The Four-Gated City

  ‘Ah, ’ he said, ‘I do see.” He unfolded his legs upwards under him and again became a beanstalk reaching to the ceiling.

  Martha saw that he would go off, quarrel with the girl, who would not bring her soup (now she saw this she was sorry, her stomach raged with hunger) and that they would not, or not soon, come back. They felt that she, Martha, was probably in need of help; they did not want to break their own code of social behaviour by calling doctor or police or the carpenter from downstairs who would, or might do this: so it would be simplest if they did not come back to see Martha too soon. Blessed are the cowards and the indolent: what a lot of trouble they save.

  The interruption into the room’s activity changed it. The Hater retreated a bit.

  I’m in Bosch country. I know where Bosch got his pictures. Good Lord, look at that…

  Is it always here? (There? Where.) I can see why those books say you should not get too interested in this. You could spend your life just watching television.

  Bosch country. If I could paint, and I painted this I would be a forger. Are forgers people who plug into Bosch country?

  Why am I so stupid. Have understood. If I didn’t know better and I plugged into Hater by accident, I’d stay a Hater. Did Hitler plug into Hater by accident? (For instance.) A nation can get plugged into-something or other? A nation can get plugged in through one man, or group of men into-whatever it might be. Here is Martha. I’m plugged in to hate Jew, hate black, hate white, hate German, hate American, hate. Now not plugged. Might be plugged again in ten minutes’ time.

  This is Dali landscape.I’m plugged into Dali mind. If I could draw, paint, then I’d paint this, Dali picture. Why does only Dali plug into Dali country? No Dali and me. Therefore Dali and-plenty of others. But nurse says, delusions. If ignorant, does not think:This is Dali country. Thinks: That’s a silly picture. If educated, knows, thinks:I am a copycat. Or, that must be a Dali picture I haven’t seen? (Perhaps it is.)

  He couldn’t have painted so many. Why not?

  Plagiarism. (Think about this after when time.) Mark writes something. Then it’s floating in the air. Someone can plug in.A City in the Desert is photostatted in the photosphere. (Oh, very funny. Ha. You only deserve half a laugh for that one.)

  One of them is rather weak.

  And one of them is very meek.

  And one of them is just a horse

  And one of them is rather coarse.

  One of them would like to strangle,

  Hurt and tear and bite and mangle.

  And one of them is rather crude, And one of them is just a prude.

  And one of them …

  For God’s sake stop, sobbed Martha, clutching her ears as this awful da-da-da-da-da ground into her ear-drums.

  Lying face down, nose in a thick plush of carpet which smelled faintly of dust, the sea of sound came down, swallowed her.

  Almost.

  One of them is rather bright.

  One of them just must be right.

  One of them is…

  Eyes shut, she watched the pictures pass in front of her eyes that went with the jigging rhymes, like a child’s picture book with verses. One of them is rather meek’ was Lewis Carroll’s shawled and knitted sheep.

  And sometimes you are very kind,

  But often you are cruel, you’ll fìnd.

  God I’m so stupid. Obvious. Me. What makes up me …

  Martha, kneeling by the low table, scribbled and scribbled notes, words-memoranda to herself for later, but listened to the jigging rhymes and kept shutting her eyes so as to miss as little as possible of the television programme.

  Martha, a breathing individuality of faceted green, reflecting sky, house, pavement, cloud, man, woman and dog, a gaunt, wretched woman in an old towelling bathrobe, watched the facets of her personality march past-watched, and scribbled, remember.

  For God’s sake. Don’t forget. Or you ‘11 have to do it again.

  It’s later than you think.

  Girls and boys come out to play.

  The moon is shining as bright as day …

  I am the creation of my own mind.

  lam the creation of my own mind.

  I am…

  Words, words, words, words. If the words come, the reality will afterwards.

  Paul came in. She was asleep on the floor. Incredibly handsome as usual; beautiful, in clothes that managed to combine elegance with a half-laugh at it, he sat on the edge of his four-poster bed, looking quizzically at Martha.

  She snapped into common sense, in the habit of alarm: here was one of the ‘children’ - she was not being responsible.

  ‘It’s only me, ’ he said.

  She lay back again. He lit a cigarette and gave it to her.

  ‘You aren’t looking your best, ’ he remarked. ‘However I suppose you know what you are doing.’

  She had been slipping into a region of terror: one new to her. She was relieved that he had come, and that his coming steadied her.

  She sat up, made him tea, talked: all with the aim of testing out to what an extent she could present normality to him. Inside her head the world of sound, conducted like an orchestra by the self-hater, rang, hammered, drilled. Soon, being with Paul subdued it.

  Because it did, she was able to send back with him to Mark a message that, yes, she would be able to come to the restaurant tonight. Margaret was very upset about the house being bought by the Council; she intended plans, campaigns-at least a family conference. She had already pulled several strings.

  Asked if he was to be at this dinner, Paul said gracefully: ‘Well, I’m not entitled to it, am I? It’s not my house.’

  This was not a plea, or a complaint, or from bitchiness. He felt this. After all, he had this house-half of it; and half of another like it.

  Was Francis to be there? He had been asked, but said he was sure the grown-ups would do everything for the best.

  Martha put on a suit, made herself up, and saw in the mirror that no one could possibly guess that she was, by any yard-stick this society used, a raving lunatic. The self-hater had become, logically enough, the Devil, and commented, or exclaimed or jeered, or criticized her every move, thought, memory. Her will went into not succumbing, while at the same time, she listened, trying to be neither frightened nor resentful. She was going to take the Devil to the restaurant, and it was necessary that no one should guess this. That Paul had not, was a good omen.

  The restaurant was one of the small expensive ones, French, doing good classic food. The décor was modestly pretty, and reminded of French provincial hotels.

  The guests: Mark. He was silent, sombre, occupied with his own thoughts.

  Martha. She was accompanied by the Devil.

  Lynda, silent, looking rather ill: she had now definitely decided to leave Mark and to ‘be a real person without props’. Extending her activities she had found she was not as strong as she had thought. She had had a week on sedatives and was badly set back. In short, she was very frightened about her future.

  Margaret. She was full of angry unhappiness.

  Her husband, John, who was tight. He had been drinking a lot recently, having fallen in love with the newsagent’s assistant in Marleybridge, which passion he was fighting with alcohol.

  Phoebe, now a sub-minister with various responsibilities in the new Government. Everything the Government did went from bad to worse, as if the whole world (she felt) conspired against it, and she, too, was angry. Also extremely tired, being overworked. She, having not had a proper meal for days, had had a sherry while waiting and was a bit tipsy.

  Arthur, who had not been given a job in this Government, because he was too left-wing. He was in exactly the same position he had always been in: nothing of what he believed, or stood for or had ever campaigned for was being attempted by this, his Labour Government, so he did not feel he had been challenged. He was still waiting, a vigorous handsome man of nearly sixty, for the future to begin.

  His wife Mary, who had fall
en in love this week with a charming boy, the carpenter who was putting new shelves into the bathroom. Understanding by this that she was now definitely middle-aged, she had rushed out in a psychological crise, had bought herself a grandmother’s woollen dress, and was wearing it. Her Arthur had said he did not think the dress suited her-she reflected that this clever man had never understood her-nor ‘anything to do with the emotions’. This thought was enshrined in the small dry smile on a pretty face smudged by long crying. It stayed there unaltered until the theme of The Youth was introduced.

  And there was Elizabeth, who had spent the afternoon with Mark, to set up an ideal community ‘somewhere in a new free country’. She had been drinking brandy all afternoon and was tight-and sizzling with frustration. She simply could not understand Mark who had described a perfect city and was not prepared to make one. She had burst into tears several times that afternoon and had been very rude. Mark, realizing that she was in the middle of a breakdown, had rung Dr Lamb, who was going to see her tomorrow. She kept her hungry eyes on Mark.

  This was a family conference.

  They were here because of Margaret. First they ordered food, while she held her fire.

  One order of Pâté Maison, one of Pâté Campagne, two of moules, two of melon, two of artichoke, one avocado pear. They were all drinking muscadet except Arthur, who was drinking Scotch.

  Margaret said it was a disgrace that the house should be taken over, even if it was (as she had heard was likely) to be used, with minor alterations, for administration. She had a petition ready and they must all sign it. She produced from her bag a petition, and a selection of others, one on behalf of Fidel Castro’s exiles in America, one on behalf of some prisoners in South Africa, one for Oxfam, and a letter to The Times about some writers sentenced to imprisonment in the Soviet Union. At which Phoebe, without speech, produced some petitions from her handbag. She had the South African one, and the letter to The Times; but also a draft letter about political imprisonment and torture in Portugal, and a statement or affirmation, designed for the New Statesman, about the behaviour of the police.

  They all signed all of Phoebe’s, except for Margaret, who would not sign the complaint about the police-the Government’s recent report (Tory) made it clear that their behaviour was impeccable and complaints against them the work of troublemakers. They all signed all of Margaret’s, with the exception of the petition about Fidel Castro’s victims, which was signed only by Elizabeth.

  There now remained the question of the house. Margaret cried out to Mark that he sat there, he did not seem to mind, but after all, he lived in the house, didn’t he? He said, briefly, that he doubted very much that it mattered whether one lived in this house or that-the future was likely to be too barbaric for that. Appealed to, Lynda came back from a long way off, smiled and said: She was sure Mark was right. Margaret obviously had not meant to appeal to Martha publicly, as she certainly would privately, but now she did.

  Martha, listening with one ear to the Devil’s angry sneer about her callousness, eating avocado pear while the world burned, said it was not her house. This was as outrageous in its way as Paul’s saying the same thing. The family looked at her, Mark’s mistress (?) or at least his companion, with reproach held in check.

  She said, ‘My usefulness is over, isn’t it? I’m not contributing anything now.’

  In her ear the Devil sneered: If you ever did.

  Mark shot her a warning look: discuss it with me, not in front of the others.

  ‘Don’t any of you care? ’ said Margaret.

  ‘Of course we care, ’ said Lynda absently. ‘It’s always been a lovely house.’

  ‘Well, where are you all going to live? ’ asked Margaret.

  Here Lynda’s, Mark’s, and Martha’s eyes enmeshed: this contact was a comfort to them. The three were infinitely apart from each other, and grieved that they were. A sense of imminent partings was strong.

  The others, seeing this instinctive affirmation of a continuing need, did not press.

  Now it was time to order again.

  Margaret had Canard. Pheobe had Filet en croûte. Martha had Bœuf Stroganoff. Mary said she would skip that course, but ordered Bœuf to please them. John had Coq au vin. Mark had Poulet. Arthur ordered grilled salmon. Lynda ordered, but did not eat, salmon.

  ‘What about the children? ’ asked Margaret. ‘Why aren’t they here? ’

  ‘Elizabeth’s here, ’ said Mark, trying to be kind.

  Elizabeth said with bitterness that she had never had a home and it looked as if she never would.

  Lynda, appealed to about Francis, said it seemed as if he proposed to continue living with Jill.

  Phoebe said: ‘Then more fool him.’

  Martha, appealed to about Paul, said that they all forgot Paul was a houseowner himself, even though he was not much over twenty.

  ‘He’ll probably be putting us all up, ’ said Margaret, bitter, bitter, her eyes full of brilliant tears.

  ‘What about your children? ’ said Phoebe to Arthur and Mary.

  ‘Oh them, ’ said Mary, bitter. ‘Selfish little beasts. I can’t wait till they get to our age, and see how they do, they really are …’

  Scene of the time: a room full of middle-aged people, eating hard, preoccupied half the time about weight problems, always on diets of one sort or another, most of them smoking, a lethal habit as they were told at the top of every publicity voice there was, most of them on sleeping pills and sedatives, all of them drinkers and some of them drunk-talking about the youth.

  The young took drugs. They were irresponsible. They were selfish. They were dirty. They were self-indulgent. They had no interest at all in politics-that was Phoebe, who kept demanding: If they’d only go out and canvass for the Party, they’d have a purpose in life and they wouldn’t need to take drugs.

  Margaret, Phoebe, Arthur, Mary, found themselves in perfect agreement on this theme, and while the plates were being cleared, started drafting a letter to The Observer about why the youth were not interested in politics. Margaret said it was because they had not suffered when children, they had had it too easy. Arthur agreed.

  During the coffee, this draft was completed, and then Lynda asked Mark if they could go home. At once Mark said yes … infinitely relieved. Martha was all too ready to go.

  ‘But we haven’t settled anything, ’ Margaret kept saying, pathetic, bewildered, looking from one to the other of this trio Mark, Martha, Lynda, while she held a silver and turquoise pencil over the draft letter.

  Elizabeth, ill, had to come with them.

  Martha asked to be dropped back at Paul’s house.

  Lynda said to her: ‘One would think that if there was a Devil there’d be a God.’

  Martha said: ‘I don’t know how you stick it, going on all the time. I’d kill myself.’

  Lynda said: ‘You can get used to anything.’

  Mark said to Martha: ‘When are you coming back? ’

  ‘Well, how about in six weeks? ’

  ‘Couldn’t you make it sooner, there are things …’ He meant Elizabeth, sitting beside him, her profile turned to him. In the half-dark of the car’s interior, her slightly parted lips, her calm round forehead gave her the look of a venturing girl. Perhaps that was how she saw herself at that moment. But she was well over thirty, and in the light, looked more.

  Lynda said: ‘Elizabeth, have you left your husband and children? ’

  ‘Of course not, ’ said Elizabeth, indignant. ‘I’ve decided to find some place where they can really live, that’s all. I just like the sound of Mark’s city, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll make it a month, ’ said Martha.

  Lynda said: ‘Mark wants you sooner than that.’

  ‘Oh no, ’ said Mark hastily, ‘please, Martha, not if…’

  ‘If I loved somebody, really really loved somebody, I wouldn’t leave him, not for one moment!’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘All right, three weeks, ’ said Martha.

&n
bsp; Inside her head, during this exchange, titan battles had taken place: she wanted very much to stop now. Oh how tired she was, how confused, how frightened … she felt she had the best possible excuse to say to Paul: Thanks, but that’s enough, for the time being at any rate-and go back home.

  What home? It wouldn’t be here, within a few months.

  Besides, three weeks of absolute privacy, good Lord, what sort of a fool would throw that away, not knowing when the next chance would come.

  With half her need she stayed in imagination with Mark in his home, poor Mark who would now spend a night trying to hold together his crazy niece Elizabeth, and who had no friend there to help him. With the rest of her she was being driven to return to her retreat as fast as she could.

  Inside her room she checked her body, the instrument, the receiving device. She had eaten a lot; she had drunk enough. It would take twenty-four hours at least to get herself back into a sensitive state.

  Sensitive to what?

  One always assumed that … the point was, she knew nothing, and was taking such risks: she might very well end up in the hands of Dr Lamb-why not? It can’t happen to me: Everyone says that, all the time. It could happen to her. It was happening to her. If she now went into Dr Lamb’s room and said these and these and such and such are my symptoms-that would be that.

  Luckily she knew better.

  But she did not know the first thing about what really was going on in this machine, mechanism, system, organism. Who did? Did anyone? Not Dr Lainb!

  If she didn’t understand she could describe, she could record. Above all, she could remember.

  Time out from the Devil had lessened him after all, as she saw when she was able to compare the mental furniture of the room with what it had been before she went out.

  She was able to hold him back, hold back her collapse into tears and screaming self-pity for a while. Meanwhile, like a baby who has drawn a deep breath for a yell of temper, but is holding out for a greater effect, she knelt by the table and scribbled notes fast, fast, before (as she knew she must) she would collapse into self-abasement.

  Works like this. Thought comes into mind. If conscious, thought is in words. If not, if ordinary association-thought then it isn’t words. Words are when one stands back to look. This first word then sprouts into other words and ideas like a flash of lightning. No, like water suddenly lifting limp branch off sea bottom. Words proliferate so fast you can’t catch them.A word:then an idea suggested by that word.(Who suggested the word?) You think: my idea? Whose? Make the first word or phrase or idea stay still so you can look at it. Then you can ask:is that an overheard thought? Whose? Why? Or is it something fed by the invisible mentor? If you stop thought, make it go out of mind altogether, it can retreat and make its way back in sound. This sound can get louder. It can use different voices, known and unknown. If known probably you associate that thought with that person. That thought can also come from the corner of a room or another part of your body or a chair or something. Mind is also a ventriloquist. Devil for instance before I went to dinner-from corners of the room.