Anne began to see the Count in a new way. True love gallops, it flies, it is the swiftest of all modes of thought, swifter even than hate and fear. Anne grasped, like someone at last grasping a vast theorem, Peter’s absolute charm. She worshipped him in her thought from head to foot, she embraced him in the soft beating of her passionate wings. And all this time, in the outer world, she stirred no finger and blinked no eyelid. She watched him intently, she watched Gertrude intently too, and she crushed down the hope in her heart. But she could not now control her love. Her huge love demanded life, and to have it more abundantly. She measured now how far the concept of happiness had not been burnt out of her. (On the occasion when Peter rang her from Victoria to ask to see her about the anonymous letter she had been unable to check the idea that he was coming to say he loved her.) She longed to be with him, to feed upon his presence and his looks: the pallid floppy hair which she longed to touch, the thin clever melancholy mouth which she wished, so slowly and carefully, to kiss, the very pale blue eyes whose sadness she could now so well decipher, the handsome anxiety of his intent face, the way he would stand at attention and throw back his head. She thought, he has kept his innocence and is pure in heart. He was so tall, so thin, so gentle, so alien, and so lost. She felt she was discovering, almost creating, this obscure silent being whom everyone else had so stupidly overlooked. No one had ever so concentrated upon the Count; and Anne could not but think of him as responding unconsciously to that strong secret attention. Anne could not control her love, though she crushed down her hunger and her hope and clearly formed in her mind the prediction that sooner or later Peter would marry Gertrude.
The advent of Tim Reede had been a vast explosion like the explosion of a volcano which sets free a red-hot catastrophic out-pouring. Anne had thought she loved Peter to all the limits of her being. But now permitted hope brought its message to every part and her love swelled and multiplied, celebrated and sang out in wild joy. Anne lay upon her bed, sometimes weeping, sometimes laughing, with the unexpectedness of the rescue. She laughed, not hysterically but with a deep quiet vibration which went on and on, as if she were laughing into the deep earth and making the tilting planet shudder. Of course she was outwardly sober. Still she did not move a finger or flicker an eyelid; and with a discipline which was a last rein upon her passion she told herself that Gertrude would soon tire of Tim, would never marry him. And, with a pain which brought her some consolation, she set about what she felt to be her absolute duty. She did her best to persuade Gertrude not to marry Tim. She did this partly because she believed what she said to Gertrude, that Tim was inferior, a flimsy unreliable thing, a man of straw. But also she felt the deep, perverse need to work against her own interests, to purify herself by exerting no influence (prompted by who could know what deep motive) to make her friend do what would, or would conceivably or perhaps or somehow or sometime, benefit Anne. Later, she could not have courted the Count if by the least hint or gesture she had encouraged Gertrude to turn from him. Also perhaps she too much feared the anguish of an open field and the horror there of defeat. When Gertrude said she had given Tim up, Anne felt that she had worked but too well, and her laughter turned to tears and she enjoyed her perfected honour with an awful bitterness. Then came the joyful day, when she stood with Peter in the little dark room of the registry office and saw Gertrude Openshaw become, before her very eyes, Gertrude Reede. Anne’s eyes shone, her face blazed with private joy, and she laughed in her heart her shuddering cosmic laugh. Then as Tim put the ring onto Gertrude’s finger Anne turned to look at Peter. She wished she had not; his face was calm and benign, but she knew of his bitter pain and that he was totally and absolutely unaware of her.
With an open field the problem was different, the pain perhaps worse. Hope, gone mad, screamed like a tornado, tormented love to make love mad too. Anne tried to think of it as a problem, something which could at least be reached by reason, measured by reason’s outstretched touch. In the depth of the problem lay the terrible fact that Peter still saw her as a nun. ‘Once a nun always a nun.’ He had intuited her status as ‘anchoress in the world’; and he took her now evident concern for him as natural in one so selfless. She was for him, as Gertrude had said, ‘a phenomenon’, into which there entered perhaps some Polish romanticism about the Roman Catholic Church. Everyone will always see me as a failed nun, thought Anne. Gertrude’s many speculations about Anne’s future had not included the idea of marriage. Peter was consoled by the invisible religious ‘habit’ which Anne still wore. Anne had for him a priestly function which she could not prevent herself from constantly fulfilling, being for him just as he wanted her, although this instinctive service seemed now to estrange and separate her more and more from the Peter whom she loved and wanted. He saw her as a holy woman, innocent, calm, untouchable, and chaste. At times Anne longed to destroy this imprisoning image, to cast it down violently at his feet and trample on it. Gertrude had said it could take four seconds to change the world. Anne could do it in two, she had only to cross the space (three feet, as she talked to him now) which divided them and everything in the universe would be different. But suppose she were thus to change before his eyes and he were to recoil in horror, disgust - pity? This thought too travelled with her. And in a natural response to the gentle strong pressure of his need she went on playing her part. And she thought, of course it is not a part, it is not something false, I am that, I am what he sees, as well as that other thing, that mad desperate desiring crying thing. If I were a priest and if I had even a little faith left, I would let myself die of being torn apart rather than destroy the cool innocent icon which is perhaps a unique consolation to him in his present travail. No, I could not destroy it, I must endure. But she said to herself too, for a time, for the present.
Anne had felt it her duty to dissuade Gertrude from an unworthy marriage. Now she felt it her duty to observe Peter’s sufferings, to understand their quality, their width and depth. And with a discreet tenderness whose exercise was anguish to her, had made it easy for him to find the relief of speaking. In fact the change from reserve to speech had come with an ease which she took to herself for comfort. While he told her at last of his distress, Anne kept her heart within a steel band. Although she could not prevent herself from speculating about the duration of his gloom, she tried not to keep looking for encouraging signs. She did not want the details of his pain to feed her hope. She wanted to be, for him, all servant. She must wait, she must learn the metaphysics of waiting. And she was prudent and she was afraid.
Not that Peter had ever raved or groaned. He spoke to her as he always did with a kind of calm quiet precision. As he spoke to her now, when he said, ‘I don’t think I can stand it-I shall have to go away.’
Oh let me come with you, my darling, she thought. Let us indeed go together. She said, ‘Where to, Peter?’
‘I thought of going to America.’
‘What would you do there?’
‘That’s the question. I’d never get a job. What can I do? Nothing really. I’m trained as a British civil servant, an administrator. But I could never get a job outside this country. I can leave London though. I’m going to apply for a transfer to the north or the west. Don’t mention it to anyone yet -’
‘I won’t.’
‘I can’t stay here like a sort of embarrassing death’s head.’
‘You could stay and -’
‘Learn to smile?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anne, I can’t.’
‘Don’t decide in a hurry.’
‘I could retire early and live in Spain on my pension.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘You must think I’m mad to go on being so stupidly in love, it’s utterly improper. I know I’ve got to pull out of it somehow, but I can’t without going away. Anne, I really must stop boring you with this selfish rubbish.’
‘You don’t bore me.’
‘You’re so kind, so calm, so sort of out of it all.’
r /> She thought, Peter can do nothing now but meditate on his own emotions. And she thought, what else am I doing all the time? It is, as he says, utterly improper, but how does one stop? I mustn’t let him talk to me like this, it makes him worse. And I mustn’t have him here so close to me in this little room, it’s torture. Suppose I were to kneel down now and take hold of his hand and weep? Oh how terribly I want to. But it would be a mistake, he’s so obsessed, he’s so full of her, he’s half crazy. I must be patient, I must wait until he’s recovered a bit, then I’ll surprise him.
Anne said, ‘Tim and Gertrude were here yesterday, they came round for a drink.’
Peter was silent for a moment, sobered. He said, ‘Somehow I can’t see them as a married couple. Tim’s such a child.’
‘We’ll get used to seeing them as a married couple, we’d better try to anyway, there they are!’
‘Did they seem - all right?’
‘You mean did they seem happy? Yes, they seemed very happy.’ This was perfectly true and Anne felt she had spent long enough sparing Peter’s feelings.
‘You are right,’ he said, ‘to make me look at it. I must look at it justly, honestly, with clear eyes, I must know it’s happened and not try to imagine it away. I’m sorry. Everything about me now seems such - awfully bad form. I shock myself. I oughtn’t to talk, I oughtn’t to think. I must go away. I’ll stay a while, then I’ll very quietly clear out of London, no one will notice.’
‘Oh stop being so sorry for yourself, Peter,’ said Anne sharply, ‘and as for your saying no one will notice, that’s nonsense, I shall notice.’
‘You’re good to me,’ he said, ‘you’re good for me. Yes, I am stupid. They say Poles want everything or nothing.’
‘I suggest you try wanting something that you can have.’
‘I’m so selfish and self-centred, I haven’t even asked you about the teaching job you applied for.’
‘I didn’t get it. I’m too old and I haven’t the right experience.’
‘Oh I’m sorry - but you will get a job, don’t worry.’
Anne had in fact applied for four school-teaching jobs, to teach Latin, Greek, or French. One school did not even acknowledge her application, two others turned her down without interviewing her, and the fourth wanted her to teach German, which she could not. She read in the newspapers about increasing unemployment among teachers. Supposing she simply could not get a job?
‘She’s asked me round on Friday,’ said the Count. He had forgotten Anne’s plight already. ‘I shall go of course. It isn’t that I dislike Tim. I’ve always liked him. I just can’t change my view of him. I feel he’s too - It’s all so impossible. Whatever would Guy think? I’ve known Gertrude such a long time, years and years -’
‘Peter, I must watch the time -’ Anne had invented a fictitious engagement so as to put a term upon her ration of Peter’s company. She could not stand too long a time of talking about Gertrude, and she feared that she might break down. If Peter were now to realize her condition and, ever so kindly, to reject her she would run mad. She wanted to send him away and to think about him.
‘Oh I’m sorry. Have I made you late? You’re so kind to let me come. You are the only person I can talk to.’
He stood up and pulled on his jacket. Anne rose too and opened the door into the hall. She felt tugged at, as if large invisible forces were streaming past her, plucking at her flesh. Oh if she could only break through to the Count, what an absolute torrent of love might come to her from that deprived man! He looked down at her. ‘I’ll ring up, may I, Anne? Or will you ring me? I’m sorry to be like a sort of invalid needing a nurse.’
‘I’ll be away for a day or two. I’ll ring you at the office.’
‘Good-bye and thank you. I hope you’ll find a job.’ As he was going out of the door he said absently, ‘I hope the fine weather will last.’ He had picked up some English mannerisms.
Anne closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Tears spouted from her eyes. Then she went back into the little sitting-room and attacked the room. She overturned the chairs and hurled the cushions about. She kicked the rug and the wainscot and beat her hands against the wall. She kicked the gas fire and broke one of its panels. She threw her books violently onto the floor. She tugged at her dress and dragged off a button. She tore her hair and drummed on her brow. The only thing she did not attack was Gertrude’s blue and gold Worcester cup. At last, sobbing and groaning, she stood still, and then gradually became silent, wet-eyed, wet-mouthed, staring blankly before her. At last she went into her bedroom and lay down.
What is happening to me, thought Anne, am I given over to devils? Is this the beginning of the darkness? Is this madness of being in love just a symptom of a breakdown which has been coming upon me for a long time? Was leaving the convent part of it too? They warned me that it would be worse, that I would collapse later. Is the dark night beginning? Am I collapsing now, will I need help, will I, I, have to confess that I can no longer manage my life?
She had decreed for herself a solitude, and the solitude was terrible, it made a vast dark space in which demons flitted to and fro. She refused all invitations. Mrs Mount had invited her, so had Moses Greenberg and Manfred and Janet Openshaw. Various well-intentioned religious persons, alerted perhaps by the Abbess, had tried to get in touch with her, including a learned Jesuit with whom she had corresponded when she was ‘inside’. She wanted to be alone, to gorge herself upon the spectacle of Tim and Gertrude and Peter. And sometimes she thought, if it weren’t for Tim and Peter, I could live so happily with Gertrude! And she thought, I am back in the hell of the personal, the very place I ran away from to God, back in the rotten criminal mess I got myself out of when I thought I would seek and find innocence and stay with it forever. I am mad, I am a danger to myself and others.
And what really happened on that morning in the kitchen, she wondered. Was that amazing ‘psychic experience’ simply another symptom, a sign of some vast ‘depression’ or mental breakdown which was about to take charge of her life and perhaps deprive her of her sanity forever? Or had she actually been visited by the Other One in person? She felt herself surrounded by irresponsible spiritual forces. Several nights ago she had seen something very strange upon the stairs, when she had come home from one of her lonely night walks. There was no light upon Anne’s flight of stairs. She saw it dimly, crouching in a corner, near to her door, something like a dwarf, entirely black. She had felt afraid to pass it. Then she had said to it, ‘Strange creature, what are you doing here, you are frightening me, please go away in peace’; and she had gone quickly past it and into her flat in a sweat of terror. Later she had thought, perhaps it was a large dog, a sick dog, I ought to look to see. She had taken a torch and opened the door, but there was nothing there.
She had left the convent to come out into loneliness and a sort of renewed innocence and a sort of peace. Perhaps she could never have been empty and clean like an amoeba carried by the sea. But she had thought of her new life and her new solitude as a sort of simple austerity, and perhaps in her heart she had really seen herself as God’s spy, a secret anchoress hidden in the world. She had felt this in her rediscovery of Gertrude, she had felt it when she talked to Guy. Her life ‘inside’ had, after all, a continuity with her life ‘outside’. Perhaps the God whom she had lost had spoilt her for the world, but she would live as she could in the world, as a silent invisible crippled serviceable being. What had happened to these brave thoughts which had been, she knew now that they were gone, such a splendid consolation? Had she not been warned of the snares of the world, and had she not fallen straight into one? The religious life involves the total transformation of the idea of hope. And she had thought that she could only love God. But now it seemed as if all the old fantasies and illusions were back as if they had never been away. Not silence now, but blaring cacophony filled her head, foul self-stuff filled her soul, frenzied self-will and terrible possessive energy. Only now the rage of it was worse
because she was older. This was the pain of hell, envy, jealousy, resentment, anger, remorse, desire, the pain that leads to terrorism. She had thought, if I cannot have what I desire I shall die. Now, in more despair, she thought, if I cannot have what I desire I shall have to live on with some new unredeemable horror of being myself.
Was God playing a game with her? After all he had played games with Job. What game would it be here? Chess? Hide and seek? Cat and mouse? Anne could not believe in a game-playing God. She had wondered earlier whether belief in God would ever return, sweep over her one day like a great warm wet cloud. Now she felt more absolutely godless than she had ever felt in her life. Her good was her own, her evil was her own. Yet he, her early morning visitor, was he not something? Perhaps indeed it was he, with his luminous eyes and his enigmatic witty talk that had shaken her and shaken the last remnant of faith out of her soul. Had she understood? A little. Who was he? She felt that he had truly come from a distant place. And it came to her that he was real, that he was unique. She was an atom of the universe and he was her own Christ, the Christ that belonged only to her, laser-beamed to her alone from infinitely far away. At least she had seen him once; and now perhaps the grace of prayer would return to her. Would it return now, a new and different kind of prayer? Yet how can it, she thought, since I love not Christ but Peter?