The Only Poet (35 page)

He found himself in a salon that ran across the whole breadth of the house, with three French windows opening on a stone terrace overlooking the garden. As he crossed it to the steps that led down to the lawn, he came close to a bird cage on a pole, and the scarlet parrot inside broke into screams. All the women on the lawn turned and saw him, and the tall woman in black called,
‘Que voulez-vous, Monsieur?'
She had put her hand to her heart, and he was eager to reassure her, but could not think how, across that distance, to explain why he had come. So he continued to walk towards her, but could not reach her because the four others suddenly scampered toward him, crying ‘Go away! Go away!' Their arms flapped like bats' wings, and their voices were cracked, but, under their white hair, their faces were unlined and their eyes were colourless as water. ‘Go away!' shrilled the one in light red. ‘We know you have come to steal our strawberries. Why may we not keep our own strawberries?' But the figure in black had come forward with long strides, and told them to go on with their game, and asked again,
‘Que voulez-vous, Monsieur?'

Her hair was grey now, and her mouth so sternly compressed that it was a straight line across her face. She reminded my uncle of a particular man – her father, the Admiral – but she was not like a man, she was still a handsome and athletic boy, though a frost had fallen on him; and still it was strange that she should look like a boy, since she was also not male at all. My uncle found that now he was face to face with her, it was just as difficult to explain to her why he had come. He said, ‘I came to this village by chance this morning, and after I had luncheon at the inn I went to the top of the church tower, and looked down on this garden, and recognized you all. I came to tell you that if there is anything I can do for you I will do it. I am a civil servant who has quite a respectable career, and so I can hope that I might be efficient enough to help you, if you need it.'

‘That is very kind,' she said, and paused, and it was as if she were holding a shell to her ear and listening to the voice of a distant sea. ‘Very kind,' she repeated. ‘But who are you?'

‘I am the nephew of your neighbour, Mrs Darrell,' said my uncle. ‘I brought you a letter from her, many years ago, when you were all in your garden.'

Her smile broke slowly. ‘I remember you,' she said. ‘You were a fatherly little boy. You gave me good advice from the top of a ladder. Why should you have found me here, I wonder? It can't be that, after all, there is some meaning in the things that happen. You had better come into the house and drink some of the cherry brandy we make here. I will get the cook to come out and watch them. I never leave them alone now.'

While she went to the kitchen, my uncle sat in the salon and noted that, for all its fine furniture and all its space and light, there was a feeling that the place was dusty, the same feeling that he had noticed in the Admiral's house long ago. It is the dust of another world, he thought with horror, and the housemaids of this world are helpless against it. It settles wherever these women live, and Parthenope must live with them.

When she came back, she was carrying a tray with a slender decanter and very tiny glasses. They sat sipping the cherry brandy in silence until she said, ‘I did nothing wrong.' He looked at her in astonishment. Of course she had done nothing wrong. Wrong was what she did not do. But she continued gravely, ‘When we all die, it will be found that the sum I got for the jewellery is intact. My stepson will not be a penny the worse off. Indeed, he is better off, for my husband has had my small inheritance long before it would have come to him if I had not done this.'

‘I knew you would have done it honestly,' said my uncle. He hesitated. ‘This is very strange. You see, I knew things about you which I had no reason to know. I knew you had not been murdered.'

Then my uncle had to think carefully. They were united by eternal bonds, but hardly knew each other, which was the reverse of what usually happened to men and women. But they might lapse into being strangers and nothing else if he showed disrespect to the faith by which she lived. He said only, ‘Also I knew that what you were doing in looking after your family was terrible.'

She answered, ‘Yes. How good it is to hear somebody say that it is terrible, and to be able to answer that it is. But I had to do it. I had to get my sisters away from their husbands. They were ashamed of them. They locked them up in the care of strangers. I saw their bruises.' My uncle caught his breath. ‘Oh,' she said, desperately just, ‘the people who looked after them did not mean to be cruel. But they were strangers; they did not know the way to handle my sisters. And their husbands were not bad men, either. And even if they had been, I could not say a word against them, for they were cheated; my father cheated them. They were never told the truth about my mother. About my mother and half her family.' She raised her little glass of cherry brandy to her lips and nodded, to intimate that that was all she had to say, but words rushed out and she brought her glass down to her lap. ‘I am not telling the truth. Their husbands cheated, too.… No, I am wrong. They did not cheat. But they failed to keep their bond. Still, there is no use talking about that.'

‘What bond did your sisters' husbands not keep?' my uncle asked.

‘They married my sisters because they were beautiful, and laughed easily, and could not understand figures. They might have considered that women who laugh easily might scream easily, and that if figures meant nothing to them, words might mean nothing, either, and that if figures and words meant nothing to them, thoughts and feelings might mean nothing, too. But these men had the impudence to feel a horror of my sisters.'

She rose, trembling, and told him that he must have a sweet biscuit with his cherry brandy, and that she would get him some; they were in a cupboard in the corner of the room. Over her shoulder, she cried, ‘I cannot imagine you marrying a woman who was horrible because she was horrible, and then turning against her because she was horrible.' She went on setting some wafers out on a plate, and he stared at the back of her head, unable to imagine what was inside it, saying to himself, ‘She realizes that they are horrible; there is no mitigation of her state.'

When she sat down again, she said, ‘But it was my father's fault.'

‘What was your father's fault?' he asked gently, when she did not go on.

‘Why, he should not have made us marry; he should not have sold our house. My sisters were happy there, and all they asked was to be allowed to go on living there, like children.'

‘Your father wanted his daughters to marry so that they would have someone to look after them when he was dead,' my uncle told her.

‘I could have looked after them.'

‘Come now,' said my uncle, ‘you are not being fair. You are the same sort of person as your father. And you know quite well that if you were a man you would regard all women as incapable. You see, men of the better kind want to protect the women they love, and there is so much stupidity in the male nature and the circumstances of life are generally so confused that they end up thinking they must look after women because women cannot look after themselves. It is only very seldom that a man meets a woman so strong and wise that he cannot doubt her strength and wisdom, and realizes that his desire to protect her is really the same as his desire to gather her into his arms and partake of her glory.'

Moving slowly and precisely, he took out his cardcase and was about to give her one of his cards when a thought struck him. She must have the name of his family's house in County Kerry as well as his London address, and know that he went there at Christmas and at Easter, and in the summer, too. She would be able to find him whenever she wanted him, since such bootblack service was all he could render her.

She read the card and said in an astonished whisper, ‘Oh, how kind, how kind.' Then she rose and put it in a drawer in a
secr
é
taire,
which she locked with a key she took from a bag swinging from the belt of her hateful black gown. ‘I have to lock up everything,' she said, wearily. ‘They mean no harm, but sometimes they get at papers and tear them up.'

‘What I have written on that card is for an emergency,' said my uncle. ‘But what is there I can do now? I do not like the thought of you sitting here in exile, among things that mean nothing to you. Can I not send you out something English – a piece of furniture, a picture, some china or glass? If I were in your place, I would long for something that reminded me of the houses where I had spent my childhood.'

‘If you were in my place, you would not,' she said. ‘You are very kind, but the thing that has happened to my family makes me not at all anxious to remember my childhood. We were all such pretty children. Everybody always spoke as if we were bound to be happy. And in those days nobody was frightened of Mamma – they only laughed at her, because she was such a goose. Then one thing followed another, and it became quite certain about Mamma, and then it became quite certain about the others; and now I cannot bear to think of the good times that went before. It is as if someone had known and was mocking us. But you may believe that it is wonderful for me to know that there is someone I can call on at any time. You see, I had supports, which are being taken away from me. You really have no idea how I got my sisters out here?'

My uncle shook his head. ‘I only read what was in the newspapers and knew it was not true.'

‘But you must have guessed I had helpers,' she said. ‘There was the highway robbery to be arranged. All that was done by somebody who was English but had many connections in France, a man who was very fond of Arethusa. Arethusa is the one who spoke to you in the garden; she always wears red. This man was not like her husband; when she got worse and worse, he felt no horror for her, only pity. He has always been behind me, but he was far older than we were, and he died three years ago; and since then his lawyer in Paris has been a good friend, but now he is old, too, and I must expect him to go soon. I have made all arrangements for what is to happen to my sisters after my death. They will go to a convent near here, where the nuns are really kind, and we are preparing them for it. One or other of the nuns comes here every day to see my sisters, so that they will never have to be frightened by strange faces; and I think that if my sisters go on getting worse at the same rate as at present, they will by then believe the nuns when they say that I have been obliged to go away and will come back presently. But till that time comes, I will be very glad to have someone I can ask for advice. I can see that you are to be trusted. You are like the man who loved Arethusa. My poor Arethusa! Sometimes I think', she said absently, ‘that she might have been all right if it had been that man whom she had married. But no,' she cried, shaking herself awake, ‘none of us should have married, not even me.'

‘Why should you not have married?' asked my uncle. ‘That the others should not I understand. But why not you? There is nothing wrong with you.'

‘Is there not?' she asked. ‘To leave my family and my home, to stage a sham highway robbery, and later to plot and lie, and lie and plot, in order to get my mad sisters to a garden I had once noted, in my travels, as something like the garden taken from them when they were young. There is an extravagance in the means my sanity took to rescue their madness that makes the one uncommonly like the other.'

‘You must not think that,' my uncle told her. ‘Your strange life forced strangeness on your actions, but you are not strange. You were moved by love, you had seen their bruises.'

‘Yes, I had seen their bruises,' she agreed. ‘But,' she added, hesitantly, ‘you are so kind that I must be honest with you. It was not only for the love of my sisters that I arranged this flight. It is also true that I could not bear my life. I was not wholly unselfish. You do not know what it is like to be a character in a tragedy. Something has happened which can only be explained by supposing that God hates you with merciless hatred, and nobody will admit it. The people nearest you stand round you saying that you must ignore this extraordinary event, you must – what were the words I was always hearing? – “keep your sense of proportion”, “not brood on things”. They do not understand that they are asking you to deny your experiences, which is to pretend that you do not exist and never have existed. And as for the people who do not love you, they laugh. Our tragedy was so ridiculous that the laughter was quite loud. There were all sorts of really funny stories about the things my mother and sisters did before they were shut up. That is another terrible thing about being a character in a tragedy; at the same time you become a character in a farce. Do not deceive yourself,' she said, looking at him kindly and sadly. ‘I am not a classical heroine, I am not Iphigenia or Electra or Alcestis, I am the absurd Parthenope. There is no dignity in my life. For one thing, too much has happened to me. One calamity evokes sympathy; when two calamities call for it, some still comes, but less. Three calamities are felt to be too many, and when four are reported, or five, the thing is ludicrous. God has only to strike one again and again for one to become a clown. There is nothing about me which is not comical. Even my flight with my sisters has become a joke.' She sipped at her glass. ‘My sisters' husbands and their families must by now have found out where we are. I do not think my husband ever did, or he would have come to see me. But there are many little indications that the others know, and keep their knowledge secret, rather than let loose so monstrous a scandal.'

‘You say your husband would have come to see you?' asked my uncle, wanting to make sure. ‘But that must mean he loved you.'

At last the tears stood in her eyes. She said, her voice breaking, ‘Oh, things might have gone very well with my husband and myself, if love had been possible for me. But of course it never was.'