-bound volumes he bought at a country-house sale. They have a musty smell, and the printing looks different from modern music; there is an elaborately engraved page in front of each piece. As one turns the pages, one thinks of all the people who have turned them in the past and it seems to take one back closer to the composers—I like to think of the Beethoven pieces being played not very many years after he died.
I soon came across “Air From Handel’s Water Music”—which was no longer specially valuable to me—but I never found “Sheep May Safely Graze.” Still, looking through the old volumes was soothing, because thinking of the past made the present seem a little less real. And while I was searching, the Vicar got out biscuits and madeira. I never had madeira before and it was lovely-the idea almost more than the taste, because it made me feel I was paying a morning call in an old novel. For a moment I drew away from myself and thought: “Poor Cassandra!
No, it never comes right for her. She goes into a decline.”
We talked of the Cottons and Scoatney and how wonderful every thing was for everybody and how happy we were for Rose.
He was most interested to hear Simon had spent Midsummer Eve with me and asked lots of questions about it. After that, we got started on religion, which surprised me rather, as the Vicar so seldom mentions it—I mean, to our family;
naturally it must come up in his daily life.
“You ought to try it, one of these days,” he said.
“I
believe you’d like it.”
I said: “But I have tried it, haven’t I? I’ve been to church. It never seems to take.”
He laughed and said he knew I’d exposed myself to infection occasionally.
“But catching things depends so much on one’s state of health. You should look in on the church if ever you’re mentally run down.”
I remembered my thoughts on the way to the village.
“Oh, it wouldn’t be fair to rush to church because one was miserable,” I said —taking care to look particularly cheerful. “It’d be most unfair not to—you’d be doing religion out of its very best chance.”
“You mean “Man’s extremity is God’s opportunity”?”
“Exactly. Of course, there are extremities at either end; extreme happiness invites religion almost as much as extreme misery.”
I told him I’d never thought of that. He he
lped me to some more madeira, then said:
“In addition, I think religion has a chance of a look-in whenever the mind craves solace in music or poetry-in any form of art at all. Personally, I think it is an art, the greatest one; an extension of the communion all the other arts attempt.”
“I suppose you mean communion with God.”
He gave such a snort of laughter that his madeira went the wrong way.
“What on earth did I say that was funny ?” I asked, while he was mopping his eyes.
“It was the utter blankness of your tone. God might have been a long, wet week-which He’s certainly treating us to.” He glanced at the window. The rain had started again, so heavily that the garden beyond the streaming panes was just a blur of green.
“How the intelligent young do fight shy of the mention of God!
It makes them feel both bored and superior.”
I tried to explain: “Well, once you stop believing in an old gentleman with a beard…
It’s only the word God, you know-it makes such a conventional noise.”
“It’s merely shorthand for where we come from, where we’re going, and what it’s all about.”
“And do religious people find out what it’s all about?
Do they really get the answer to the riddle ?”
“They get just a whiff of an answer sometimes.” He smiled at me and I smiled back and we both drank our madeira. Then he went on: “I suppose church services make a conventional noise to you, too—and I rather understand it. Oh, they’re all right for the old hands and they make for sociability, but I sometimes think their main use is to help weather churches-like smoking pipes to color them, you know. If any-well, unreligious person, needed consolation from religion, I’d advise him or her to sit in an empty church.
Sit, not kneel. And listen, not pray. Prayer’s a very tricky business.”
“Goodness, is it ?”
“Well, for inexperienced prayers it sometimes is.
You see, they’re apt to think of God as a slot-machine. If nothing comes out they say “I knew dashed well it was empty”—when the whole secret of prayer is knowing the machine’s full.”