The Woman Who Had Imagination Page 17

  The blackness of Pope’s Buildings seemed worse than ever. It loomed above them like a monstrosity. Who could have built such a place? he wondered, and he felt that only a monster could have conceived and built it so like a prison.

  But inside, perhaps because he had exaggerated his horror of it, the Bonners’ two rooms seemed less terrible. The old woman was not at home. A bright fire was burning and he warmed his frozen hands and Ada made him some cocoa and the pile of rags smelt less rankly than before. He drank his cocoa slowly and felt tolerably happy.

  The old woman came home, a little tipsy, about eleven o’clock. Her black hat and coat were sprinkled with frozen sleet.

  ‘Awful night, awful, downright awful,’ she muttered. ‘Christ!’

  Christopher winced at the blasphemy. He could not bear to hear the name of Christ spoken with derision.

  ‘You’d better stay here for to-night,’ said Ada to him.

  ‘Oh! no, no, no,’ he protested.

  Later Ada went out and looked at the night and when she came back she was shivering violently.

  ‘You’re not going out in this,’ she said. ‘You can’t! It’s a blizzard.’

  She did not heed his protests and she went into the second room and banged the pillows about and flapped the sheets.

  ‘Course you’ll stay,’ said the old woman. ‘Course you’ll stay. Lor’ lummy.’

  He resigned himself and later he undressed quickly and knelt by the bed and said his prayers and then crept into bed and thought of God. Sometimes he suffered from insomnia, and the quiet thought of God often sent him to sleep. ‘God is a spirit,’ he repeated to himself, ‘And they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth.’ What quiet words and how beautiful! He stared at the cracked ceiling and forgot the dirty room and the rags and the old woman, and then shut his eyes.

  He was aroused by the presence of someone against the bed. He stirred himself. It was Ada, getting into bed with him. He touched her nightgown and her thin breasts as she came beside him, his mind too drowsy for speech. In the morning he woke and saw her standing half-dressed, by the window, gaping. Her cheap green drawers and her little green corset that pushed her breasts into a false prominence and her white legs, covered with little unhealthy blue veins, all made her look frowzy and cheap and vulgar. She drew on her stockings and slipped on her skirt and powdered her face. She did not wash herself and from that moment he felt that he hated her. He could not think why he had endured her so long or even why he had endured her at all.

  Now it was no use wondering. He ate Phoebe’s kipper with the same nausea as he had once felt for Ada. To-morrow it would not matter. He was married to Ada and had already two children by her and probably, she told him, there would be another.

  He drank his tea and Phoebe poured out another cup. He had been silent for some moments, thinking.

  ‘You’re so quiet,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you worry too much.’

  ‘What should I worry about?’

  ‘Are you lonely?’ she said all at once.

  ‘I suppose I am,’ he confessed.

  There was a quietness about her words, and her way of speaking that made him make the confession.

  ‘Did you see the sunset?’ said the girl.

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t notice it.’

  She told him about the sunset and then about the sunsets in the village at home, and as she spoke a queer wistful look of entrancement came into his face. And while he caught the beauty of the country in winter and of the green and golden clouds floating at sunset behind the pines, he caught also the faint unhappiness of the girl’s voice. She wanted to go back; she hated London. His heart ached for her, because he knew perfectly the feeling of her loneliness.

  Later his two children came in, two girls of five and six. Their voices were shrill and they sent pains screeching through his head. In moments of extreme nervousness or distraction his head became a machine in which there was a cog-wheel that whistled and whined and grated louder than all the rest. The cogwheel was immovable; like some diabolical invention it was fixed so that its jagged teeth could just touch his brain. Gradually, he felt, it would wear away his brain or irreparably damage it.

  He was glad when the children had gone to bed. The children with Phoebe and the old woman, slept in the second room. Ada and himself slept on a single bed which was collapsible but which nearly always remained during the day just as they had slept in it, the sheets and blankets still tumbled and frowzy. People sat on the bed to tie up their boots and the chamber stood on the floor beneath it, unemptied. He hated this bed. Once he had hated the old woman’s rags, but the rags were at least movable. They changed and were sold, but the bed never changed. It remained fixed and absolute: it was the expression of all that was foul and terrible in his life, the things from which he could not escape, sordidness and vulgarity and littleness. The bed was so terrible to him that he had never yet knelt by it to pray. He prayed only when Ada had fallen asleep, or he prayed in the public libraries, in their strict silence, or he sat under the plane trees in Lincoln’s Inn, and watched the pigeons and prayed there.

  When the children had gone to bed he sat down at the bare deal table and put on his spectacles and began to mend his watches. He had started life as an apprentice to a watchmaker. The old woman bought up lots of second-hand and broken watches and he repaired them and she sold them again. Sometimes the tailor from below came up with his watch. ‘It’s like my old woman,’ he said. ‘It won’t go until its insides is oiled.’ Like this he earned a shilling or two and he could keep up his head with the knowledge that he was not utterly useless.

  Phoebe sat looking at him as he dismantled a watch and laid out the works on a newspaper.

  He was working on a little silver-and-blue lady’s watch which needed cleaning. The old woman had bought it in a rag-market. He laid out the tiny sparkling wheels and cylinders and screws and one by one cleaned them scrupulously. It was the kind of work his hands were meant for, the work they did well. He no longer looked weak and irresolute and useless. He took in the dignity of work, his hands moving with certainty and grace.

  Phoebe sat watching, absorbed and amazed. ‘How do you ever get it right again?’ she said.

  ‘Oh! it’ll come right,’ he said. It was the only thing in his life of which he felt certain.

  One of the children woke in the next room and cried for a drink of water. The tap was out on the landing and while she drew the water the girl heard the old woman lumbering upstairs. There were nearly a hundred steps and she paused for breath every five steps or so.

  A few minutes later she came in. She was very fat; her bosom and her stomach joined in a great ballooning bulge and her hips were loose and dissolute. She threw down a great bundle of rags on the floor and began coughing and spitting. ‘Christ Jesus!’ she muttered. And suddenly she roared at Christopher:

  ‘You might come down and give us a bloomin’ ’and, you might! Yes, you! ’Ang abaht all day and don’t do nuthin’! Why the ’ell don’t you come an’ ’elp a poor ole gal? Christ. You’re a one you are. You beat me.’

  She heaved the rags aside and sat down. Christopher tried to take no notice of her outburst but his hand trembled and he dropped a watch-screw.

  ‘Ada ain’t comin’ straight ’ome,’ said the old woman. ‘I ran against her in ’Olborn.’

  ‘Why isn’t she coming home?’ said Christopher.

  ‘’Ow the ’ell do I know? She’s off up west somewhere. The gal wants to enjoy ’erself once in a while don’t she? Lor’ lummy. I should say so.’

  Christopher said nothing but the works of the watch seemed to tremble before his eyes. Phoebe came in from the other room.

  ‘I’d better get your supper, hadn’t I?’ she said to the old woman.

  ‘Give me a drop o’ whisky, that’s all I want, then I’m off again meself.’

  The whisky was kept in the cupboard by the fireplace. The girl stood in a wicker-bottom chair and reached the b
ottle and a glass. Stepping off the chair, she slipped and the glass flew out of her hands, smashing against the fender.

  The old woman suddenly sprang up and flew at the girl and dealt her a blow across the face that sent her staggering.

  ‘God ’elp us, what the devil’s the matter with you?’ she screeched. She advanced on the girl and lifted her arm menacingly. ‘You stuck-up bitch, you might ’elp your old aunt up with her bundle. But you won’t will you, not if you can ’elp it? Not you, my lady. ’Ere, let me get my whisky before I does summat desperate. You make me sick!’

  The agility and strength of her fat body was amazing as she climbed into the chair and found another glass and poured out her whisky.

  ‘And after to-day,’ she roared at the girl, ‘you come to the market and meet me. I don’t keep you for nothing.’

  She drank the whisky, coughed and went out of the door. As she went down the stairs, she swore aloud to herself.

  Christopher stood up. The girl was crying quietly.

  He felt that he knew exactly how she felt, that she must cry and go on crying until the very spending of tears brought her comfort.

  Helpless, he went on mending the watch, feeling wretched, and he rejoiced when the girl ceased sobbing and came and sat by the fire.

  ‘You’ll forget it in the morning,’ he said to her.

  She shook her head, certain in her misery that she would never forget.

  An inspiration came to him and he jumped up and searched in his trunk under the bed and found his Bible. Without warning her, he opened it at random and began to read.

  ‘For my thoughts,’ he read, ‘are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts. For as the rain cometh down, and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth the earth and maketh it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater: so shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it. For ye shall go out with joy and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you in singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.’

  Before he could read any further she began to cry again.

  He shut his Bible and put his arm about her shoulder, which shook violently as she sobbed, feeling in every tremor of her body the misery of her loneliness. ‘I want to go back home,’ she managed to say. ‘I can’t stand it any longer. I hate it.’

  He had brought out his Bible with the intention of talking to her about God and the importance of Belief in times of trouble and weariness, but now he knew that his words would be superfluous and that God would complicate it all. She was unhappy and lonely and she wanted to go back to the country again. Nothing could be clearer than that.

  She lived in Rutland, a lovely miniature county, like a park. There were green hills that undulated gently among great woods and old stone farms, churches with graceful spires and great country mansions half-hidden by stately trees. Spring was coming and the blossom in the orchards would be tossed like white foam in the wind, the primroses would run across under the half-bare trees like a yellow flame. She had only to think of it to bring about a sensation of fresh misery and joy.

  ‘Where is your bag?’ he said. ‘If you’ll get your things ready I’ll take you to the station on Sunday morning before Ada and your aunt are up. I’ll manage it somehow.’

  She looked at him thankfully, her eyes brilliant with the film of tears, and suddenly she put her lips on his, lightly and with girlish tenderness, and then drew away and smiled. Her lips were soft and smooth and they reminded him of tulip petals and her kiss had a kind of devout thankfulness even its brief lightness. He smiled awkwardly, hardly knowing what to do, and went on mending the watch.

  II

  In the morning Christopher walked about London, trying to sell The Meaning of God again. The day was raw and cold and a north-east wind seemed to be in wait behind corners and in alley-ways and then leap out at him and slash him icily. Sometimes instead of selling he tried to exchange the book, but he was unsuccessful. The author of the book was obscure and again no one seemed interested in God.

  About noon he came back to Lincoln’s Inn and sat down on a seat and rested for a moment, and then went on to see another bookseller. There was a bookshop off Theobald’s Road owned by a German named Karl whom he knew slightly. His shop was like a rabbit-hutch, but in it were stacked thousands of volumes and there at all times of the day all kinds of people gathered, poets and revolutionists, painters and actors, novelists and critics, crowding in the doorway and in the passage-way and leaning against the shelves of books inside the shop. They dressed fantastically or shabbily, with scarlet neckties and old tweed coats and emerald shirts; the less artistic they were the more fantastically they dressed, the lesser poets making no mistake about the poetic flavour of their dress. The poets and artists who were really poets and artists looked like ordinary men, clerks or shop-assistants or insurance agents. They behaved quietly. The lesser poets argued and raved, sneering at the successful and talking like prophets.

  Christopher walked along the street, facing the wind and wondering if he would sell the book at the shop. Karl had no use for books on God, but often he bought for kindness’ sake books which he despised and which he knew he would never sell. With the money Christopher could buy a dinner. That morning he had been forced to ask Ada for a little money and there had been an argument. ‘Do you think I earn enough to keep you as well?’ Ada had shouted. ‘What about you keeping me for a change?’ The old woman had joined in, her fat face quivering with indignation. ‘You’re a bloody fine ’usband, you are!’ she told him. ‘Why the bleeding ’ell don’t you do something?’

  He felt ashamed and humiliated. How could he explain to them that he was trying to do something? It was no use explaining. They thought him superfluous and useless and nothing could alter that. Perhaps he really was superfluous and useless? he thought wretchedly. If only he could sell the book he might feel that he had done something, however small, to justify himself.

  He came to the bookshop and stood outside for a moment turning over the odd volumes and the old art-magazines displayed on the trays. Suddenly his heart stood still. Among the shilling volumes was a copy of The Meaning of God, still in its paper wrapper. He tried to go on turning over the volumes as though nothing had happened, but his hand trembled. Lifting the cover of an art magazine he let the pages flicker slowly from under his thumb. Suddenly he caught sight of a reproduction of Ingrés ‘La Source’. A feeling of extraordinary restfulness came over him and he thought instantly of Phoebe. The loveliness of the young girl in the painting, the profound light and shyness of her large dark eyes, the sublime purity of her nakedness were all more beautiful than ever Phoebe could hope to be, but he saw in both faces the same eternal longing of youth for something it could not name, its mystery, the blissful ache of its melancholy and its happiness. Forgetting the book he had come to sell, he stood thinking of Phoebe, remembering that she had kissed him.

  A moment later Karl suddenly rushed out of the shop with a pile of books which he set down on the open magazine.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Christopher.

  ‘Is it a good-morning?’ said Karl. He ran back into the shop rubbing his cold hands, for another pile of books.

  Christopher followed him into the shop. There was no chance of his selling the book, but he would go in and look at the books and warm his hands by the bookseller’s stove.

  Karl was in a great hurry, setting out the last of his books for the day. He raced backwards and forwards, in and out of the shop, with immense energy. He was a tall powerfully built man, very dark, with a face of great strength and striking sensitiveness. He often boasted that he lived on nothing but his books and had no time to eat, feeding his
body when it needed feeding. Once a day or once a week, it did not matter. Just as he had no time to eat he also had no time to rest. Something within him had been wound up, as in a clockwork doll, and would not run down. He had time and strength for every kind of person and every task. Obscure young poets brought him their first verses, which he printed, though he often despised them and always lost money on them. He gave away the books that he liked and sold only the books that he detested, having no creed but generosity — a wonderful eccentric generosity, full of warmth and administered with blasphemy and sometimes with the blindness of pure affection.

  When Christopher went into the shop two other men were inside, talking loudly. George, an elderly man with a heavy grey face and grey hair, was talking to a little cockney with a cherubic face, named Albert. George was deaf and Albert was shouting at him with a piercing cockney voice.

  ‘’Ow’s yer wife?’ shouted Albert.

  ‘I haven’t read it,’ said George, shaking his head.

  ‘I said ’ow’s yer wife?’

  ‘I haven’t read it, I said.’

  ‘Gawd!’ said Albert. ‘I said, ’ow’s your wife?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘’Ow’s your wife, I said!’ shouted Albert.

  Karl came running in. Going straight to George he said quietly, ‘He wants to know how your wife is,’ and George answered at once:

  ‘Oh! yes, yes, she’s fine.’

  Karl hurried out with a pile of books and Albert went on:

  ‘Bring her round some evening.’

  ‘Eh!’ said George.

  ‘Bring her round some evening!’

  ‘I liked it. Did you?’

  ‘Gawd!’ said Albert. ‘I asked you to bring her round some evening!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your wife!’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Jesus wept,’ said Albert. ‘And well he might! Bring her round …’ he began to shout. ‘Bring her round.…’

  Christopher could endure it no longer. He walked out of the door. He stood for a moment looking at the books in the window. Karl vanished into the shop, taking no notice of him. Christopher wanted to ask him as a special favour if he would buy The Meaning of God, but first his pride and then the fear of refusal prevented him. Turning over the pages of the art-magazine he gazed at ‘La Source’, thinking once more of Phoebe. Suddenly he went impulsively into the shop with the magazine in his hand.