‘Figurative?’
‘I mean, you’re planning to go away to forget. Where are you planning to go?’
‘To Ireland,’ said the Count.
‘To
Ireland
? Peter, what rubbish is this? Anyway, I asked you to come because I have to tell you you don’t have to go anywhere. ’
‘What do you mean, Gertrude?’ said the Count. He spoke stiffly, formally. Gertrude’s suggestion that he was angry was indeed not far from the truth. He was angry with Gertrude for making him come, and with himself for coming.
‘Listen, Peter, dear, let’s talk plainly. When we were in France, and you reached out your hand to me across the table - you -’
‘I’m sorry. That was a mistake.’
‘No, it was not a
mistake.
And I wanted to say that of course you didn’t tell me anything then that I didn’t know already.’
‘When I say a mistake I mean it was improper, a
faux pas.
I ought not to have expressed -’
‘Your feelings. But your feelings existed - and exist.’
‘They are my own concern. Gertrude, I am sure you mean well, but I do not want to discuss this matter.’
Gertrude was silent. She was in fact intimidated by Peter’s stiff bearing, by his grim stern face. For a moment she felt that she had made a mistake, a
faux pas.
She looked away, confused, not knowing what to say next.
Her silence did its work upon the Count. Terrible emotions clawed about inside the steel of his demeanour. He leaned forward slightly and said, ‘Forgive me.’
‘Forgive
me.
Peter, listen, you may want to go away and not see me any more. I must even - myself - understand that it might be wiser. It’s hard to say this-I feel - oh so much - I’m sorry -’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s only me.’
‘Oh Peter, you darling. Listen. Let me put it just awfully clearly. I love Tim and we are married and that is an eternal fact.’
The Count nodded, bowing his head formally.
‘But I care for you and you are an old friend. Well, you are an old friend and I
love
you. Why should love be classified and constrained and denied and destroyed all the time? People can love each other honestly and truthfully in all sorts of situations and all sorts of ways. Of course I’m selfish. I’m not really thinking about your welfare. I’m thinking about mine. I’ve talked this over with Tim of course. Oh don’t be hurt. I don’t want to waste your love, I don’t want to lose your love, I don’t want you to go away into some desert in Ireland or somewhere and just feel rejected. You
aren’t
rejected. Why should you go off miserably instead of staying here and giving and receiving affection and being happy? Why? It’s as simple as that. Oh it is so simple. I love you, I have love for you, it’s not rationed. Tim likes you very much, I’m sure you know that. But I’m talking now about you and me. Let us be sometimes together in truth and in love. I don’t mean anything wrong or crazy. I mean just to talk, to
be
with each other and for each other. Let your love for me go on existing, and we’ll go on through life not losing each other, but knowing each other. Sorry, I’m not explaining it very well -
‘I think you are,’ said the Count, ‘explaining it very well.’
‘We have known each other a long time, Peter, and in a way we have known each other well, but there has always been a barrier between us. I don’t mean the barrier of marriage, that of course, I mean the one that distinguishes a friend from a close friend, you understand. I want that barrier to go. I want us to meet and talk together as we have not done before, just us two, to love each other and give happiness to each other and be without reserve. Peter, I
want
this, I
ask
for it.’
What could the poor Count do? He said, but still stiffly, ‘I cannot deny you what you ask.’
‘That’s all right then,’ said Gertrude. She had been more moved than she expected. It had not occurred to her to fear a rejection, but now her heart beat with a strange alarm.
They were silent, looking at each other, she flushed and wide-eyed, he glaring with a stern cold intensity.
‘Gertrude, some things must be laid down, I mean understood -’ So he was now dictating conditions. He went on, ‘What you suggest might be regarded as-a recipe for folly and madness suggested by a woman’s vanity.’ He paused. ‘But because you are you -’
‘And because
you
are
you
-’
‘I think -’
‘That it will be all right, possible?’
‘I know that you will not play with me. I love you - very much - you know that -’
‘Yes.’
‘But there will be no drama or chat about love or even - continuation of this conversation. You have said something and I have understood it, that and no more.’ ‘Yes. But - the
difference
will be there. So you
agree
?’
He stared at her, then he said almost helplessly, ‘You have made a move which I cannot counter.’
Gertrude’s eyes had already begun to laugh at him. She got up and came to him and he rose and took her hand and kissed it.
‘I
must love you
,’ she said. ‘You must be my friend forever. Will you swear to me not to run away and vanish?’
‘I swear - by - by the precious lifeblood of Poland.’
‘Then that’s clear. That’s all I want. So you needn’t stop loving me and you needn’t be unhappy any more. I love you and need you. Will you promise not to be unhappy any more?’
‘Ah - Gertrude-I cannot promise that-I shall always be -’
‘In pain? Try not to be. Or let it become-a different sweeter pain. Unhappiness is stupid. There are such a lot of things in the world, dear Count, dear Peter. I should be glad if, because of me, you could enjoy so many
other
things more, things which have nothing whatever to do with me. We’re both upset now, but we’ll grow calm and survey the world together and live in security and safety and peace. Is that not good?’
‘Yes, yes. But, oh Gertrude, how will it be?’
‘Perfectly ordinary, you’ll see. We’ll have such ordinary talk. But deeper and - permanent. Permanence, that’s what one wants in life, and that’s happiness too.’
‘And Tim -’
‘I’ve told him that you must be my dear friend, and our dear friend. He knows I’m saying just that to you. Tim is wise, you know he’s wise.’
‘I wish I was wise. But - oh Gertrude, my dear - perhaps it
is
possible to be happy after all!’
‘Possible - easy - you’ve made the great discovery! Oh I’m so glad, so relieved. There now, we’ve said enough, and we won’t endlessly discuss it, you’re right. We’ll talk of other things and we’ll be calm then. And now enough. Good heavens, I’d forgotten all about the party, they’ll be arriving any moment, you’ll stay, won’t you? You must. Why, you’re looking quite a different person already!’
‘Anne, my dear, have some champagne!’
Anne had telephoned the Count at the office in the afternoon, but he had already left. She telephoned his flat, but there was no answer. She waited a while in case he came, but she did not expect him as nothing had been arranged. Then she set off for the party wondering if she would see him there.
With the quick awareness of love she took in the already crowded room, seeing his tall figure with his back to her, near the mantelpiece. He was talking to Tim, stooping a little.
Janet Openshaw was giving her some champagne. ‘Anne, we haven’t seen you for ages. You’ve been in retreat.’
‘Yes - sort of -’
‘Do you know everyone here?’
‘No, not everyone -’
‘This tall handsome boy is my younger son Ned. He’s just back from California where he’s been into Buddhism.’
‘Oh really -’
‘Ned says he wants to empty his mind. When I was his age I was trying to fill mine. But you’re really a mathematician, aren’t you, Ned?’
‘Well -’
‘This is Anne Cavidge. She used to be a nun. You don’t mind my saying that do you? I’ll leave you together. I must circulate the eats.’
‘Were you a nun? What kind? Anglican, Catholic, enclosed?’
‘Catholic. Enclosed.’
‘How awfully interesting! I’m awfully interested in religion. Why did you leave? Did you lose your faith? Do you believe in a personal God?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Anne, ‘do you?’
‘No, I think it’s the most anti-religious idea you can imagine. Religion is to do with the destruction of the personality. Would you agree?’
‘In a way, but it depends -’
‘What method of meditation did you use? Do you still meditate? I say, do you think we could have a talk some time? No one here is interested in religion, it’s amazing how uninterested they are, and after all it is the most important subject isn’t it? I never got any real religion as a child, you know my father’s Jewish and my mother’s Gentile and they play at being Anglicans but they never even taught me to pray, and as for my school, I’m at St Paul’s you know -’
‘Hello, Anne, hello, Ned -’
It was Gerald Pavitt, bearish, big, odoriferous, untidy.
‘Oh Gerald, Anne was a nun. You don’t mind if I call you Anne? You know Gerald, of course you do, he knows about quasars and black holes and things and time and space coming to an end and -’
‘How are your maths getting on, Ned?’
‘Ma put you up to asking that!’
Taking her opportunity Anne began to move away. She wanted to get across the room to Peter.
Ned called after her, ‘I’ll ring you up, can I, about that talk.’
Tim Reede had had his necessary conversation with the Count. Of course they merely exchanged pleasantries, but much was understood. There was a little embarrassment but this quickly vanished. It was suddenly ‘as it used to be’, and yet also of course different. Tim was surprised and touched to find in himself a renewed and stronger flow of affection for the Polish exile. It did not occur to Tim to feel patronizing, such an attitude would have been impossible to him. But he found himself feeling, within his own happiness, a special lively affectionate pleasure. He sensed in the Count a corresponding feeling, quite unmixed with any embarrassing ‘gratitude’. The Count looked amazingly conspicuously happy. They smiled at each other and parted. Now Tim was paying marked attentions to Mrs Mount, he had even begun to call her ‘Veronica’. The idea that she felt ‘sentimental’ about him had quite changed his view of the ‘old creature’.
Rosalind Openshaw was trying to decide which of the men in the room was the most attractive, apart that is from her brother William with whom she was rather in love. She was quite keen on Tim, she could perceive the ‘nice animal’ aspect of him which so much appealed to Gertrude, but she found his lack of dignity a serious drawback. Manfred had dignity, but was too conventionally handsome and too tall. Victor Schultz was beautiful but bald, and there was something of the ‘playboy’ about him which repelled Rosalind. Akiba Lebowitz was yummy of course but just married. Ed Roper (who looked like a toad, quite a nice one) had brought along a French writer called Armand something whom Rosalind liked the look of, and at any rate he was a novelty. He was very dark and skinny and wicked-looking. Rosalind liked his clever little slit-eyes. She had always found Gerald Pavitt attractive, though this idea seemed to occur to no one else. She was moved by his burly fatness and by a curious benevolent cunning in his much-folded face and by his smell. A friend of William’s, one David Idleston (now talking to Moira Lebowitz), was generally rated a stunner, but of course he was too young. Rosalind could not be attracted by any young man, other than her brother. Her fine intelligent gaze rested on the Count. He was tall, it was true, but not too tall. His absolute pallor, his gentle mien, his straight floppy colourless hair, and those sad pale blue eyes made her heart turn over and over. She turned and began to make her way in the direction of the Frenchman.
Anne detached herself from the politeness of Stanley and from the boisterous familiarity of Ed Roper who had now suddenly decided that she was his dearest pal. She edged round the back of a lawyer called Ginzburg (twin brother of the actor), an old friend of Guy’s, lately returned from The Hague, and now she had the Count in full view. He was talking to Gertrude. Anne felt an extreme awful shock before she quite knew what it was that she had perceived or thought. The Count was radiant. The terrible gaunt mask of despair and gloom was gone. It was a quite different Peter, one whom Anne had never seen before, who was now leaning towards his hostess, laughing, his face almost zanily wrinkled up with amusement and pleasure. Anne thought, is he
drunk
? Then he saw Gertrude’s face. And Gertrude was holding the cuff of the Count’s jacket and pulling at it playfully. The Count had stopped laughing, and was saying something to Gertrude. His face was tender, calm, joyful, at peace.
Quick, perceptive Anne had, in another second, understood it all. Gertrude had made a love-treaty with the Count. He was not to be miserable or to go away. He was to stay forever as her courtier, within the light of her countenance. Tim would not mind. It was, for Gertrude, easy. She had fielded him casually, as if in passing. She had only to stretch out her hand, she had only to whistle ever so softly. The little which she would give Peter would be enough for him, would be much. He would humbly accept whatever, with a loving will, she spared him. Perhaps all that he required was the sense that she needed him, he could live on that. Intelligent warm-hearted Gertrude had magicked him into happiness. And Anne could guess that this was not just a benevolent act. Gertrude needed his esteem to support her. She had always valued his love and saw no reason why she should not go on enjoying it forever.
Anne turned away. They had not seen her. She concentrated on preventing tears from rising into her eyes. She would quietly slip away and go home. No one would notice.
She found herself face to face with Manfred.