It was one of their days. Thomas was at a conference in Bristol, Meredith was at school, Midge and Harry were in the spare room, Midge was wearing her red and purple imperial robe. Harry had only just arrived. He had taken off his tie. He had let himself in with his backdoor key. He liked Midge to wait upstairs like a captive bride. Who saw him enter the house? No one. He came by a tree-shaded back alley through a gate into the walled garden. He wore various disguises. He liked that. He also possessed a frontdoor key, but that was just symbolic.
Midge was shaken and frightened because she had had a fall. Shopping that morning she had, in the incomprehensible way in which such things happen, caught her toe on a paving stone and fallen violently upon her knees, then full length, her cheek and elbow were grazed upon the pavement, her handbag went flying and disgorged its contents, one shoe came off. People rushed to help her up, to gather the little personal trinkets out of her bag, she felt a fool with her stockings torn and a bloody knee. ‘Are you all right, would you like to sit down, would you like a taxi?’ people asked, as if she were an old woman. ‘I’m not hurt, thank you,’ she said, face burning, tears in her eyes, trying to conceal her knee, her ruined stockings. She hobbled away, watched by sympathetic spectators. The shock was not just the impact, but the awful sensation of falling itself, the utterly helpless movement through the air, the foreknowledge of being spreadeagled on the ground, smashed. Supposing one jumped from a high building: a form of suicide she often considered. Harry had been sympathetic, but not at enough length. This evening, even late this evening when he came back tired from Bristol, Thomas would inspect the wounded knee, bathe it and cover it and pronounce some judgment. He would inspect the grazes upon her cheek and her arm, and her hands all rough and reddened by warding off the ground. He would enquire about all her sensations. Of course that was because he was a doctor, yet it was comforting too. Her hands were still hot and smarting, her knee was painful and stiff. She felt even now near to tears.
‘Everyone thinks Edward is at Quitterne,’ said Harry. That was the name of the McCaskervilles’ country cottage. ‘But you say he isn’t.’
‘He isn’t!’
‘All right, I believe you!’
‘Then why do you say “I say” he isn’t?’
‘I hate to think you might be keeping Thomas’s secrets.’
‘You don’t seem to care much where he is.’
‘Of course I do. But I know he’ll be all right because he’s like me, full of expanding curiosity, absolutely connected with the world. Not like Stuart, Stuart’s a Faust
manqué.
He’d sell his soul to be a great physicist. As that can’t be arranged, he can’t be everything so he’ll be nothing. Really he’s power mad. If he wants to be
encanaillé
I can’t stop him, it’s the virtuous pose that’s so sickening. And it won’t work. He doesn’t realise how much people will hate him. A child who’s born without hands can cope somehow, be helped by society and praised too. Stuart was born without — something — and he’ll be pecked to death for it. No he won’t — he might want that — he’s just a mess. He’ll be arrested for molesting a child. I don’t mean he will molest a child, but people will think he has. They’ll see him as sinister.’
‘Never mind him,
he’s
all right. What about poor Edward — ’
‘Edward is Thomas’s business now.’
‘You’re jealous of Thomas.’
‘Amazing discovery!’
‘I mean about Edward. And you’re jealous of me about Edward. You always keep him away from me.’
‘Only for his good. You’re such a honey pot. I don’t want him to perish with his wings soaked in honey.’
‘Edward kissed me quite passionately once after a dance.’
‘So you’ve told me several times, so shut up. Are you going to say you were out to lunch with anyone? What were you doing all day, when Thomas asks?’
‘Thomas knows what I do all day, I dust the drawing room, I do the flowers, I paint my nails and shop.’
‘I like to think of you as idle and artificial, an idle woman in a harem, a bored prostitute yawning as she waits for custom.’
‘You want to think I have no real occupation except waiting for you.’
‘Isn’t it true?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wish we’d established earlier on that we sometimes lunch together.’
‘It’s not too late.’
‘It is, we’re getting past expedients of that sort, they’re out of date. You say you’re a rotten liar — ’
‘But I wouldn’t be lying if I just said I’d seen you — ’
‘You live a sort of permanent double life where everything is true except that it isn’t. When you’re with me Thomas doesn’t exist, when you’re with Thomas I don’t exist. If the deception succeeds perfectly you can dream that nothing’s happening, that you’re innocent.’
‘I am innocent.’
‘Oh, Midge — !’
‘I mean, I have no strategy.’
‘Exactly, no real plan, no future for
us
— do you realise how unhappy you make me?’
‘You could always go away — ’
‘You know I can’t and won’t — Oh don’t cry, for God’s sake!’
‘My knee hurts.’
These magnetic unstoppable quarrels were a mode of being together, essential when other contacts were in abeyance, self-perpetuating because neither dared to leave any dangerous remark in the air lest it should seem to have some final awful significance, quarrels like physical contact, like wrestling, dealing wounds known not to be fatal, not like love-making, lacking in purpose and achieved repose, nerve-rending, destructive, yet appearing as necessary and unavoidable expressions of their love for each other.
‘It’s your double-think about Thomas that paralyses everything. You’ve told me you don’t communicate with him, that he doesn’t notice you, that he’s obsessed with his patients — must our lives depend on his forever being carefully fed with packs of lies?’
‘I’ve got to know more than Thomas, I couldn’t bear his knowing it all, I couldn’t manage it — ’
‘Midge,
think.
Are we to spend the rest of our lives being deceivers and fakers?
We,
with
our
love for each other? He’s got to know sometime!’
‘There’s a cold streak in Thomas, if he found out he might pretend not to mind, but then he’d plan a revenge — ’
‘And murder us! Your trouble is you want everyone to love and admire you, you want both of us, you want us all to go on loving you whatever you do, you can’t bear the idea of losing Thomas’s esteem. But try to think how much it’s worth. You married Thomas in a dream because you were impressed by his prestige, by his power, by his being grand and older. But Midge, you’ve grown up now, surely you can see through him. He sees through himself. That’s why he keeps talking about retiring. He plays at being the great healer, but in his heart he knows it’s all a charade. You said once he’d wanted to be a writer. People obsessed by power envy what artists know by instinct. Psychoanalysis attracts failed artists.’
‘Well, it hasn’t attracted you.’
‘Midge, don’t needle me.’
‘I’m sorry. I dreamt about that white horseman again.’
‘Besides, Thomas is probably a repressed homosexual. Think how fascinated he is by Mr Blinnet and now by Stuart and Edward. He likes those boys he can dominate. He’s got Edward hidden away somewhere. Why has he got so many male patients? If you left him he’d bless you, he’d heave a sigh of relief and start life again as a queer. That’s what he’s made for. You’ve both made a mistake.’
‘I don’t think this about Thomas. You’ve just made it up, it’s your latest idea.’
“Women don’t realise how many men are homosexual, it’s a closely guarded secret. Even that great sex idol Jesse Baltram had a homosexual phase, he was shacked up with some miserable painter who died of drink.‘
‘He’s had lots of women patients, there’s that politician’s wife — ’
‘I’ve told you, all you have to do is be with me all the time and we shall annihilate Thomas, we shall make him not to be and never to have been! I’ll invent a past for you which simply rubs him out. You know that’s possible. Christ, why can’t you just have some bloody courage? All you’ve got to do is walk through a short unpleasantness with Thomas and reach
me.
Just keep
looking
at me. You can’t be that much afraid of him. It’s not like walking through a fire. Oh I know, you lie to me about him like you lie to him about me, you can’t help it, it’s a law of nature. And we both want to believe you. I can’t measure what he means to you, I can’t see it, that’s the trouble. If you still want it to be secret there must be reasons. God, do you want to spare his feelings? If you love me that’s a nonsense. Can’t we be honest and truthful at last, you know how I hate deception. Once we start telling the truth we shall be
gods
. Love must be obeyed in the end, so why not now? The years are going by which we could spend together, why should we waste them in frustration and unhappiness and stupid endless quarrels? You love me, not Thomas. Thomas is just a habit. Of course you’re connected with him but
you love me.’
‘If only we’d met earlier …’
‘Stop saying that, I forbid you to say it ever again, it’s an irrelevance, a mindless insult to our love
now
.’
Midge, with her silky robe clutched round her, was sitting on the bed. Harry was standing near the open door, he avoided the window where the soft spring breeze breathing through a slit was gently stirring the curtains. He had now taken off his shirt and kicked off his shoes. He thought, what is she thinking? She thought, what is he thinking? She was thinking, of course I love Harry, I love him absolutely, but if only I could stop worrying and caring about Thomas. Oh why do I have to suffer so when I just want to be happy! If only I could care just a little less. I can’t see my feeling for Thomas any more, it’s become dark and in the dark it’s diminishing, like a little animal left somewhere to die and you come every day and hope that it’s dead and it’s still twitching and it’s still breathing, and oh I
mustn’t
think about it like that. I must untie myself from Thomas, undo myself, quietly patiently
thoroughly
untie every little bond, cut every little vein. I must make a great blank where he is, make him into a zombie in my mind, then it won’t hurt so. I must decide, I will decide, I have decided. Harry was thinking, a little more and a little more, and surely she is helping me, she is trying too. A little more irritation and mistrust and resentment and fear — she must learn to hate him. She must see him simply as a barrier to her happiness. Then she will come. But it’s time for a new move too. I’ll
force
her gradually along the road. Of course she
has
decided, and I want her to yield at her own moment. But I must force the pace — and she wants me to. I wonder would it be a good idea to send an anonymous letter to Thomas to stir things up?
‘Midge, don’t feel guilty, I don’t. There are things which are my business and no one else’s. There are things which are
our
business. I’m sick with love for you, pity me. We must be more together or I’ll die. I’ve found a little flat in Chelsea in one of those huge blocks where no one wants to know anyone, it’s much more secret than here, and it’ll be just ours alone, and I can cook for you, I so much want to — ’
Midge raised her head, tossing back her mane and releasing the clutched robe; she disordered the bed, plucking at it with a distraught hand, and her face wrinkled in frightened evasive anxiety. ‘Harry, you mustn’t, I won’t have it. I won’t come — ’
‘Why ever not? You
will
come — all right, I haven’t even bought it yet! And I want that weekend, I
must
have it, just two nights, Christ how little I ask, and you won’t even give me!’
‘Darling, not the flat, I can’t yet — ’
‘Then the weekend.’
‘One night — ’
‘Midge, you are being
senselessly
mean. You said Thomas would be in Geneva from Friday to Monday, and Meredith’s going to Wales with his school chum — ’
‘One night — this time — you do understand — ’
‘I love you, my heart turns over and over for you, so I suppose I’ve got to understand even if I don’t! You belong to me, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Oh my sweetheart, I don’t want to upset you and torment you. You know I just say all the awful things so as to get rid of them, so that you can sweep them away and make them not be.’
‘Well, that’s one way of arguing I suppose!’ He knelt down, capturing her hands while the robe fell apart. ‘Oh — my queen — ’ He kissed the captive hands, turning them to and fro, while Midge gazed at his bent head, his glowing hair, with puckered fascination. She let out a wailing sigh. ‘What is it, my Cleopatra?’
‘Sometimes I feel we’re doomed lovers — ’
‘Shut up.’
‘Sometimes it’s like acting in a play — a wonderful play — or as if life had become huge like a myth — ’
‘That’s what’s called heightened consciousness. All colours are brighter where we are. We are a king and queen when we’re together. How amazing sex is, how absolutely
odd,
this total attraction between two people, we’re so
lucky.
My little love, my sweet love, when we’re in bed there’s a moment when heaven tears us apart like the unrolling of a celestial scroll upon the last day on the angel’s trumpet. Well, it’s that moment in all of our life now, it’s our time, to change our being, to transmute it all into everlasting happiness and pure joy, our metamorphosis, like the substantial change of the bread and the wine. The bell will ring for us, my darling, the heavens will open for us — It’s all so close now, it’s just an inch away — ’