He took her to the stables, where he knew all the attendants and the jockeys, knew each horse by name. He stood by a big black powerful horse for nearly half an hour, his hand lying reassuringly on its neck, talking to it in a tone Martha had never heard. It touched her deeply, this passion was something she could respect, she felt a new tenderness for him, even while she wondered at his readiness to give up his regular attendance at the racecourse ‘simply to be with me’, she said with genuine humility, instinctively seeing that whatever he might feel for her was nothing to this abiding emotion.
But when they returned to the crowd, and he resumed his game of stalking the great for recognition, her irritation came back. At the end of the afternoon, he told her sarcastically that she had been bored; she was insincere when she protested she had enjoyed it. And the racing itself did bore her, she was unable to care which horse came in first. The crowd interested her, the clothes of the women—but most of all, and for the wrong reasons, Adolph’s behaviour. He knew this instinctively. She assured him again that she had loved every minute of it; he said roughly that she had no feeling for racing and she was a hypocrite.
When they left the racecourse, with the other cars, he drove past McGrath’s. She waited, her nerves on edge, to hear him say that of course she wouldn’t be seen dead with him in there, now it was filled with the smart crowd from the racecourse. He said it, and she found herself replying irritably that if he didn’t behave like a dog who expected to be kicked, no one would treat him like one. It was the first time she had acknowledged that he was, in fact, disliked; and no sooner were the words out than guilt overwhelmed her.
‘Look,’ she said gently, ‘think of Mr Cohen, for instance. When he comes to the Sports Club, no one dreams of thinking, Look at that Jew!’
He laughed in a hurt, strained way, avoiding her eyes, and said, ‘Which Mr Cohen? Those lawyers, maybe, but the Cohen who runs the wholesale business wouldn’t dare show his nose in the place.’
‘Then it’s nothing to do with being Jewish,’ she persisted, being reasonable at all costs; and he merely laughed again, and said she was a baby and knew nothing about life, which naturally touched her on her weakest spot, and made her cold and hostile.
She walked in front of him into McGrath’s lounge, greeting the people she knew, as usual, but understood that their smiles, their waving, were no longer approving; there was no doubt of it: the Sports Club crowd were watching her in a way which politely did not pass comment.
She chose a table, and waited for him to join her, which he did, smiling sheepishly. They were silent, and drank rather more quickly than usual, and when he suggested, as soon as their glasses were empty, that of course she wanted to leave now, she rose at once, and walked out.
He ran up behind her, saying, ‘Come home with me now?’ It was more than his usual hestitating suggestion, and she replied quickly that she must go home, there were letters to write.
She had never seen him so black and stubborn as he insisted, between set teeth, ‘Now—I want you to come home with me now.’
He had never insisted before; it had always been left to her to make the decision; and now she stiffened into resistance. ‘No,’ she said coldly, ‘I’m going home.’
He grasped her wrist, and said, ‘You never come when I want you to, only when you feel like it.’
Now, this struck her as unfair; she thought of herself as soft and compliant, because she saw the whole affair only in the light shed by those tender moments after love. She pulled away her wrist, moved away from the side of his car, where she had been standing, and said she would walk home. He came hurrying after her, already nervous and apologetic.
‘You only want me to come now because—well, because you want to prove something to yourself!’ she stated, and his face darkened, and all at once it became so urgently necessary for her to escape from the whole situation that she simply turned her back on him and said, ‘Leave me alone.’ As an afterthought, she flung back over her shoulder, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
So she walked steadily down the main street, until she heard a car draw up behind her, and hastened her steps, thinking that he had followed her; but Donovan’s gay, hard voice called out, ‘Matty, where are you off to?’
She stopped, adjusting herself to the idea of Donovan, and he said, ‘Yes, Matty dear, I’ve been looking for you. Come on, jump in.’
She got into the car, asking, ‘What do you want me for?’
‘I don’t want you, dear Matty. Stella wants to speak to you about something. I said I’d never be able to tear you away from your fascinating new friend, but, as luck had it, we passed you engaged in your lovers’ tiff, so I seized the opportunity.’
‘But why does she want to see me?’ Martha sounded like a sulky child, and Donovan did not reply, but drove steadily along.
A car passed them, and she involuntarily glanced to see if it was Adolph. Donovan said, ‘If you want to locate your admirer, surely you know where to find him?’
‘What do you mean?’ she inquired.
They were at an intersection; her room was perhaps two hundred yards down, one way, and the Mathews’s flat a couple of blocks further on. ‘Your fascinating admirer waits here for you,’ said Donovan, indicating a vacant and grass-grown lot at the corner. ‘Yes, Matty dear, when you’ve gone to your virgin bed, he sits here, in his car, watching your room to make sure of your exclusive interest in him—the whole town’s laughing its head off about it,’ he added cruelly, and glanced swiftly sideways to see how she would take it.
She took it badly. She was stunned. Then she muttered, ‘I don’t believe it.’
He laughed. ‘Look over your shoulder.’
She looked. A couple of blocks behind them crawled Adolph’s car. The mere sight of it caused her annoyance, and she involuntarily gave an impatient movement, as if shrugging off a burden. She said coldly, however, ‘That doesn’t prove anything.’
They had reached the flats. Donovan quickly stopped the car and jumped out. She saw he was waving to Adolph; the car wavered, appeared to be turning into a side street, and then adjusted itself and came straight on. Donovan, looking very manly and decided, strode a few paces to meet it, checked it with an imperiously raised hand, leaned inside the car, and spoke to Adolph; Martha caught a glimpse of Adolph’s defenceless smile.
Donovan returned, and she said, ‘What’s going on?’
‘Never mind, Matty dear, you come and talk to Stella, you’ll find out.’
They avoided looking at each other as they went up in the lift. Martha hated Donovan, and was thinking of Adolph: she was saying to herself that it would be impossible for him to spy on her, while an inner voice was replying that it was only too likely—it seemed consistent with what she knew of him. Fighting against this new conviction, she entered the flat and found Andrew, looking very embarrassed and concealing it with an assumption of responsibility, and Stella seated waiting on the divan as if the act of waiting was in itself a torment. She leaped up, and came to kiss Martha.
Martha allowed herself to be kissed, and asked, ‘What’s the matter?’
Stella led her to the divan, her arm around her shoulders with a gentle pressure that said, Be patient; then she went to sit opposite, leaning forward. She was wearing a black cocktail dress with sequins on it, which Martha’s eye noted and criticized as too bright even while she was waiting agitatedly for what Stella was going to say. Her hair was newly done, lying smooth and glossy on her small head; her oval face was tinted to an even apricot flush; her eyes glittered with excitement. At the same time, she was trying to subdue this excitement and appear deprecatingly womanly.
She said, in a low, dignified voice, which Martha at once resented as a dishonesty, ‘Matty dear, we really feel it our duty to tell you—no, don’t speak for a moment.’ For Martha’s eyebrows had involuntarily risen at the word ‘duty’. ‘Let me finish, Matty.’
Martha glanced at Donovan, who was watching avidly; at Andrew, whose face sugges
ted that he was bound to agree with his wife, even if what she said continually came as a surprise to him. He refused to meet Martha’s eyes, which were an appeal.
‘Matty,’ continued Stella with that effusive gentleness which was like an irritant, ‘you’re very young, and you’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake. You should have listened to us. That man has a bad reputation, he’s immoral and—’
Here Martha laughed involuntarily, thinking of the atmosphere of sex that Stella exuded like a perfume.
Stella said hurriedly, ‘No, Martha, you mustn’t laugh. He’s not a nice man. He’s been talking about you publicly, boasting everywhere.’
This was another shock. Martha could not immediately speak. That inner voice was saying firmly, No that’s not true; but she was confused, thinking that if he could spy on her, which she believed, then he might also boast. She sat frowning, looking with dislike at Stella’s triumphant face.
They were all gazing at her. In astonished horror of herself, she felt her lips beginning to tremble; the thing wavered this way and that, and then Stella expertly tightened the screw: ‘Talking about you all over the town, Matty.’ And Martha burst into tears. Her chief emotion was anger at herself for crying, for now she was lost. Through her tears, she saw the glint of cruelty in Stella’s bright eyes; she saw Donovan smiling, though he at once adjusted his look to sternness. A glance at Andrew showed him to be extremely uncomfortable. He got up, came over to her, and pushed away Stella, putting his arms around Martha.
‘Now, don’t cry, it’s all right,’ he said nicely, and looked angrily at his wife, who smiled and stood smoothing her hair reflectively, watching Martha’s face.
Almost immediately, much too soon to please Stella, Martha pulled herself together, trying to laugh, and asked brightly for a handkerchief.
‘You’re not the sort of girl who should cry,’ said Donovan, handing her his. ‘Stella, now, looks divine when she cries. For goodness’ sake powder your nose, Matty dear.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Andrew, annoyed. ‘Let’s call it a day now, shall we? Let’s all have a drink.’ He went to pour them.
Stella took over again. ‘And now we want you to come with us while we go and talk to him.’
‘What for?’ protested Martha sullenly. She had imagined it was all over.
‘You don’t want him ruining you, we must stop him talking; the whole town is gossiping,’ cried Stella indignantly.
‘I don’t see any necessity to go and see him,’ said Andrew stiffly.
But Stella and Donovan were already on their feet, waiting, and Andrew rose, too, in spite of himself.
‘I don’t think we should,’ said Martha faintly. ‘He won’t be in, anyway,’ she added hopefully, and this rider was her undoing; for she understood suddenly that Donovan had arranged that he should be in, when he spoke to him in the car. The sense of elaborate preparations, discussions, intrigues which she had not begun to comprehend kept her silent while Stella impatiently pulled her up from the divan and said, ‘Oh, come on, Matty, he’s expecting us.’
As they drove the few blocks to Adolph’s room, Martha, from her worried preoccupation, dimly heard Stella chattering animatedly about how easy it was for a young girl to go astray; it sounded like a magazine story. She looked incredulously at Stella, thinking surely this was an act, but Stella was carried away by the drama, and when Martha glanced towards Andrew, thinking that at least he must be amused, no, he was silent; his wife’s self-righteousness seemed to have infected him, for he sentimentally pressed Martha’s hand, and said, ‘You see, it’s all disgusting, isn’t it?’ Stella promptly said, with a relieved look at him, that yes, it must have been a great shock to Martha. Martha understood that they meant sex; and an uncomfortable but derisive grin appeared on her face, and she turned her face away to hide it, for she felt guilty because she could smile at all; she was by now bitterly regretting being here, and hoped that Adolph would have the sense to avoid this ridiculous scene.
But of course he was waiting. As the four entered the big room with its curved windows—and for the first time it flashed into Martha’s mind that the reason she had been so drawn to them was because they reminded her of home—Adolph was standing in the centre of the room, watching them, a small, ugly smile on his face. He looked caged; he stared helplessly at Stella, after a quick resentful glance at Martha, who even found herself signalling with her eyes, Don’t take any notice of them.
But he could not take his eyes off Stella, and it was she who conducted the interview, while the two men remained standing in the background, waiting.
Stella began, in that womanly voice, ‘You know why we’ve come.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Adolph, with his scared smile.
Stella drew in her breath, outraged by the hypocrisy. ‘I’ve come to speak to you, because I feel it to be my duty, I’m a Jew myself and I feel—’
‘Stella!’ protested Andrew and Martha together.
Stella impatiently motioned them to be quiet, and went on, smoothing her black silk skirt with a hand that looked curiously agitated, in contrast with the bland smiling face. ‘You know quite well what people say, then why do you add ammunition to it, seducing an innocent English girl.’
‘Stella,’ said Martha again, but by now neither of them was interested in her.
Adolph moved his lips in his scared, guilty smile, and Martha thought, ‘Why don’t you stand up to her? Don’t look so crestfallen.’ She was sick with anger at this scene, and with her part in it.
‘You married a Scotsman,’ said Adolph at last, weakly.
Stella straightened herself, and said with dignity, ‘I married him. I didn’t drag down my people to be gossiped about.’
Adolph suddenly let out a nervous giggle; his face was dull purple, his eyes went from one to another of the group in front of him, in angry appeal. And since he said nothing, Stella lost poise; her body was tense with the desire for a good vulgar scene, but it seemed there should be no scene.
She dropped her voice and cooed reasonably, ‘You must see you’ve behaved shockingly.’
There was a silence. Then Andrew said angrily, ‘Oh, come on, Stella, that’s enough, this is all off the point.’
And at last Adolph flashed into anger, and ground out, ‘And may I ask what this has got to do with you?’
‘Because I’m a Jewess,’ said Stella, with dignity. ‘Because I’ve a right to say it.’
It seemed Adolph had exhausted his anger; and after a pause, Stella rose calmly, remarking; ‘I’ll leave it to your conscience, then.’
She walked to the door, shepherding her flock before her. Donovan, looking moodily irritable, went out first. Andrew followed, saying uncomfortably to Adolph, ‘Goodbye.’ There was no reply. Martha looked swiftly over her shoulder at Adolph in guilty apology and saw his eyes so filled with hatred that she averted hers, and hurried out.
No one spoke. In her mind, Martha was framing words to express what she felt: she wanted to say this was the most dishonest disgraceful scene, she wanted to ask sarcastically why Stella had not said any of the things she had protested she intended to say. A glance at Stella’s satisfied face silenced her, and a kind of tiredness came over her.
They went to the car and drove in silence uptown. At the intersection Martha said, ‘I should like to get out and go home.’
‘No, Matty dear,’ said Stella maternally. ‘Come home and have some nice supper with us.’
‘Let her go home,’ said Donovan unexpectedly. His voice was sulky, his heavy black brows were knitted together over his eyes; he was scowling.
Andrew stopped the car, and Martha got out. Stella leaned persuasively out of the car, and said, ‘Now, go to bed early, Matty, don’t worry, you need some sleep, it’s all over and no harm done.’
Martha saw that Stella was waiting to be thanked; but the words stuck on her tongue. ‘Goodbye,’ was all that she could get out; and she sounded cold and reproachful. She was reproaching herself for be
ing a coward.
Stella leaned further out, and said gaily that Martha must look on their flat as a home, she must come and see them next day.
Martha nodded, with a stiff smile, and went home.
And in her room she was so ashamed she could hardly bear her own company. She said to herself wildly that she must rush down to Adolph’s room and say she was sorry, that it had had nothing to do with her, she had not known it was going to be like that. But at the back of her mind was a profound thankfulness that it was all over. There was no doubt that it was a relief that she need not see him again. And so, after a while, she soothed her conscience with the thought that she would write to him, she would apologize. Not now—tomorrow, later; she would write when a letter no longer had the power to bring him back.
PART FOUR
But far within him something cried
For the great tragedy to start,
The pang in lingering mercy fall
And sorrow break upon his heart.
—EDWIN MUIR
ONE
Martha was alone in her room. She felt exposed, unable to bear other people. She wished she were ill, and so able to stay away from the office for two or three weeks. Soon she did feel a vague, listless aching, rather like an illness. Her mother had sent her a thermometer to ‘help her look after herself’. She took her temperature. It was a little over normal. She assured herself that a temperature might be low in the morning and high in the afternoon, and got Mrs Gunn to telephone the office, saying she was unwell.