He did not reply. ‘You are going to bring her here to me. She’ll feel with her instinct if not with her head that she’s being made use of. And you bring her here to me.’ It seemed to her that she had made her sense of outrage clear enough. She turned to face them.
‘The prospect of bringing her “to you” doesn’t seem to me as shocking as apparently it does to you,’ said Kenneth drily.
‘Can’t you see?’ she said desperately. ‘She couldn’t compete …’s
‘You flatter yourself,’ said Kenneth briskly.
‘Oh, I don’t mean that. I mean we’ve been together for so long. There’s nothing we don’t know about each other. Have I got to say it …’
‘No,’ said Kenneth quietly. ‘Much better not.’
Through all this Tom, that large, fair, comfortable man, leaned back in his chair, looking from his wife to his half-brother with the air of one suddenly transported to a foreign country.
He said stubbornly: ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t adjust yourself, Julia. After all, both Kenneth and I have had to adjust ourselves to …’
‘Quite,’ said Kenneth quickly, ‘quite.’
She turned on Kenneth furiously. ‘Why do you always cut the conversation short? Why shouldn’t we talk about it? It’s what’s real, isn’t it, for all of us?’
‘No point talking about it,’ said Kenneth, with a sullen look.
‘No,’ she said coldly. ‘No point.’ She turned away from them, fighting back tears. ‘At bottom neither of you really cared tuppence. That’s what it is.’ At the moment this seemed to her true.
‘What do you mean by “really caring”?’ asked Kenneth.
Julia turned slowly from the window, jerking the light summer curtains across the stars. ‘I mean, we don’t care. We just don’t care.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ said Tom, sounding bewildered and angry. ‘Haven’t you been happy with me? Is that what you are saying, Julia?’
At this both Kenneth and Julia began laughing with an irresistible and painful laughter.
‘Of course I’ve been happy with you,’ she said flatly, at last.
‘Well then?’ asked Tom.
‘I don’t know why I was happy then and why I’m unhappy now.’
‘Let’s say you’re jealous,’ said Kenneth briskly.
‘But I don’t think I am.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘Very well then, I am. That’s not the point. What are we going to do to the girl?’ she asked suddenly, her feeling finding expression.
‘I shall make her a good husband,’ said Kenneth. The three of them looked at each other, with raised brows, with humorous, tightened lips.
‘Very well then,’ amended Kenneth. ‘But she’ll have plenty of nice children. She’ll have you for company, Julia, a nice intelligent woman. And she’ll have plenty of money and pretty clothes and all that sort of nonsense, if she wants them.’
There was a silence so long it seemed that nothing could break it.
Julia said slowly and painfully: ‘I think it is terrible we shouldn’t be able to explain what we feel or what we are.’
‘I wish you’d stop trying to,’ said Kenneth. ‘I find it unpleasant. And quite useless.’
Tom said: ‘As for me, I would be most grateful if you’d try to explain what you are feeling, Julia. I haven’t an idea.’
Julia stood up with her back to the fire and began gropingly: ‘Look at the way we are. I mean, what do we add up to? What are we doing here, in the first place?’
‘Doing where?’ asked Tom kindly.
‘Here, in Africa, in this district, on this land.’
‘Ohhh,’ groaned Tom humorously.
‘Oh Lord, Julia,’ protested Kenneth impatiently.
‘I feel as if we shouldn’t be here.’
‘Where should we be, then?’
‘We’ve as much right as anybody else.’
‘I suppose so,’ Julia dismissed it. It was not her point, after all, it seemed. She said slowly: ‘I suppose there are comparatively very few people in the world as secure and as rich as we are.’
‘It takes a couple of bad seasons or a change in the international set-up,’ said Kenneth. ‘We could get poor as easily as we’ve got rich. If you want to call it easy. We’ve worked hard enough, Tom and I.’
‘So do many other people. In the meantime we’ve all the money we want. Why do we never talk about money, never think about it? It’s what we are.’
‘Speak for yourself, Julia,’ said Tom. ‘Kenneth and I spend all our days thinking and talking about nothing else. How else do you suppose we’ve got rich?’
‘How to make it. Not what it all adds up to.’
The two men did not reply; they looked at each other with resignation. Kenneth lit a cigarette, Tom a pipe.
‘I’ve been getting a feeling of money the last few days. Perhaps not so much money as …’ She stopped. ‘I can’t say what I feel. It’s no use. What do our lives add up to? That’s what I want to know.’
‘Why do you expect us to tell you?’ asked Kenneth curiously at last.
This was a new note. Julia looked at him, puzzled. ‘I don’t know,’ she said at last. Then, very drily: ‘I suppose I should be prepared to take the consequences for marrying the pair of you.’ The men laughed uneasily though with relief that the worst seemed to be over. ‘If I left this place tomorrow,’ she said sadly, ‘you simply wouldn’t miss me.’
‘Ah, you love Kenneth,’ groaned Tom suddenly. The groan was so sudden, coming just as the flippant note had been struck, and successfully, that Julia could not bear it. She continued quietly, lightly, to wipe away the naked pain of Tom’s voice: ‘No, I don’t. I wish you wouldn’t talk about love.’
‘That’s what all this is about,’ said Kenneth. ‘Love.’
Julia looked at him scornfully. She said: ‘What sort of people are we? Let’s use bare words for bare facts, just for once.’
‘Must you?’ breathed Kenneth.
‘Yes, I must. The fact is that I have been a sort of high-class concubine for the two of you …’ She stopped at once. Even the beginning of the tirade sounded absurd in her own ears.
‘I hope that statement has cleared your mind for you,’ said Kenneth ironically.
‘No, it hasn’t. I didn’t expect it would.’ But now Julia was fighting hard against that no-man’s-land of feeling in which she had been living for so long, that under-sea territory where one thing confuses with another, where it is so easy to drift at ease according to the pull of the tides.
‘I should have had children,’ she said at last, quietly. ‘That’s where we went wrong, Tom. It was children we needed.’
‘Ah,’ said Kenneth from his chair, suddenly deeply sincere, ‘now you are talking sense.’
‘Well,’ said Tom, ‘there’s nothing to stop us.’
‘I’m too old.’
‘Other women of forty have children.’
‘I’m too – tired. It seems to me, to have children, one needs …’ She stopped.
‘What does one need?’ asked Tom.
Julia’s eyes met Kenneth’s; they exchanged deep, ironic, patient understanding.
‘Thank God you didn’t marry me,’ he said suddenly. ‘You were quite right. Tom’s the man for you. In a marriage it’s necessary for one side to be strong enough to create the illusion.’
‘What illusion?’ asked Tom petulantly.
‘Necessity,’ said Kenneth simply.
‘Is that the office this girl is going to perform for you?’ asked Tom.
‘Precisely. She loves me, God help her. She really does, you know …’ Kenneth looked at them in a manner of inviting them to share his surprise at this fact. ‘And she wants children. She knows why she wants them. She’ll make me know it too, bless her. Most of the time,’ he could not prevent himself adding.
Now it seemed impossible to go on. They remained silent, each face expressing tired and bewildered
unhappiness. Julia stood against the mantelpiece, feeling the warmth of the fire running over her body, but not reaching the chill within.
Kenneth recovered first. He got up and said: ‘Bed, bed for all of us. This doesn’t help. We mustn’t talk. We must get on, dealing with the next thing.’ He said good night, and went to the door. There he turned, looked clear and full at Julia with his black, alert, shrewd eyes, and remarked: ‘You must be nice to that girl, Julia.’
‘You know very well I can be “nice” to her, but I won’t be “nice” for her. You are deliberately submitting her to it. You won’t even move two miles away on to the next farm. You won’t even take that much trouble to make her happy. Remember that.’
Kenneth flushed, said hastily: ‘Well, I didn’t say I wouldn’t go to the other farm,’ and went out. Julia knew that it would take a lot of unhappiness for the four of them before he would consent to move himself. He thought of this house as his home; and he could not bear to leave Tom, even now.
‘Come here,’ said Tom gently, when Kenneth had left the room. She went to him, and slipped down beside him into his chair. ‘Do you find me stupid?’ he asked.
‘Not stupid.’
‘What then?’
She held him close. ‘Put your arms round me.’
He held her; but she did not feel supported: the arms were as light as wind about her, and as unsure.
In the middle of the night she rose from her bed, slipped on her gown and went along the winding passages to Kenneth’s bedroom, which was at the other end of the house.
It was filled with the brightness of moonlight. Kenneth was sitting up against his pillows; he was awake; she could see the light glinting on his eyes.
She sat herself down on the foot of his bed.
‘Well, Julia? It’s no good coming to me, you know.’
She did not reply. The confusing dimness of the moon, which hung immediately outside the window, troubled her. She held a match to the candle, and watched a warm yellow glow fill the room, so that the moon retreated and became a small hard bright coin high among the stars.
She saw on the dressing-table a new framed photograph.
‘If one acquires a wife,’ she said sarcastically, ‘one of course acquires a photo to put on one’s dressing-table.’ She went over and picked it up and returned to the bed with it. Kenneth watched her, alertly.
Slowly, Julia’s face spread into a compassionate smile.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Kenneth quickly.
She was not twenty-three, Julia could see that. She was well over thirty. It was a pretty enough face, very English, with flat broad planes and small features. Fair neatly-waved hair fell away regularly from the forehead.
There was anxiety in those too-serious eyes; the mouth smiled carefully in a prepared sweetness for the photographer; the cheeks were thin. Turning the photograph to the light Julia could see how the neck was creased and furrowed. No, she was by no means a girl. She glanced at Kenneth; and was filled slowly by a sweet irrational tenderness for him, a delicious irresponsible gaiety.
‘Why,’ she said, ‘you’re in love, after all, Kenneth.’
‘Whoever said I wasn’t?’ he grinned at her, lying watchfully back in his bed and puffing at his cigarette.
She grinned back affectionately, still lifted on a wave of delight; then she turned, and felt it ebb as she looked down at the photograph, mentally greeting this other tired woman, coming to the great rich farm, like the poor girl in the fairy story.
‘What are you amused at?’ asked Kenneth cautiously.
‘I was thinking of you as a refuge,’ she explained drily.
‘I’m quite prepared to be.’
‘You’d never be a refuge for anyone.’
‘Not for you. But you forget she’s younger.’ He laughed: ‘She’ll be less critical.’
She smiled, without replying, looking at the pictured face. It was such a humourless, earnest, sincere face, the eyes so serious, so searching.
Julia sighed. ‘I’m terribly tired,’ she said to Kenneth, turning back to him.
‘I know you are. So am I. That’s why I’m marrying.’
Julia had a clear mental picture of this Englishwoman, who was soon coming to the farm. For a moment she allowed herself to picture her in various situations, arriving with nervous tact, hiding her longing for a home of her own, hoping not to find Julia an enemy. She would find not strife, or hostility, or scenes – none of the situations which she might be prepared to face. She would find three people who knew each other so well that for the most part they found it hardly necessary to speak. She would find indifference to everything she really was, a prepared, deliberate kindness. She would be like a latecomer to a party, entering a room where everyone is already cemented by hours of warmth and intimacy. She would be helpless against Kenneth’s need for her to be something she could not be: a young woman, with the spiritual vitality to heal him.
Looking at the pretty girl in the frame which she held between her palms, the girl under whose surface prettiness Julia could see the anxious, haunted woman, the knowledge came to her of what word it was she sought: it was as though those carefully smiling lips formed themselves into that word. ‘Do you know what we are?’ she asked Kenneth.
‘Not a notion,’ he replied jauntily.
Julia accepted the word evil from that humourless, homeless girl. Twice in her life it had confronted her; this time she took it gratefully. After all, none other had been offered.
‘I know what evil is,’ she said to Kenneth.
‘How nice for you,’ he returned impatiently. Then he added: ‘I suppose, like most women who have lived their own lives, whatever that might mean, you are now beginning to develop an exaggerated conscience. If so, we shall both find you very tedious.’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’ she asked, considering it. ‘I don’t think so.’
He looked at her soberly. ‘Go to bed, my dear. Do stop fussing. Are you prepared to do anything about it? You aren’t, are you? Then stop making us all miserable over impossibilities. We have a pleasant enough life, taking it for what it is. It’s not much fun being the fag-end of something, but even that has its compensations.’
Julia listened, smiling, to her own voice speaking. ‘You put it admirably,’ she said, as she went out of the room.
If you enjoyed Winter in July, check out these other great Doris Lessing titles.
This collection brings together three of Nobel Prize-winner Doris Lessing’s most acclaimed novels.
Her first novel, The Grass is Singing, is the story of Mary, a new wife, lonely and trapped in the African bush, until she turns to Moses, the black cook, for kindness and understanding.
A landmark of twentieth-century literature, The Golden Notebok is a powerful account of Anna Wulf, a woman searching for her personal and political identity, recording her emotional and creative lives in notebooks of different colours.
And in The Good Terrorist, a group of naive revolutionaries sets out to change the world, only to find themselves involved in a protest movement of escalating violence.
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A classic tale from Doris Lessing, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, of a family torn apart by the arrival of Ben, their feral fifth child.
Four children, a beautiful old house, the love of relatives and friends Harriet and David Lovatt’s life is a glorious hymn to domestic bliss and old-fashioned family values. But when their fifth child is born, a sickly and implacable shadow is cast over this tender idyll. Large and ugly, violent and uncontrollable, the infant Ben, full of cold dislike’, tears at Harriet’s breast. Struggling to care for her new-born child, faced with a darkness and a strange defiance she has never known before, Harriet is deeply afraid of what, exactly, she has brought into the world.
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From Doris Lessing, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, this is the first instalment in the visionary novel cycle ‘Canopus in Argos: Archive
s’.
The story of the final days of our planet is told through the reports of Johor, an emissary sent from Canopus. Earth, now named Shikasta (the Stricken) by the kindly, paternalistic Canopeans who colonised it many centuries ago, is under the influence of the evil empire of Puttiora. War, famine, disease and environmental disasters ravage the planet. To Johor, mankind is a totally crazed species’, racing towards annihilation: his orders to save humanity set him what seems to be an impossible task.
Blending myth, fable and allegory, Doris Lessing’s astonishing visionary creation both reflects and redefines the history of our own world from its earliest beginnings to an inevitable, tragic self-destruction.
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A compelling vision of a disorienting and barbaric future from Doris Lessing, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature.
Many years in the future, city life has broken down, communications have failed and food supplies are dwindling. From her window a middle-aged woman our narrator watches things fall apart and records what she witnesses: hordes of people migrating to the countryside, gangs of children roaming the streets. One day, a young girl, Emily, is brought to her house by a stranger and left in her care. A strange, precocious adolescent, drawn to the tribal streetlife and its barbaric rituals, she is unafraid of the harsh world outside, while our narrator retreats into her hidden world where reality fades and the past is revisited.
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The opening book in the Nobel Prize for Literature winner’s ‘Children of Violence’ series tracing the life of Martha Quest from her childhood in colonial Africa to old age in post-nuclear Britain.
Martha’s Africa is Doris Lessing’s Africa: the restrictive life of the farm; the atmosphere of racial fear and antagonism; the superficial sophistication of the city. And both Martha and Lessing are Children of Violence: the generation that was born of one world war and came of age in another, whose abrasive relationships with their parents, with one another, and with society are laid bare brilliantly by a writer who understands them better than any other.